My First Sunday
I woke up to air fluttering through the blinds. The sun seeping through the curtain against the rug. This was no dream. I’m still alive and I’m still in Los Angeles. All praise due to Allah.
I laid in bed for a little, making the mistake of mindlessly scrolling through social media apps instead of reading and/or writing.
This is always a poor way to start my day, I’m not sure if it starts the depression or I start scrolling because of depression. A sense of hopelessness either way.
Some time passed and I was seated at the table next to Siddhartha as he looked over at me on my laptop with his stoner, half opened eyes throwing up some sort of gang sign, remember, this is Los Angeles.
Yarden was yelling into the phone with her old room mate/bestfriend, laughing and screaming when a knock on the door caught her attention.
The land lord handed her an application for me to fill out in order to live here, and Yarden began yelling at him, with nice words, that it’s no problem and we’ll have the money for next month. He wanted an extra $100 tacked onto this month’s rent, and Yarden responded with “No, it’s okay, we’ll do $50 extra and that’s it.”
I was afraid and flabbergasted, unsure of what the man would say or do next, but his response was simply “Okay, sure, that’s no problem.” And she shut the door on him.
She handed me the application.
I began filling out applications for jobs at 16, and I’ve never shown up to an interview and not gotten the part. My charm is both a gift and a curse.
This was my first application for an apartment though, and I wasn’t too sure what information they wanted. My bank account is on the spectrum of empty, I walked out of my last job, I’m unemployed here, I’ve never used a credit card although one time I do think I signed up for one, and I’m not sure what came out of that.
Yarden kept assuring me that it’s no problem. I could just stretch the truth.
The truth is I’m sitting here writing this with absolutely no idea of what’s going to happen next.
It’s the feeling I’ve had for the last two and a half years. Perhaps I could become a hit man and write about my jobs.
Or I could write for a plush, yogi style, vegan magazine and get paid per article.
Would they pay me to do drugs and buy a lot of booze and shoot fire works off in the desert in the name of veganism though?
It would make for a poor article already considering vegans on the internet are vehemently against the use of fire works because it scares animals.
I think animals are just scared to be living with morons and idiots. Vegan or not. We shouldn’t have any domesticated animals. This article wouldn’t do too well in any yogi bullshit green juice culture pushing vegan magazine.
I’ve toyed with the idea of seeing if I can go to college for free. There has to be a way. It would be pretty fun to be a professor.
Currently at the ripe age of twenty seven, I would be happy working in a Taco Bell down the street if it meant I could sit by this window and breathe in California air as I write these posts and work on my book.
Yesterday, when I was at the Cognoscenti Coffee shop on Washington Boulevard, my long time Instagram friend turned real life friend Melanie wanted to introduce me to another customer. The other customer was from NYC too.
Melanie is about five feet tall, give or take. She’s an avid coffee drinker and hardcore straight edge vegan who has a heart of gold and passion. Melanie was homeless at a young age and came to LA on a hope and dream and currently roams the streets sucking down cold brew’s and eating all kinds of vegan treats when she isn’t serving up coffees to other humans. She has tattoos running down from her hairline and cheeks to her finger tips down to her thighs. She has a Crash Bandicoot tattoo on her, so if you meet Melanie, ask her about that.
Melanie introduced me to the customer. We’re going to call her Dominika.
Dominika and I began chatting at the at the counter and took our conversation outside.
Dom had golden straight hair that stopped a little past her shoulders. She was wearing some sort of punk inspired black tee shirt and very short black, cut off denim shorts with black cow girl boots. She was thin and full of vibrancy.
As we sat outside, her demeanor changed and she began interviewing me like I was in a job office looking to suck down my pride in exchange for monetary funding to live.
She laughed at most of my passions, which is fine. Veganism, Islam, and being unemployed are all odd and wonky at times.
This game of conversational ping pong went on for a bit though, I would bounce the questions back her way to try and get a vibe for what she was all about.
