Pinto Love

Going to bed has always kind of seemed like giving up to me.  And then getting up in the morning seems like giving up again. I am extremely tired on a relatively consistent basis. I don’t know what I’d do if I woke up one day and felt refreshed.  The thought is unavailable to me.  I do not know what that is like. I can’t really think of any rejuvenating activities for me.  Sleep certainly doesn’t cut it in that department.  Sleeping makes me sleepy.  Maybe yoga...but it gives me yoga brain and then I’m all chilled out and nuts.  Unable to function in a way that doesn’t cause alarm to the general public.  Just a little off.  Like, why is that girl taking so long to choose between those two apples and why are her eyes so glazed over?  Move away slowly.  Hold on to my purse a little tighter.  Well, not my purse.  With yoga brain I’d probably just leave my purse in the produce department.  Ditch the extra weight and get in the giant vat of dried pinto beans just to see how it feels.

I know!

I am crazy and the effort to stay in reality, to stay out of the vat of pinto love, is extremely tiring.

I’m glad we had this talk.  Now I’m going to stay up for a few more hours doing useless things in the name of creativity.  Pass out later, maybe in my bed, and wake up to a cat or two biting my toes.  Maybe at 7am, maybe a 1pm, whose to say?  But seeing as how its past midnight, it'll definitely be today.  And probably not 7am if I'm being honest.

Weird.

Slaughter Upon Snake Oil Salesmen

I'm going to kill my TV. You can't stop me. Mr. Memorex is considered a hostage. De-wiring to occur upon first offense.  He has become a snake oil salesman, a purveyor of doubt and ignorance, an avalanche of noise and unspecified chaotic energy and NOISE into my goddamned sacred space.

At the right moment, the TV will be removed.

I expect he will leave some residual anxiety in his wake.  His exit will be an occasion.  The furniture arranged around his empty spot, the expectation and the void.  I will curl up in a corner, rocking back and forth unable to quench my anxiety with mind numb any longer.  I will have to have an output to fill his.   I do not think I will install a screen in my mouth and learn to conjure images to dance across the glass. I will write more, I will sew more, take more walks and I will make jewelry and read books and cook and play with my cats and read plays.  I think.  Perhaps I will take to rocking back and forth in the corner and become an expert in that.

Beware the TV.  Beware what you think is normal.  Beware relaxation.  The snake oil salesman has sold you his version, but there are other versions available.  The information is out there, but the purveyors do not exist in the center of the most convenient wall in your living room.  Most abundantly they occur in a very foreign land called your own damn head.  Passports are available.  Visas. Student visas. Green cards.  Permanent alien residency.  The catch is you have to get to know yourself in order to get the paper work.  No mind numb allowed. 

Pain occurs when tension is released from the body.  Emotions are information with logical next steps.  We feel for reasons.  Reasons we bury in the foreign land while we listen to the snake oil salesmen, not just Mr. Memorex, there are many many out there.  We know what to do when we are in control, but we have given up control, and our emotions stop us, stutter us, confuse us, rather than direct us toward the right course of action. 

Slaughter the snake oil salesmen without pulses.  Save the human ones.

I Fucking Hate Gay Bars

I fucking hate gay bars.  They are full of men who are not interested in me and all there is to do is drink and get told you are fabulous while Mr. Whoever waits to ditch you for some guy that comes along.  At the end of the day it’s a bunch of dudes.  A bunch of dudes, many of which resent you for bringing your vagina into their space.  I can totally understand this.  So, why do I go?  Most of my friends are gay!  What am I going to do, bring a gay posee to “Generic Straight Bar”?

I don’t HATE gay bars.  I don’t hate anything.  Bars in general aren’t that great. GAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!  Why can’t people think up more interesting things to do on a weekend night than drink and rub against people in dimly lit noisy bright lights flashy crowded spaces?  Why can’t I?  When I can, why does everyone want to go and rub up against people in dimly lit noisy bright lights flashy crowded spaces?  I have two cats.  I cannot sit home alone with two cats on a Friday night knowing I have friends out on the town.  The cat lady quotient is just too high.

So, I get how my gay friends must feel in non-gay bars.  Straight bars?  Are they straight bars if they specifically aren’t gay bars?  I think we need more pubs in this land!  Food, drink, people, hanging outsies.  Casual, neighborhoodie localness.  And also less desperate promiscuity and constant sexual-based attention giving and receiving no matter if ye be gay, straight or whatevers.  Well, I don’t know if more pubs would solve that problem, but maybe the mood would change. I mean there are people that think ALL attention is sexually based, but you know what I mean?  People just seem so desperate to be liked that they kind of throw everything important out the window if someone compliments their hair....

