I had always heard of the term 'albatross landing' specifically for the landing into Los Angeles. Apparently the only way you can land into this glittering gold city of opportunity is with your face first. While I had always heard that, I never expected it to be in such great lengths, and futhermore, I never expected it to happen so soon. 

When Johnny's mother Tanya burst down that door in a drunken rage 3 weeks into me being there, the first word that came into my mind was the word "Albatross". As I fell off the bed and ran scurrying to grab my two dogs and barricaded myself with my suitcase against the door, it began to repeat in such a heated fashion that I had to whisper it out loud 'albatross albatross albatross'. From the world outside the bathroom door, the sounds of smashing and screaming clamored about. She had just grabbed the frying pan that he was cooking on and swung it at him, tossing cooked food to splatter against the walls and cabinets. She attempted to come at me again, and got insanely upset that she couldn't reach me to physically let me know of her anger. She pounded on the door screaming 'get the fuck out' 'get the FUCK OUT you faggot!'.. I was amazed that all this commotion came from the simple response of "I don't want to talk to you anymore" to her. This was her way of dealing from silence.

I still remember the way things looked in that bathroom. The room smelled like vanilla candles and smoke, the lights from the vanity mirror sprayed a light yellow against the newly painted bathroom. There were brief markings in the wall from when Tanya was drunk and beginning the trend of writing things on the wall with lipstick... Dozens of phrases littered the walls underneath the clean stock white paint that freshly coated the old place. In the corner of my eye I read "This is not a hotel, this is my bathroom". ... ...

The police ended up coming to calm her down, meanwhile I was escorted downstairs to the courtyard of the apartment. I sat there shaking underneath the moonlight with my dogs and two officers, and all I could think was that I wasn't a bad person and that this situation was so crazy, and that somehow it didn't belong to me. 

I ended up sleeping on an air mattress at Johnny's friends house about a mile down the way. I had left my job and my home in San Francisco to having no home or job at all. Things were dwindling to a strange rock bottom I had never known before and life just seemed so ridiculous that only laughter measured up to its response. 

It was only around 2 weeks and Johnny had secured a place near his work, and I immediately moved in. Our apartment was a ghost image of his old room, but in pieces of deconstructed IKEA furniture... The place looked like it was inhabited by tinkertoys, and there was no heat or fridge to speak of... but it was a home that was away from that drunken beast of a mother. 

At First
I've been dreaming about San Francisco since the day I left it. My uhaul tore through the small streets of the Tenderloin district as fast as I could get out of there, because I've always been terrible with goodbyes. I had always felt uncertain about leaving SF, considering the 1st time I left it to Seattle.. I came back two years later pleading for its forgiveness...

But here I was again, in the uhaul, driving with my chihuahua and my new boyfriend down to his home in Los Angeles. I'm not exactly sure why I did this, but I had some kind of hope after 5 years of knowing him that this was the right idea.

Months have passed inbetween that time, and I've had the hardest time to collect all that has gone on. Everyday is a story, every hour is paragraph, every minute is a sentence, and every second is a word. I sat there smoking in my pajamas outside of my apartment. To the left of me  laid the EZ Lube station, and to the right of me laid "The God Shop".

Giant green flickering neon letters sprayed the words "TRUST GOD" in the front of the shop, while a 16ft bloody jesus on a crucifix erected itself on the lawn amongst the other bloody jesus artifacts that laid hammered into the ground. The shop is campy colorful cemetary of sorts for these statues, and in some form of humorous irony, its the death of the imitation of death.

Inside laid my boyfriend, who has come to sleep at 8pm and awake at 7am nowadays. The neighbors upstairs Christy and Anthony were fighting again, and I could hear the sounds of 'stop!' and smacking even from 15 feet of the apartment. I looked up towards the horizon and you could make the faint sense of the stars blowing in the warm Los Angeles breeze (even in January), and the black shadows of the Palm trees that made this city so famous.


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