This is exactly how I feel. Exactly.

I’m the new tech/social media guru blogger for the SFWeekly.

“But Kiala,” you say, “I’ve heard rumours you have trouble changing the batteries on the XBox controller.”

True dat, as the city kids say, but - and here’s the crux of the thing - I do know there ARE batteries in the controller thingy and also I tend to spell “rumours” with an extra “u”. This makes me, well, overqualified actually.

That is all. Suggestions for techie blog posts and/or an explanation in the simplest of terms on how my pedometer works* greatly appreciated in the comments section.

* it’s something to do with the dark arts isn’t it?

WHAT? Like you guys don’t take pictures of yourselves ALL THE TIME. Save the judgment for your fudge mint.

YOU GUYS. Count yourselves as the lucky few to have known me before my meteoric rise to fame. (Or mediocre rise to fame…ha! Whew! See THAT is the reason I am so goddamn awesome or whatever.)

Ahem. In a couple of weeks Dane and ZZ and I are heading down to Santa Monica to be extras for The Guild Season 3!

I KNOW. I’m very excited about it. Here’s how I think it will go down:

Dane, ZZ, and I will roll onto the set (sans panties natch’) around 11 am-ish - fashionably late for our 6am call time. After raiding the Krafts table for donuts and coffee, we’ll head to our Winnebago for a massage and some hair of the dog. And by “hair of the dog” I mean smack. We’ll emerge from our trailer some four hours later and proclaim loudly to anyone who can hear us, “ALL RIGHT PEOPLE LET’S DO THIS THING!” and slowly make our way to the set high five-ing and terrorist fist jabbing anyone and everyone we see.

At this point, Felicia will probably give us hugs and braid my hair while I scream on my iPhone to my agent about my rider and “why the fuck are there 200 count sheets in my trailer now I have a rash and my masseuse was a WOMAN for God’s sake and also OF AGE which is a NO GO and because I didn’t get my happy ending then neither should you and your ass will never work in this town again!”

Then I’ll mumble something about how Scorcese ran his shoots and Felicia will soothe my brow with a cold compress and we’ll talk about eye creams and dragons.

Right?

Let me know if I’ve forgotten anything.

In a little over a month we’ll be back in Portland. REJOICE! UPRISE! ETCETERA!!!!

There is something I need to address before we fly back to the mothership or sail back to the motherland or drive back to my mother’s house or what have you - something I’ve needed to say out loud for well over two years. Deep breath. This is not going to be pretty.

Dear previous friendships from my previous marriage,

Aside from the two or three of you (Renee, Beth, and Trent) who made attempts to see how I was doing during that long, cold, and confusing time period where I LEFT MY HUSBAND the rest of you can kindly go fuck yourselves.

I will never, ever be able to understand or forgive the late night angry text messages followed by hostile radio silence. I will never understand or forgive “friends” who abandoned me during the time when I needed them most, leaving me to fend for myself and start all over again on my own. I will never understand or forgive your decisions to turn on the person who did NOT go out and spread rumors and lies about their partner but instead stayed in, alone and confused and scared. I will never understand or forgive you for condemning me for finding friendship and eventually, love in a time when I had nothing and no one to turn to.

I’m fine now, thank you. More than fine. And Dane and I are fine. Yes, DANE. Dane, who you all underestimated, who you dismissed as “not good enough for me” or “too soon” or “not cool enough” or “not good looking enough” by whatever shallow standards you had cooked up in your mean little minds.

I realize this post is not funny and it sounds bitter and god yes, it is bitter, but I’ve been holding onto this wound for nearly three years and I can’t pretend anymore like this never happened. I can’t run into any of you and pretend like everything is fine and water off a duck’s back and roll with the punches or whatever because fuck you, you all punched me when I was down. YOU PUNCHED ME.

So go ahead. Be angry. Get angry. Get together and talk and drink and say to each other over and over again, “Is she crazy? What did we ever do to her? Why is she saying this now?” I’m not crazy. I wasn’t strong enough to say it before. You never apologized. Your actions were selfish and you all took the easy way out. You were never my friends.

I went to Portland and my wallet was stolen by evil strippers!

It’s true. It may not have been a stripper, but I was in the bathroom at Sassy’s Strip Club and a girl complimented my hair and suddenly my wallet was gone. She was obviously a criminal mastermind or a first generation grifter. There is no other explanation for the skill with which she separated me from my worldly goods. *throws wallet out the window and continues to brush hair in the mirror*

Other than the wallet stealing, followed by the booze induced, pms infused weeping, my Portland adventure was so much fun. I did not get to see Ferik Penriksen, however, which I don’t want to say contributed to my sobbing breakdown but it TOTALLY CONTRIBUTED TO MY SOBBING BREAKDOWN.

My friends were amazing and started shoving money at my face and making soothing noises and Melissa Lion took me into the bathroom and dried my tears while a stripper inspected her own asshole while simultaneously admonishing us for looking at said asshole. It was weird.

The Nines Hotel was amazing as usual and I wish I hadn’t been so drunk both nights that I slept on top of the covers with the lights still on and one arm draped across my laptop.

Dane had my passport fed ex-ed and I had a funny phone conversation with a nice police officer about my wallet and how sad I was that my MST3K laminated member id was gone forever. I made him put it in the police report. I think he understood.

The bank gave me a temporary debit card and I bought a new 3 dollar wallet at Forever 21. I can only assume it was made by crippled African children to be so inexpensive. At least, I hope it was. I don’t what I mean.

