patterns

my life became a series of patterns.

everyday I awoke at approximately 7 am, maybe earlier, maybe later, depending on the level of drunk I allowed myself to get the night before paired with the hour at which my mind stopped racing, usually around 2 to 3 am.

I walked to my car, where 1 in 5 days I would find a parking ticket tucked neatly under my windshield wiper. 20 percent of the time I would get upset, twitter some nonsensical gibberish about how my day had started wrong, and how I intended to either dwell or improve it. The rest of the time I'd simply toss the red and white envelope on my passenger seat, silently concocting ways to contest, looking for loopholes in the system that systematically stole hundreds of dollars a month from my dwindling bank account.

I'd crank my music up too loud for anyone's ears at 8 in the morning, shuffle to find the CD of my most recent rockstar crush; Red Hot Chili Peppers, the Doors, Marilyn Manson or perhaps Nirvana. Kurt Cobain, Jim Morrison Anthony Kiedis served as my sonic boyfriend, my date for the ride to work in Hollywood from my dingy downtown adobe.

I'd work for 8-10 hours that day, 1/4 of which was spent scrolling through my google reader, following their blogs, reading their thoughts, looking at their pictures.

Who were they? Their photos littered my desktop. My huge iMac was a conglomeration of them and me.
They were models, photographers, writers, magazine editors, musicians, DJs, girls-about-town, 13 year old fashionistas, ex-boyfriends, and friends. They were idiots, enfants terribles, insightful beautiful somebodies. They possessed something I didn't, and I worshipped them for it.

They wrote better than me, took photos that were expertly composed, they had evolved taste in furniture, more money, better skin, a solid haircut, cooler friends, and charisma that charmed me through my glass screen.