Squaller in My Head

Dear Diary,
I haven't written like this in quite some months, and it's all handwritten anyway, I would probably really enjoy those journals if I found them even now, I'll look for them soon. They shut off the water in my apartment, it made me think that this is something you are suppose to give notice/some sort of warning about, but I said nothing and washed my fruit and knives using my brita. I just had my meeting with my landlord about my bathroom sink (oddly unrelated to kitchen sink issue). I do not dread speaking with him, which is nice. Our age difference does not make me nervous, meaning that there is not one, and I am only nervous for my usual reasons. I knocked on the door, walked away, and then he answered it, wearing a bright red shirt (it made me very curious why some days he dresses casual and some days like a business man), in my absolute terror of pronouncing his name incorrectly I say "heyyyy" as friendly as possible, making it appear that we are old college buddies or something. He says "heyy" also, and is a joke, so things were fine. I stare at his face where he must have fallen, maybe on a bike, maybe drunk, his dark brown skin instead shiny and pink. I do not comment. He takes me back to the sink in the office (identical to my bathroom, apart from mirror placement), and shows me that the stopper is probably clogging it. I politely tell him that I am not fucking stupid. I say that I will email him, I leave. Now, starting from the beginning. I will begin after work yesterday, cause yesterday at work was terrible, and I was tired and miserable. Lance was is an even more awful mood, and I convinced myself that he suffers from verbal tourette's. I couldn't explain any other way to myself why sometimes he bashfully says, "excuse my language" after muttering crap, and yesterday afternoon he (completely tantrum) screamed curse words out in the shop for probably thirty minutes, so loudly that everyone in every part of litho could hear him, and that we were all too scared to ask for his reason. I left work and tried to park on 13th but the meter was broken, so after hassling on the phone forever attempting to pay to park, I went to the post office and stood in line listening to everyone curse to themselves there. The man working the window is the sweetest man ever, and I love seeing him because his job has to be the worse in the city. I drove back to 13th and parked in front of e.m. wolfman. I wandered around there looking at every single book for well over an hour. I normally feel too much anxiety/humiliation to hang out places alone like that, but I felt partial somehow to the man working, so sat in a chair and read my palm. I learned: 1. my life line is faint and broken 2. my head line is strong and dominates my decision making 3. my heart line starts broken, also strong, but gets weaker with time 4. complete absence of marriage and children lines 5. my fate line was difficult to interpret. I read also about my finger shape, distance apart, and what the notches in my thumb indicate. I looked at most of Margaux Williamson's book and it reminds me of Sheila Heti, and Lizz. I looked for potential Christmas gifts, but the idea makes me too panicked to decide anything (but to go on amazon). The man working goes upstairs, and tells me that he needs to heat up some coffee when I hear the microwave beeping, I wonder if he is embarrassed that he is heating coffee in a microwave. I buy a $10 zine because I think it's important to support people when you're stoked on what they do, and I bought a little gray booklet so I can handwrite things more often, also with hopes of carrying it around for notes. The man working (Justin) and I seem to be able to have a conversation, which immediately throws me. I let him carry it, but do talk about my work and the zine fest, and what events at his store (I determine he plays a large part or owns it) intrigue me. I have not talked to a stranger for that length of time in a while, not without assistance (or obvious purpose), but he mentions that he is always looking for places to print flyers and cards, and tells me to come to mondo bummer party, and I tell him I'll see him there. I spent the drive home elated from not being a nightmare in the presence of someone cute and interesting. I of course was very fearful every moment spent speaking with him, because he was so well read, and versed in terminology and authors, but I fooled him long enough to be genuinely kind to me. Holly and I talk via snap that night, and I thought it was cool that she was in a hotel in chicago and ordered a chicago style pizza. I wanted to make it known to her that I didn't think it was cool that I chose to direct my spew of late night insomnia sadness snaps towards her the night before. Jillian is always my victim, but I needed a response this time that she wasn't giving me, although the perfect person, because unaffected by it all. Jillian and I work flawlessly because we are so perpetually wrapped up in our own (often fervent) emotional turmoil, but at the same time have a mutual understanding that the other person can handle their own. She's probably asked me once ever if I was okay, and I have probably threatened my life and many other things to her countless times; really dark phone messages (and texts). Holly not just says it was fine, but offers help for next time, I appreciate tremendously those who are aware (even subconsciously) that there will be a next time. It was a nice outlet, and I did not send so much as one regrettable text message (success). I just get upset when couples fight on my floor for hours on end (and when I feel abandoned by everyone I've ever unconditionally loved). I take two tylenol pm broken up, after eating whatever I snacked on for dinner (it was wheat-free crackers and lactose-free cheese, apple and almond butter), and wait an hour to take the sleep aid cough syrup. I draw Emma Stone on the first page of my notebook and am disturbed by it, and tell no one. I remember being just in such an excellent mood knowing with certainty tonight I would sleep. I tumbl for a while, until I come across hq stills from I Origins which had leaked the week prior. I was so touched by the actor's faces, and my memories of the film, I decide I am going to stream it. I normally do not waste a movie opportunity on a re-watch (as of late), but I couldn't start something new anyway, because it was 9 something and I wouldn't finish it (which I fucking loathe). I took so many new things from the movie the second time around, and wanted to tell everyone