Some of my bot’s greatest hits.

5 things:

*this post contains descriptions of sexual violence*

1. My sister texted me sometime during the second inning. Matt Kemp had just hit a line drive into left field, bringing in Yasiel Puig and giving the Dodgers a 4-0 lead over the Giants.

"Dad called me the other day to wish me a happy birthday." She doesn’t know it but whenever she has relayed simple information like this to me about all the ways in which my dad has chosen her over me, it makes me resent her. Granted, dad called her four days after her actual birthday, a nice gesture diluted by the fact that he can only vaguely remember his second daughter’s date of birth. She is his favorite still. It has always been this way.

I was fully prepared to feel emo and dark with regard to baseball today. Friday night’s game against arch rival the San Francisco Giants set the mood. We lost 9-0. The Dodgers played embarrassingly, a fact I dealt with by yelling loudly at the television and cussing perhaps unnecessarily. 
The Dodgers are a team I have loved since I was a tiny little girl drinking grape soda while sitting next to grandpa on the couch as he took long swigs from beer cans.

Something happened last night on the field. The Dodgers realized how shitty they played last night and just simply decided to do better. Sometimes that is all it takes. Their bats were on fire. By the 7th inning when the score was 17-0 (!!!!), with the Dodgers leading, the crowd at AT&T Park had dwindled considerably, something that rarely happens. Giants fans are dedicated and stay throughout the duration of a game, usually, no matter what the score. I took it as confirmation of defeat long before the last pitch was thrown.

I set my phone down and did not reply to my sister’s text for a while. I felt jilted, like how dare he. Like, fuck him for not calling me on MY birthday as if I did not exist. Like, what is it about my sister that had always been good enough for our dad, and whatever it is, why don’t I have it too?

If the Giants had won last night, they would have taken first place in the National League West from the Dodgers. I know they wanted to. I know they expected to, I did. I expected to throw in the towel and stop caring about baseball until next spring. It is September after all and this is when, historically, the Dodgers usually choke. But it is just like baseball to be all romantic in the way that it keeps me interested. I’m walking away from the game, swearing it off for life. I’m tired of September coming around and losing game after game so late in the year, and then baseball takes me by the hand and promises it’ll change for real this time.

"He called you? Fuck him, he didn’t even text me on my birthday." By this time I am drunk and filled with baseball spirit, and do not care.

"Lol yeah he just said ‘happy birthday, baby.’ And when I told him my birthday was four days ago, he wrote ‘sorry, baby. I love you.’ That was it.” It’s like dad thinks he can soothe the wounds by calling us ‘baby’ as often as possible, too distant and far gone from us to realize that even I, the writer of the family, do not put that much stock into his words.

I didn’t keep the conversation going with my sister. She’s never had to wonder if dad loved her. It has always been so obvious, even when flawed; even when four days late. And the Dodgers, they have lived to see another day. The Dodgers won again tonight, 4-2 and still anything can happen. It isn’t over yet. We are still in first place. There is still hope, no matter how trite. There is still a glimmering faith. With regard to my father and baseball, I can say that about only one of the two. And in the middle of those two things independent of each other, is me, with the dumbest heart for caring.

2. My friend Julio went kayaking in the Gulf of Mexico this week, something I have always wanted to do. He is always doing shit like this. “Please try not to die,” I commented on one of his Instagrams and when he texted me Wednesday night to assure me he had survived the adventure, I asked him how he was doing. He said “I went swimming with sharks in the middle of the night, so probably having some kind of breakdown”, which made me laugh. 

3. I made carnitas yesterday (carnitas tacos, to be exact). Here’s my recipe, which has been tweaked over the years.

3 lb boneless pork shoulder, pork butt or picnic (pick one that has plenty of fat on it.)

2 cups water

Kosher salt

1 teaspoon chile powder 

1 small yellow onion

1 teaspoon Mexican oregano

1 teaspoon cumin

2 bay leaves

A. Slice the pork into 3-inch strips and place them in a dutch oven over high heat. Add the water, onion, and 2 teaspoons of salt plus the remaining spices. Bring to a boil and reduce heat to low. Simmer uncovered on low for about 90 minutes to two hours.

B. Turn heat up slightly to medium. Continue cooking until liquids are evaporated and the pork fat has rendered, about another hour. Make sure heat isn’t too high. You want this to cook low and slow. Stir the pork to keep it from sticking to the pan.