Girl to friend, “I’m tired and have a lot of work tomorrow!  I think ima go home and rest up.”

Friend, “Ok, have a nice night!”

Rando Dude to Girl, “Nice hair! Smells like coconuts.”

Girl lights up like a 5 yr old on Christmas with her brand new Betsey-Wetsey baby doll.  Beams. “Hahahah, its just my shampoo!”

Rando Dude to Girl, “Nice!”

2-3 hours later the couple is having sex while trying to not wake Rando Dude's roommate.  Girl is almost late for work in the morning and doesn't have time to wash her hair.  It no longer smells like coconuts.  Gross.

I think looking at this whole bar debacle as an outsider kinda makes it all clear.  No one in the gay bar wants me, I don’t want anyone, in the biblical sense you see, so I can see how desperate everyone is and translate that to how me and my straight friends must look in da club.  Not that I can often be found in “da club”, or that I would ever have sex with some random dude who likes the smell of coconuts.  My shampoo smells like sweet pea.  Hahaha.   Oh and by the way, it is 6:41 on a Saturday morning, I have NO IDEA why I am awake, and yes I was out at a gay bar last night.

LA Baby

Whhhaaaaaat up homies?!?  As they say.  I said too, right then.   Mmmmmmmm, feeling blocked lately.  Full to the brim bursting, and nowhere to direct that energy.  So many things I want to do, so little money true, but still, I should be able to have some creative output, eh?

LA is wonderful.  Home again.  Happiness reigns.  Over everything, and possibly too much, but at least it is there to grab at if you need.  Acting and art are everywhere and I am finding out what that means for me.  True true that good acting is few and far between, but the air is saturated and opportunities are everywhere.

Everywhere everything seems to mean something here.  Because LA is so much.  I can go to parts of town, several, different parts of town where no one speaks English.  I can drive 9 miles down the road outside my house and be in Bev Hills and watch people get picked up by their drivers on Rodeo then head back down the road a tad to the cop bust at 7-11 for god knows what. There is ALWAYS a tranny in Target. There are 5 churches of different denominations within 2 blocks either direction of my apartment.  Everyone in my neighborhood has a chihuahua, I don’t know what this means, but it is different. WeHo, enough said.  You don’t even know how much more diverse LA is than the diversity you are aware of in a moment of your diversity awareness.

Anyway, maybe I’m caught up in LALA for a moment.  Waiting for a better job, for better money, so I can take more classes, more connections, more acting, better headshots, get in better shape and continue the cycle of hope/love/dread/acting.

PS. Its weird this blog is called Peanut Butter Kelly cause I love peanut butter, but I haven’t had it in ages as peanuts cause inflammation and my back is so jacked up.  I still like it though...peanut butter and the name of this blog I mean.  Its all about almond butter for me right now though.

Funny Skinny

If I’m funny I don’t have to be skinny, right?  Are you still sexy if you are funny, but not skinny?  I feel like yes, but to less people? (Yes that is a question, insert upward inflection on "people").  Is sexy or funny better?  I feel like funny is way better.  I want to have the ability to be sexy and funny and also not be a waif.   How do I get funnier? I need attention and want people to like me so they will hire me for acting jobs.

I’m going to take an improv class at Upright Citizen’s Brigade.  I’m hoping that will make me funnier.  Maybe if I am around other people who are funny people, I will become a funny person too.  Also, I will learn things.   Improv things that will make me funnier.  I just really don’t want to be hungry all the time.

Being skinny would be such a pain in the ass too.  Oh, and I know I’m not overweight, don’t think I’m whining or anything.  I have a healthy and normal weighted body that I am as happy with as a 24 year-old actress living in la la land can be.  So, anyway, so much work, right?  And WORRY!! Worrying about the gym, and what you put in your mouth all the time.  I exercise, I eat healthy, but I don’t want to turn myself into a product.   Or am I supposed to do that?  As an actress, I am a product? (Inflection again.)  Yeah. Yeah, damn, I think I am.

BUT, though, I feel like the more normal human I am, the more relatable? A normal human product?

Yes.

People who are really skinny are scary though, huh?  Decidedly non-sexual as well.  Less human?  I mean, obvs, you’re still a human being if your are totes thin, but I’m talking about the relatability factor.