about it. I fell asleep right at the very end. I woke up in the morning feeling quite bad (groggy), and stayed in bed extremely late, until around 7:20. I made three over medium eggs and they were not that good, so I threw a lot of them out and ate some yogurt instead. I did not go to starbucks, and went instead to work (made green tea there). Every single person's mood was so much better than monday, and the day went by quickly because I made like a thousand plates. When no one was looking I read about small presses and publishers on my computer in the office. It dawned upon me that I should be on that list, and I started to construct my own list, of what I needed in order to produce enough quantities of zines and books to be legit. Spencer Madsen really inspired me, because he published his own book, and then his friend's, and they are the perfect size, and are just poems. The thought of becoming a publisher, even completely on the side made me wanna die, because my dad, but this was different enough, and life is irony. As I was reading about Mira Gonzalez, Scott came up behind me and asked if I had a minute to help Greg. Greg was wearing a red flannel, a white shirt, and very blue jeans, somehow he was still cute and I guess it's just his bright huge smile. We worked on United Business Bank stuff with Scott, and Greg brought up the "riots". I cringed in silence, as he and Scott agreed that blocking the freeways accomplishes nothing, and that it just slows down the commute for small business owners, who had nothing to do with Michael Brown and Ferguson. I wanted to yell in their face that these people are risking a lot to make a point, and are doing everything they can with what little power they have to make a statement and get light shown on a system that desperately needs the light shown on it. I wait out the conversation, until Greg says to me that when you mess with the police, they win, they win no matter what, if you resist arrest "they'll get you". Greg says he has resisted arrest and they got him, "what's the difference?". I nearly told him that the difference is that he is standing in front of me, and he got to visit his daughter last weekend, and that he is alive and saying all this because he's white, but I didn't. I bit my tongue and wished Greg didn't say anything he did, at least in front of me. Scott confirmed all of Greg's opinions so I didn't have to (lie). It was odd to think that Greg never considered the option of Mike Brown not resisting arrest, or every young black male who was killed for something as trivial as jay-walking (something I do twice every single day), but who am I to preach. Greg asks me in front of Scott if I still want to help him set up binders for "extra cash", I say definitely, but do not press further. I leave work with Lance telling me to watch monty python, it made me hate him, but he really does mean well. I go to cvs to get sleep aid and shoe laces, then go to trader joe's for tomorrow's lunch (and admittedly, tonight's dinner). I text Andy about LA, and think about names for my publishing company on my drive home. I want it to be Underwood. I figure that my dad has to text me at some point about what I want for christmas (completely untrue/a long shot),  and I will say that I want the printer fixed that I left at his house. It has a scanner, and is suitable for the small sized stuff I want to make. I think seeking out artists that are either local or just great will be fun, and I will do everything for free/out of my own pocket until I make some revenue (not probable/necessary). It will obviously be a hobby, but then some day someone will be able to hold in their hand all their poems and they'll know they weren't able to do it on their own, and that would be cool. Underwood Zines would be okay, but it's limited, or sounds limiting. Underwood Press sounds really cool, or something, but is misleading being that I would print on a tiny $100 digital printer. I could either sew-bind things, or just saddle-stitch them at work when Lance leaves (without a doubt working towards "perfect-binding" using glue). I have an endless supply of paper, and speciality stock too, and my pagination knowledge could only assist me. I need my own printer though, so as not to take advantage of my job, cause they already do so much. I get home from the store, meet Shekhar, then come upstairs again and make a salad. My chicken was predictably under-cooked, and I beg myself why I cannot for the life of me figure out how to cook things properly on an electric stove. I eat my over-dressed salmonella-chicken salad, conclude that re-lacing my shoes sounds way too hard, and sit in bed and type this. Next I'll write my movie review of I Origins. It would be so perfect to make a zine about movies, cause it's personal but not too personal, and I could draw, and rant, and it's something that truly interests me, and I'm not sure if interests other people, but maybe someone would find it somehow and something in it would sound appealing, then they would watch it and it would change their life/opinion on things. Yesterday I thought about how all this treachery and depression really somehow has instilled in me a magnified need for creativity, perhaps to live, or for some scrap of worth, but I am going to roll with it. I need a printer, and running water would also be nice.

Two side notes: I did send one text that night, which I thought was both significant, and appropriate at the time. The poke was returned with a "hmm?" followed by a link titled: this father and son are so silly their duet will make you laugh. Insert here the word for opposite of success, but more remarkable than failure. I emailed Jillian, also, an emotion-fueled play by play of a day spent with a friend, and all of the impossibilities of love, she responded with only "ya", which made me very happy, and was exactly what I would want. These are exemplary in that they display very plainly what variant responses we wish from those we care about, which makes me question, is it only expectations which make this hard?
Note two: Every single time that an event unfolds NOT as planned, I calmly remind myself that there is a reason for this, and the outcome will be more marvelous and meant-to-be than if it had worked out the first time. (This mantra is honestly mostly intended to quell my being [oft] outraged and upset, not blindly putting trust in His Plan [praise emojis but not actually].) The broken parking meter indefinitely altered the course of my day, and for the better, with what my actually-intended day will bring.