C. Taste to make sure the pork is tender enough. If it’s not, add a little more water and keep cooking until it’s evaporated.


4. I found this tonight in an old journal from two years ago: 

"You’re not listening to me," he says.

We are lying in my bedroom in front of the heater that has been making a strange hissing sound all night.

"I can’t really hear you over the heater." 

The room is dark. I can’t see his face and I am glad he cannot see mine. 

"You’ve pushed me away so many times in the year that I’ve known you," I tell him.

"I push you away because we wouldn’t work together. The sex is good, but we wouldn’t work together." 

The biggest reason I keep old journals to remind myself how much things have improved.

5. On a dance floor in Oakland, I start to spin. There is mixture of alcohol in my body that isn’t agreeing with the beat of the music and the heat from the movement of the other bodies that surrounded me. I need to get horizontal immediately.

"Are you okay?"

"This bitch is throwing up in here."

I heard the comments about me from other girls in the bathroom but ignore them and go to tell my friends that it is time to leave. That’s when I realize I could barely walk and that’s when I find the bench. A bed, I thought. I’m not sure how long I stay there but when a man asks me if I am okay and then where I lived, going home sounds like a good idea.

By some miracle, I remembered Melissa’s exact address despite the booze practically seeping out of my pores. I was staying there for the weekend. It was her 30th birthday.

"I’ll take you home," he says.

He helps me up and as we walk passed the dance floor, I didn’t even think to look for my friends. He and I walk passed the bouncers, who smile at me. Then he leads me to his black Chevy Silverado that is parked directly in front of the bar, just waiting.

The night fades in and out like a pen that works fine one second, then gradually loses ink as you write a sentence.

We are parked somewhere that is not Melissa’s house. I am puking out of the passenger side of this guy’s truck and he is holding my hair. I black out again and when I come to he is arched over me with his dick in his hand. His pants are around his ankles, and my black tights and shorts are draped over the back of the driver’s seat. When I notice that there is a hole in my tights, I call him a ‘fucking prick’ and that is when he penetrates me so roughly, I begin to bleed.

I’m still sitting in the passenger seat and it is difficult for him to maintain an erection. He is sweating on me, and I am present, but not. I go to a place in my mind far away from the reality of what is happening. I’m too drunk to consent or fight back, I know that even while I slip in and out of the blackout. I do not want this to be happening, I know that to be as true as the sun sets in the west, even as I slip in and out of the blackout.

He’s frustrated now because his penis is not agreeing with his decision, so he pulls out, sits in the driver’s seat and begins masturbating. When he’s finished, he smears his ejaculation on my naked thigh.

"Put your shorts back on," he says as he tosses me my clothes. Of all the things that I remember most vividly from that night, exactly five years ago today, it’s the tone of his voice when he says "Put your shorts back on." It was the lack of acknowledgment as to why my shorts were off in the first place. That this act had just happened and he’s tossing me my clothes as if he’s passing the salt over dinner.

We are pulling into Melissa’s driveway and I am just about to get out of the truck when he says, “I want to take you to the movies tomorrow.” I say nothing, just get out of his car and walk into the house, quietly closing the front door along with the events of the night behind me making sure not to wake anyone.

Tags: 5 things

I have loved this song for a lot of years.

(Source: Spotify)

This was necessary.

This was necessary.

Tags: dodgers giants

Little high right now and vibing to this.

(Source: Spotify)

It was my Grandpa’s birthday the other day. He’s been a lifelong Dodgers fan and refuses to step foot in San Francisco for much of anything, let alone a Giants game. (He’s petty.) So, a couple of years ago on his birthday mom and I took him to LA.

It was my Grandpa’s birthday the other day. He’s been a lifelong Dodgers fan and refuses to step foot in San Francisco for much of anything, let alone a Giants game. (He’s petty.) So, a couple of years ago on his birthday mom and I took him to LA.

"Compassion hurts. When you feel connected to everything, you also feel responsible for everything. And you cannot turn away. Your destiny is bound with the destinies of others. You must either learn to carry the Universe or be crushed by it. You must grow strong enough to love the world, yet empty enough to sit down at the same table with its worst horrors."

— Andrew Boyd (via purplebuddhaproject)

(via heyfranhey)

Tags: about me

5 things:

1. It’s September so that means baseball is breaking my heart again. Every year it is the same. You would think I would stop watching. The Dodgers seem to do this dance where they start off the year playing as if they are ambivalent about the sport they are paid millions to do, getting stronger/smarter throughout the summer and playing like the team I remember watching and loving with my grandpa as a kid. Then finally, depressingly, kicking off Fall by losing game after game. Their biggest rival, the Giants are trailing them by only 3.5 games and the Giants have been playing pretty good lately. So, if the Giants make it to postseason, it will surprise no one. And if the Dodgers do not, same.

