During the day,

If it's Monday or Wednesday, I'm at the job that pays me. This incorporates filing stuff I don't read, scheduling fancy meals that I won't eat, and hanging out with my coworkers whom I genuinely enjoy.

From my bosses, I've received a lot of support about my graduate student status, so that when I have to change my schedule due to school requirements, the dudes responsible for my paycheck say, "Hey, school comes first," before I even have a chance to stress out about it. Man, did I luck out. And it works to their benefit, too, because since they've been so cool, I don’t passive-aggressively act out by flaking off during work hours; I actually earn my keep.

My moose has a boss named bulldog.

Oh, shit. No. I meant my boss has a bulldog named Moose.

Moose is in the office every day, lying in the sunshine and farting his brains out, which should give you a good inkling as to my working environment. We’re talking flip-flops and shorts in the workplace, California style. Nonetheless, I’m still the "quirky" one, with my hats and my jokes and my unfortunate inability despite much struggle to grasp anything business-minded.

I don't think I told you this, but when I informed my Chicago coworkers that I’d be moving to San Francisco to pursue a degree in Drama Therapy, the overwhelming response was, "GOOD. Move on. This isn’t the place for you." I chose to see that as supportive.

Anyway, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays are the more challenging days, though I’m not getting paid. Then, I'm fulfilling my internship hours at a hospital in Berkeley, working with mentally ill adolescent, adult, and geriatric patients.

As of now, I don't really know what I’m doing, but I fucking love it. It’s odd that my bearing of the Magic Hospital Keys to release any of these patients from their barracks gains me instant respect, regardless of my clinical experience. I have a name-tag, dress trousers, and skeleton keys, so the patients don't care about my resume; they just see me as someone who can either fix them or, at the very least, get them out of the hellhole of boredom that is an inpatient mental health unit. Of course, there’s more to it than that, but this is a rundown.

It's odd that whenever I open the doors to their inpatient units, just so I have an hour or so to hang out with them, the patients disregard my lack of experience and just look to me to help them, because my name-tag and keys peg me as an institutional authority. It's odd that on every door I open, there is a sign reading "WARNING: HIGH AWOL RISK," as if an 80 pound 14-year-old anorexic girl, a manic old woman with a walker, or an overmedicated (read: totally doped up beyond most motor-sensory responsiveness) adult would bowl me over and head to the exits before I have the chance to press the red "HELP ME" button.

It's odd. But I'm handling it. Interestingly, more difficult to process than the responsibility has been the love. So far, (granted, I'm new, and probably disgustingly arrogant,) I have genuinely loved all of the patients I've worked with. This is a heavy and naive love, and I don’t know where to put it. It’s so immediate and huge, and so sad, I don't know if I'm worthy.

SO, THERE'S THAT.

At night ...

I usually go home and marvel over how happy I am to be back in my neighborhood, and in my house. I again lucked out and landed a room in a cute little house with roommates whom I love, and who love me. The neighborhood is a ridiculously beautiful government-aided park where there are always flowers and trees, and every morning it smells like eucalyptus and summer camp. Fuck. I love it.

From most angles in this neighborhood, I can see the Golden Gate Bridge, the San Francisco Bay, Alcatraz, and the many hills that surround all that shit. At night, I see first the sunset, then the moon, and then I hear the foghorn. And at some point every day, I think to myself, "I actually live here." My weeks are busy and exhausting, but I love what I’m doing, and despite the fact that I’m still in school and have a year or so before I’ve graduated, and have moved into a place where I feel that what I come home to is mine, I've been extremely lucky to fall feet-first into a house that I am comfortable calling "home."

So anyway. Usually, my roommates and I sit around watching TV, shooting the shit, and coddling the 2 cats who live with us. Often I go out ... in the past month I’ve attended drag shows, taken guitar lessons, drawn naked people, been in improv shows, and helped friends with performances focusing on the Bay Area Chilean Community. About a month ago, I participated in my very first mosh pit (at the GOGOL BORDELLO show -- yay!), nearly passed out, and enjoyed every fucking second.

I went to rehearsal for my friend’s Chilean-thingy project the other night, and when I came home, my roommates and some of their friends were all covered with fake eyeliner-drawn mustaches. I knew before I opened the door that some transformation would have taken place, and there it was. Within five minutes, I had a handlebar mustache of my own.

So that's that. The rundown.

Hi!

Good night. Sorry I’m not funny right now.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Days and Nights - 10.01.07

Eye-Boners - 07.20.07

Something About My Big Frickin' Bed - 07.11.07

Summertime Fix in Hawaii - 06.12.07

About Zigs - 04.26.07

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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