I ate breakfast room service and sang lots of karaoke I don’t remember and hugged Alison Hallett about 500 thousand times and cemented many of my internet friendships (Plumpy and Rob and Graham and Will and ROM and oh EVERYBODY) and then on Thursday we went to Club 21 for Blogtown Trivia and Steve Humphreys and I had a really, really good talk about tv and comics and stuff and I got into a fight with a guy named Abe who hates Twitter but still uses it to send out info about his “art” because “it would be stupid not to”. I had to walk away from him.

And poor Rob was standing there uncomfortably, alternately laughing and visibly wishing he was standing somewhere, ANYWHERE else but with these two people who had decided to fight about a SOCIAL NETWORKING PLATFORM. Bleh bleh bleh.

And for some reason the trivia host hated everything and I don’t know why. I have my theories and they mostly involve the words, “hip” and “ster”.

I know this will get me into trouble but I mean, what’s with the attitude? I know being a trivia host is trying. I’m not kidding. It is. Besides coming up with the questions and categories and bonus questions, the crowd can be total dicks to you about the answers. I know this. But he still hated fun and I can’t support that.

Still, I really enjoyed it and I hope Trivia guy and Abe and myself can all mend our broken friendships and do it again when Dane and I move back to Portland. I have a quick temper because I’m Irish but I let things go fairly easily. I’m also incredibly sensitive, like a unicorn’s belly, and while this is what makes me creative it also makes me a little, uh, easily hurt.

So much more happened but I can’t blog anymore because my fingers are strained from all this unaccustomed typing but I’d like to say that I love Melissa Lion and I hope she had the best birthday ever. Even though I managed to make it all about me. Again.

I’m here. I’m up. I’m typing.

I’ve been busy getting ready for my trip to Portland to see Melissa Lion (BIRTHDAY!) and the Interns™ and the PBT and play Trivia with my Mercury friends and my Fatboy Roberts friends and my Graham “Blogtown’s Best Commenter” friends and Will “I’m now an intern at the Merc because we all come from the Merc and to the Merc we will go to die” Radik friends…etc.

I’ve been busy with some career stuff (kind of) and some Felicia Day stuff (just a little) and oh, I don’t know, THINGS. But I’m back and I don’t want to give up blogging. I just needed a little me time. I’ve still been reading Chris’ blog and Crissy’s blog every day and of course, tweeting the shit out of everything but not writing. Not right now.

Matt Davis told me the anti-depressants might curb my interest in blogging and he was right. They’ve also dulled my pleasure in shopping which is just SO WRONG in so many ways. I still like to shop but its not that same high I used to get every time I’d go into Anthropology and come out with nothing because I’m not a wealthy drug czar but the IDEA of buying 200 dollar sailor pants was enough to make my head tingle and my little toes to go numb with excitement.

Oh well. On the flip side, I don’t worry about going to jail anymore and can once again watch Law and Order without spiraling into a panic attack. Baby steps.

This is a placeholder until I can make my mind move towards words that mean something.

I made a smoothie today.

With spinach. I feel pretty powerful about it.

I’m also working on a little art project involving the Highlander and Pixels. Until then, behold the stupid fan art I made yesterday because I am a ridiculous person. A ridiculous GENIUS person.

I did not get the internship at io9 I applied for. Probably because I write sentences which end in prepositions. And sentence fragments. I do that too. Usually.

I’m a little wounded about this and spent yesterday afternoon licking my pen wielders (hands, for you mortals) and staring into my soul. It was pretty dusty. Note to self: use Pledge on soul.

I know only losers quit when the chips are down so I will not give up, but GOD I WANT TO GIVE UP SO BADLY. <—–loser.

I’m not sure what to do with myself now. The journalism community is a, er, strange one: withholding, jealous, and incapable of returning emails to anyone in a timely manner. Jobs are scarce and the competition is overwhelming and peopled by Harvard degree shaped young persons with perfect comma placement and diamond encrusted resumes. All I have is an over active imagination and a jar of pennies. It’s a really big jar of pennies, though so that’s…something. Right?

It was 100 degrees in San Francisco yesterday but we DID NOT PANIC. Instead, we bought about thirty fans and placed them strategically about the hot, hot apartment. Then we left.

In other news, Patrick Coleman (food editor-in-charge-or-something-super-important from the Mercury) was here this weekend and asked me out (not in that way internet) for burritos and I was forced to decline. This made me so sad because although I give him shit on Blogtown ALL THE TIME he still wants to be my friend for some unknown reason and now I want to hug him. Right now. Patrick, get ready to be hugged.

And when Rob Simonsen (music writer for the Mercury) was in town last week-ish we had a dog emergency and I was forced to decline there, too. AAAAND his friend and my Twitter friend Michael “Plumpy” Plump keeps asking me to get ice cream and I keep saying no because I am an asshole. Who says no to ice cream with Plumpy? Communists, that’s who.

All this declining of thoughtful invitations has been circumstantial, yes, but I have to admit I’m feeling less than social again. I don’t know why. I haven’t felt like blogging either, obviously. Usually, this would be because I felt anxious or fat or whatever, but that’s not it. I don’t know. Maybe it’s the Effexor. Maybe it’s San Francisco. Getting out helps, I know.

We went to a Giant’s game on Saturday and I had chosen the option to send the tickets to my cell phone because yay technology! Before we left I plugged my phone in to charge it and well, you can see where I’m going with this….I thought Dane was going to strangle me with the dirty limbs of a poor person when we got to the park and I realized I’d forgotten my phone but then suddenly an angel appeared before us in the guise of a middle aged ex ballplayer sports fan guy and gave us two tickets on the lower deck. For reals. FOR REALS.

Thank you, Giant’s jersey wearing Oakley sunglasses sporting middle aged hair parted down the middle guy. You saved our marriage.