sarahanneborrello

[sarahanneborrello]

STOP BLAMING IT ON MERCURY BEING SAD IS JUST EASIER

Sometimes I wake up at three in the morning and feel an unshakeable sadness that I am alone in a room that feels far away and floating. Like I’m on an island, just me and some sleeping scavengers, the quite and unforgiving ocean padding on the sand, nobody else is here. Just me. And it’s hard to wake up at witching hour feeling overwhelming existential dread- if I just shifted my perception- the feeling could easily be thwarted. A lot of creatives I know suffer the feeling of almost need the sad. Needing it to create, or needing pain in general. I love being mad. It feels sexy to me. But then it’s also the most useless of all emotions. Nobody really accomplishes much when they’re mad. Mostly it’s just letting that hot devil in and fucking shit up. Which, honestly is where I personally thrive. Sad makes me lazy and simple. I hate being sad. Lately I can’t even get to my mad place because the sad is just all encompassing. Wallowing, a common problem amongst most of the scenes I’ve been apart of, is a tired habit that will ruin your chances at anything beautiful or great. 

I want to be great. BAD. 

Sometimes I feel like I can’t discern which events in my life were real or not, or which ones I have since romanticized, or suppressed to the point of changing them. Our pasts shape us, but if we can’t even trust our own memories what does that mean? Am I shaped by my own fantasies? Maybe so. Wallowing, a new found hobby of mine, has actually never been something I’ve been that into. I’ve always just numbed myself and moved forward. Trudging, and feeling virtually nothing while I destroy tiny little ecosystems all over. I love consequences until I’m not sitting at my piano. I love them until I have to look in the mirror drunk and alone, and I love them when I’m telling my friend the story at a diner drinking some weak coffee. But man, those moments when all of my consequences come without being summoned. An uninvited guest. 3AM! Don’t you know I wake up early for work? Thoughtless assholes! 

They’ve been coming and hanging around. My fantasies and my consequences. Maybe I fucked up my entire life. Maybe I’ll be alone forever. Maybe I HAVE to be to make great work and that is more important? 

Still. I have not been sleeping well. Exceptionally bad rest. I feel tired all of the time. I feel sad, undesirable, and filthy. BUT! There is hope for me. Because I do know, that I have so much love in my heart to give. No matter where that gets put, wherever I choose, it will be great. I will be great. And some day I will wake up at 3AM because my husband is sleep walking, or because my manager called to tell me my song went platinum, or because my daughter had a nightmare, or because a friend is drunk calling with a crazy story. 

No wallowing can stop me for long. No dread can derail the plans I’ve had since I was 13. I will be great, in my way. 

[sarahanneborrello]

girlwind

lately has been quite the time. been doing more and more changing. running a lot. getting sunburns a lot. waking up at 5am like today and feeling completely okay with it. bought a nonrefundable flight on a whim without asking my boss as if I could manifest some time off to go see my family but it was bad timing and now I’ve just wasted a bunch of money that I really needed to spend on my health and my car. 

I was on tv on this show called Songland. It was pretty weird and cool. I don’t really know what else to say about it. The most exciting part of it was how supportive my friends were. They threw a party for me and it was one of the best nights of my life. Just having the family I do out here has kept my spirits way up. I’ve noticed who fell to the wayside too, and who showed up, and who never left. It’s been so fucking weird. Just recently been really seeing what I have here. Really taking the time to be on my own and focused on my mental and my art. I’m trying to get in the best shape of my life too which has been interesting. Feeling more “womanly” or something. I like the way I’m throwing my weight around these days. I don’t even really wear shirts anymore. just these trash cotton bra’s I got at walmart.

I like the early mornings. It’s dark in my room. everything is blue but it still looks warm. I haven’t moved into my room yet. It’s been since July 1st. Just afraid that the second I buy a cool little shelving unit or hang the paintings on the wall that I’ll be forced to leave again for some god awful reason. But at least this time I know where all of the public restrooms are without codes and all of the wifi passwords to all of the cafes. I could probably even get back into a hotel and use their spa and shit. Honestly it would blow my heart to pieces to have to uproot again any time soon but I’d totally be able to handle it. Not being cocky, just being sure.

It’s weird how fast my coffee gets cold and how specifically hot I need it to be to enjoy it. I must reheat my coffee 4 times before I drink even half of it. What the fuck is that? 

