Sitting in Orange County watching the Real Housewives of Orange County shouting at the beam-lined ceiling every time I recognize a location on the TV which is pretty much every thirteen seconds. It’s weird to watch TV — especially such trash TV — after five months of no cable, after three years of shunning TV, but if I’m going to watch TV I might as well watch my idiotic “neighbors,” right? I see these ladies at my local grocery store, at Borders, the Spectrum, the shady Greek place next to my childhood pediatrician. A certain somebody’s husband made a move on my mom at Pavillions across the avocado baskets. I attended the same high school as their children. I won’t deny that the show is sickly comforting. It’s like going home when I’m already home. It’s a world I so absolutely know. I may rant and whine about Orange County and my desperate repetitive “escapes”, but I know Orange County. I can handle what I know. It won’t ever throw me for a loophole. Plus, this is the type of TV you don’t have to think about, and right now I’m trying not to think. I’m trying to zone out. I’m trying to muffle the thoughts seeping through my pores, the reds ants crawling in my mind’s drippy folds.
Upstairs, my fifteen year old brother and his three friends are quite literally shaking the house with some obscure dubstep. My head is throbbing. I’ve consumed enough sugar in the form of dark chocolate snickernoodles and peanut butter dough balls to sustain me for the next century. The TV is too loud as my sister is supposedly going deaf. She says she’s on the verge of a panic attack. “Perhaps it the volume?” I ask. She shakes her head, shouts for a glass of water, and turns the volume up two notches. “Can you get me another snickerdoodle?” I shout over the housewives’ bickering. “Please?” I am convinced a violent sugar overdose will put me at ease.
In three days I’ll be packing up the Mini Cooper again and heading east, heading back to the location of my dreams: Colorado Springs. I don’t know where I’ll be living. My old condo? On campus? The gutter of Cache la Poudre? My ex boyfriend’s parent’s couch? Probably not. I don’t think they like me anymore. I feel shunned by them on Facebook. That’s such a juvenile statement, but it’s true. I miss them. I love them. I consider them to be my true Colorado family. Yet lately I feel so abstracted and inferior to them — shunned. But maybe the truth is that I’m shunning them, unaware of my own subconscious behavior, digging myself into my own Skiba grave. While driving home from LA last night I had an intense convo with my sister and mother about how I’ve become horrified of letting myself get close to those I love. I don’t want anyone to have control over me. I refuse to be a puppet again, only I can hold the strings. So maybe that’s why we’re no longer close — I was too close to them to begin with. Why am I writing this right now? THIS IS NOT PUBLIC BLOG MATERIAL. But here I am – type type type – with no intention on deleting a word. I don’t cut my blog writing. I do enough cutting of my “real” writing, of my novels and creative and academic mutterings, so I will hold on to my nasty blog lovelies, this nonsense flush of poor writerly bullshit. I REFUSE TO CUT A SINGLE WORD.
If Papa Skiba were here he’d ask me if I was angry at my keyboard. Yes. YES. I am angry at my keyboard. I’m angry at it for compelling me to write about my Real Housewives viewing, and my personal heart aches in regards to one of my best friends who happens to be my ex boyfriend (HATE HATE HATE that term) and his family, and my copious snickerdoodle consumption and ramble on and on and on this silly childish frivolous blog. What was I even previously writing about? The gutter? Oh, right — where I’ll be residing in two weeks.
At this point, my living preference is on campus, but the deadline for the campus housing application was April something-something and on April something-something I was under the impression that I had the ideal set up on Madison Ridge Heights, in the condo of my 2010 golden days, but of course this situation has evolved and now I’m less than two weeks before the start of the first block and I have no place to comfortably claim as home and it’s Saturday meaning I have to wait until MONDAY to talk to CC about whether or not they have any open rooms and my anxiety is making my skin crawl.
My sister’s friend who is also my dear friend just interrupted my writing.
“Are you blogging?”
“Can you read it out loud?”
“But I don’t have a computer to read it right now.”
“Reading it out loud is by far weirder than you reading it yourself.”
I blink. “How could you tell I was blogging?”
“Huh? Huh? Huh?”
She’s not really saying huh huh huh, I JUST CAN’T HEAR HER BECAUSE THE TV IS SO LOU–
My brother’s friend who is also my dear friend just entered the room and interrupted my writing.
“Wow, Heather. You’re typing aggressively. Are you blogging right now?”
Yes, Cody. Yes I am.