Solitary in the County of Oranges

I guess California gives you time to think. If, by chance, you can ignore all of the Botox and duck lips and fake tits. This trip has been a whirlwind of me seeking solitude and knowledge. Hard to balance. Shit, I have had no balance of late. Why I thought I could find it while out here, I'll never know. I finally had some time without the painful headaches from forgetting my glasses, and the jet lag, and the motion sickness (thank you Westin for putting me on a higher floor so I get the FULL fucking effect of the elevator) and honestly, I am still muddled.

Hotels are a strange thing. I am comfortable in a bed of a quality that I will likely never EVER see...but its so sterile that I yearn for the confort of a familiar noise...damn you NYC for making street noise what I miss the most to get a good night's sleep.

At least I have the X-Files. Thank you TNT for not moving past the cool shit of yesteryear. I can't even read, which is really starting to piss me off. I get nauseous reading while here. Is it the pressure? Is it because I am not feeling well? My time of the month? I have no fucking clue. Its just frustrating...like the universe is telling me "So, hey! A little FYI for you... We are taking away everything that you find comfortable...now, just figure out how to exist, and you'll be fine! Buh bye..."

Assholes.

So as I sit here in my room. 623 in the South Coast Plaza Westin. Eating my 40 dollar artichoke, arugula and parm pizza with a large bottle of Pellegrino...watching Moulder and Skully read Krycek the "what-for" because he is a bad dude... I am less than satisfied.

Fuck. I would think I should at least be satisfied.