It is hard to not feel romantic about baseball, even when your team is blowing it. Being a fan is the simplest example of hope I can think of. My team has not been in the World Series since the late 80s, yet every year as they gear up, I go to games or am glued to the TV with the simple hope that “maybe this year will be the year.” And it is a foolish hope, perhaps but we all know I am a foolish girl.

2. In 1951 Rachel Carson wrote a book called The Sea Around Us. To be honest I bought this book because of the 20th printing edition cover, which I thought was pretty. It’s a non-fictional study of the ocean, essentially, but Carson’s prose is very poetic and I am a sucker for such things. She writes sentences like, “Standing on its shores, man must have looked out upon the sea with wonder and curiosity, compounded with an unconscious recognition of his lineage.” I MEAN, this book was written with romantic dummies like me in mind. I have been a little sick the last 24 hours and when I was not filled with nausea and vomiting, I was reading this book.

(FYI: if you are like me and can never remember how to spell ‘nausea’, a good way to remember is to keep the last three letters of the word in mind, ‘sea’. The sea makes me seasick; being seasick fills me with nausea. The sea. Everything in life is connected.)

3. I saw a picture of my dad on Instagram this weekend. He did not look very good. Him and his sister and her family went to Pier 39 for the day. They are sitting at a dining table, plates of seafood and pints of beer littered around them. He’s smiling and his son is there, the one who does not know me. So, he’s alive. I get confirmation like this every few months when his face or name pops up on my social media stream. I oscillate constantly between “god, this bitch is writing about her dad again”, and “this is the only thing on earth to write about.”

4. My first real boyfriend, the one I gave everything that was still pure about me away to, used to tell me “you have issues and those are worse than problems.” I laugh now because it is funny, and because damn, he was right. I was a messed up 19 and then 20 and 21 year old. We throw around this term “daddy issues” and reserve them for women exclusively. That was what he was telling me, essentially. That I needed him and reassurance from him constantly must have been exhausting, but his dad was not around either and he was not perfect either, and no one was telling him he was broken because of it.

5. A few months after I finally broke up with that dude, I moved to Los Angeles. I was 21, and single for the first time in three years. It is the most vivid memory of freedom I have, driving down the 5 further and further south until the Hollywood Hills surrounded the freeway on both sides. I will write a book about this year of my life because it was wild and so was I.

My roommate was a girl from Kansas. Blonde, thin, perky - your typical nightmare. (I’m riffing off of When Harry Met Sally right now with that last sentence, please god tell me you guys knew this already.) We got along for the most part but we never got along as well as we did on the nights that we went to The Hotel Cafe, a tiny music venue that sat at the end of an alley off Hollywood Blvd. Once we were at a surprise show by John Mayer just because we happened to be at the Hotel (what we nicknamed it) the same night he felt like having a surprise concert. We saw Katy Perry before she was terrible, and Adele before anyone else knew who she was. This is the Hotel’s legacy, discovering these musicians and propelling them to fame in the world of singer-songwriters. That’s what we did about 3 nights a week. We’d come home from work, get ready, then drive to the Hotel where they served Chardonnay in stemless glasses and listen to live music. I want to say that we didn’t know those nights would completely define our LA experience, but we were both self-aware enough to understand the significance as it was happening all around us.

There was one musician, Greg Laswell who had/has a song called “Sing Theresa Says”, which I loved despite the incorrect spelling of my name. “Sing Theresa says / Sing happy things” is a lyric that was inspired by Greg’s grandmother, Theresa urging him to stop singing such sad songs.

I think about this a lot whenever I write about personal stuff. A lot of it is unpleasant and untidy. There are war wounds all throughout my history that I present to everyone when I write about this stuff. My heart is there throbbing on my sleeve, and I wonder if anyone is like, “For fuck’s sake, write about happy things for once, Teresa” (correct spelling). Probably someone somewhere thinks that.

Tags: 5 things

gri-merrr said: I read your writing and you are very good at it but i wanna see what you can do with your mouth.

You really needed to stop typing after “I read your writing and you are very good at it.”

(Source: beyoncegifs, via thebeyhive)