Her answers were ambiguous, and I had my ideas.
I got her to tell me who some of her influences were. Plenty of artistic women including her own grandmother.
Eventually she told me the real reason she left NYC was because things were bad.
I nodded and said “Yeah, me too. Sometimes you need to hit rock bottom before you can recover.”
Her eyes lit up, she leaned in, and nodded her head yes.
I understood then and there. She knew that I understood.
“I’m a fucking junkie. I was strung out. I had eleven fucking years clean under my belt, I was becoming an established author and artist, and something bad happened and I shot all my money into my fucking arm. I’m a heroin addict.”
I told her how I was a sex addict and had attended meetings for quite some time in NYC and left without much of a plan but felt I needed to in order to feel alive.
She told me how much she hated certain attributes of LA. How flakey people are, how spread apart it is.
I told her I had a hard time in NYC because I felt like a burden on everyone I came into contact with.
Dominika understood that feeling very well.
Dominika’s energy had done a 180. She became vibrant and animated, she was happy to be so open with a stranger, and I was happy too.
Melanie and the other barista had to close up so we moved it outside.
I was possibly being picked up by a mad man from Queens, New York who has a salary job, a passion for writing on walls illegally, smoking powerful cannabis, and drinking beer.
I was in the mood for all of those things, minus the writing on the wall. I would gladly take the salary job though.
Dominika and I sat on the curb. The conversation had gotten quiet. She began asking me more about my experience with my twelve step meetings. I felt a bit embarrassed about the fact that I was on my way to a bar and more than likely going to smoke weed.
It could possibly be a bad idea to engage in alcohol consumption as an addict. If I am an addict. It’s up to me to choose that label but I sure as shit know I’ve made a series of unfortunate choices since the age of sixteen in the name of sexual desire and a longing for love and attention.
It’d been six years since I smoked or drank up until recently.
Cannabis has a profound effect on me. It drives up my confidence and really pushes my writing in all sorts of directions. I also love to read books when stoned, which some people tell me they can’t possibly do.
I think cannabis allows you do whatever it is you desire. If you want to smoke and do nothing, you’ll do it hard. If you want to smoke and get lost in the Qur’an, inshaAllah, it will happen.
Alcohol on the other hand makes my arms feel like jello and heightens my obsession with the Metal Gear Solid gaming series.
Dominika told me I shouldn’t feel ashamed. It’s my journey and it’s personal to me.
Dom then said she was down to go to a bar.
I instantly jumped into over analytical mode. I wondered if it was a bad idea to smoke and drink.
I began imagining her coming to the bar, and I wondered what would happen to her.
What would happen to me?
I didn’t feel comfortable with where my mind was going.
I told her I didn’t think that was a good idea. What did I even mean by that? I’m still wondering today. It’s hard to drag it out of my head and put it onto paper or into this post.
I awkwardly said if we decided to stay in touch I wouldn’t call her or contact her if I were under the influence. I’m not sure if that come off offensive.
Dominika laughed and said she had friends who drank and smoked.
She then shook my hand and told me I was welcome to see her again if I’m ever at this coffee shop.
I told her I doubt it since I don’t live that close, but perhaps on Sundays.
Then Dominika was off.
My heroin abusing friend who longed for love, love her family didn’t provide her.
They are wealthy and don’t understand the first thing about addiction she had told me.
I don’t think I do either.
We did agree on things we felt we lacked in our childhoods that ultimately translates into our heavy sense of insecurities.
Dominika is thirty nine years old. And she was off.
I stood around attempting to speak to Melanie and her partner Adrien. My brain was still very burnt out from the sixty eight hour bus ride from the east coast. We said our goodbyes.
Then I was alone, on the curb, on Washington Boulevard. Confused as to where my life was headed and what my desires are.
I did what I do best. Scribbled in my pocket note pad, absorbed some sunlight into my flesh, and began walking West bound back to Mar Vista.
It was a pleasant walk.