ANYWAY.

I just want to be a normal Kelly person and not a scary bobble-head on a stick that used to be a body.  And my head is so huge I would look so weird if I had a stick for a body instead of a body for a body.  I don’t want to look funny, I want to be funny. 

Hire me.  I’m so awesome.

Bad Things

If you act crazy in front of, beside, or behind me, I will assume you are on drugs and move away.

If you drive sloppily, swervy, SHITTILY, I will assume you are drunk and change lanes. 

If you are another customer in line at the super market and touch, rearrange, and/or generally handle my purchases and then comment on them I will not like you and will think bad things about you.  Probably, even, REALLY BAD THINGS.

When I am at work and you act crazy I will smile and ask you if you’d like to open a GAP card.  I will make fun of you later with my co-workers.  Really, I should thank you for the entertainment. 

If you bring your dog shopping at my work and then act crazy I will either want to steal the dog for myself, be scared of the dog, or hate the dog.  If it is wearing clothes each of theses potential feelings will be greatly intensified.

If it is 11pm and I am walking to my apartment from my car and you hit on me while hanging out with your drunk friend who is peeing on a wall I will not be attracted to you.  I will walk faster and make sure the gate to my complex is thoroughly locked behind me.

If you hit on me in any way that references the fact that I am rather tall for a woman it is likely that this will cause me to wrinkle my nose at you and talk about something gross to make you go away.  I will be happy when you leave and will whine about you to my friends later.

Secondly, if you hit on me while referencing my height and then proceed to utter the phrase “you must intimidate other men”, as in other than you, I will take it on as my PERSONAL MISSION to intimidate you.  When I see the fear in your eyes I will know I have succeeded and proceed to wrinkling my nose, talking about something gross, and being happy when you leave.  Whining later to my friends still applies.

If you think I’m weird for having cats without even having a conversation about it with me then I will certainly not want to be your friend.  I will think YOU are weird.

If you see me put on my blinker and are far enough behind me to let me in, but in fact speed up to pass me, I will SCREAM and curse you.  If it happens in Seattle, where no one, NO ONE, knows how to drive the reaction will be intensified.  This will frighten my passengers.

If I invite you over and you ask me if you can smoke weed in my house and I say no and you then proceed to smoke it out of my view near a window I will not think you are being considerate.  I will be mad.  It will be an uncomfortable situation.

If you are a famous actress who is my age and skinnier than me then I will not like you. Sorry, I’m just jealous.

If we are scene partners and you touch me inappropriately without discussing it with me first I will not think you are a brave risk taker.  I will think you are gross. GROSS.

If you use say “no homo” or call something “gay” in a derogatory way, I will not take you seriously.  I will question your cognitive power.

There are many, many more bad things.  Many BAD things.  I will start a list and update it periodically.  This will be fun.  It is fun to not like things.

Oh! And I don’t like Star Wars.  That is my right as a human being, and if you have a problem with this, then you have a problem.  I will be happy and content not liking Star Wars.

Cats

Both my mother fucking sneaky adorable BASTARD plotting, but let me reiterate ADORABLE, so I let them hang out with me, cats escaped out a crawl space in my bathroom this morning.  You might think this is my fault for not securing the crawl space before bringing the kitties home.  Well.  You’re wrong.  Everyone knows cats are a little bit evil, so it’s their fault.  Anyway.  This really pissed me off.  Actually, it nearly gave me a heart attack and made me do that girl panic cry thing we do.  But basically, I was not a happy camper. OBVS.

So I got down next to the crawl space in my mini bathroom with my head sandwiched between the wall and the toilet and did the “here kitty, kitty” thing.   Louie came right out purring when I called his name cause he’s like that.  Steve just hung out down there for like AN HOUR while I canvassed the neighborhood CERTAIN that he must’ve gotten out somehow since I couldn’t see or hear him.  I eventually realized that unless Steve had some awesome super powers I was unaware of (which I wouldn’t have totally been surprised by) there was literally no way for him to get out from under the building short of digging a tunnel.  So, I got this broken toy of his that used to be one of those fishing pole toys with a feather boa and bell on one end, but he totally destroyed it.  It is now half a plastic stick with a bell on a knotted string.  I dangled this contraption outside the crawl space for about 10 seconds and he hopped right out. I shoulda thought of it earlier.  Its his favorite toy. Sigh.