I’ve been working with a producer the past two months who is fucking nuts and also very awesome. At first we went into working together with this plan to like make what I was doing something less what it is, and now we are diving in, starting over, and making it into what it already is just better louder faster stronger power power beebooboobeep. I think a big source of self-worth for me is if I’m working in the studio, and if I’m writing, and right now i’m doing both! I still feel pretty worthless but I woke up this morning feeling lighter. I’ve been getting a balinese healing treatment every few weeks from my friend who is a healer and it has significantly changed my life. I live in the past and the future and it has been a source of so much pain. Reliving things I don’t want to, or missing things, or imagining the worst and living in that. It’s all just not conducive to creativity or strength. But I had a healing last night and this morning I felt awake at 5am, my neck didn’t hurt for the first time in like a month, and I’m ready for the day. Not sure what this post is for.. just wanted to say hi.

hi.

[sarahanneborrello]

JULY 2019

This month was yet another extremely transitional one for me. I haven’t written in a while.. songs, these thingies, poetry, drawings, or really much of anything. I’ve been torturing myself about it, but it’s fair that I haven’t. Sometimes life actually happening takes precedence over trying to analyze it and make art with it. In June I was given the opportunity to move into a room at a lovely little house in a quaint neighborhood in Burbank with a few other people. Anything at this point seemed like a good option from my current. I was living on Western and 5th in Koreatown for the last year, by myself in a very unsafe closet basically. The last time I went home in May, my mom told me I needed to move, and the look in her eyes was enough. I can’t really imagine having to be my parent. Not only am I all over the place physically trying to chase music around, but I actually need the suffering and lack of comfort to an unhealthy degree. My parents are saints - I digress- Any wayyys

It was time to leave my little tiny hiding place. I used to read this book when I was little called “Sarah Raccoon and the Secret Place“ (my birth name is Sarah) and that was me for the past year. Everyone I know, knows a specific version of what I’ve been going through, but the only one who can see the entire hand is me, in a naturally lit little room with candles and the smell of coffee. This was my secret place. This room held a lot of weight. A lot of unhealthy behavior. A lot of solitude. And most of all, Miss Congeniality playing on a twelve inch screen almost constantly. This was my safe space for me to be me. In a lot of ways I flourished there, but at the same time a piece of my heart was pretty much battered for a year. I think this space was actually responsible for me becoming an introvert. Solitude is easier when you can talk yourself out of absolutely anything that might make you happy.

I can’t really go into too many details, as secrets are my number one fuel for writing songs plus it’s none of anyone’s damn business. I have a lot of juicy ones in my arsenal that I can squeeze still, but when I’m coming out of a serious hole, trying to situate myself so that I can get some damn health insurance and pay my bills, the last thing on my mind is writing a good pre-chorus. At the end of June I got approached to audition for this role for a TV show that would have been really incredible. The character was a struggling artist in NYC, trying to make it in the music industry while working a bunch of jobs and having survivor humor. Eye roll. Would have been f*cking perfect for me. I for some reason got in my head that I would get the roll, like absolutely. I thought I was going to be moving back east, and escaping the clutches of LA without my tail between my legs. All month since moving into my new apartment I haven’t unpacked. I have my bed and my records and my piano, but most of my shit is in boxes. I only hung one thing on the wall. I thought, I’ll be putting this all back into my car anyway. 

No surprises here, but baby girl got her hopes all the way up because she is an escapist and a dangerous dreamer. Hopes were dashed yesterday to find they’re shooting and I’m definitely not in NYC living in a hotel, working on a set. So I didn’t get it. Whatever. 

So all of July, I thought this was my last month here. I thought I was done. I moved out of my precious/evil secret place, I got a new day job, moved into a space with other people, in a completely different landscape, and other things. July is over. I’m still here. Still struggling. Still uncomfortable and still itching to be invisible but also known. So I guess I just gotta keep goin’. Not really sure where I was going with this post but I woke up at 6 this morning and was like OMG YEH NEED TO TELL EVERYONE THAT JULY WAS CRAZY, MAN CUZ WUT. Hi August. 

[sarahanneborrello]

we’re all dying anyway right?

Throughout my life I’ve witnessed, been betrayed by, stolen from, felt the evil, and fought the insidious monster that is addiction. I think obviously now that it’s 2019 people are more open in talking about it, though sometimes I feel like sometimes people sound more exploitive than anything else. Counter productive. I have lost two friends to alcohol and drugs. I watch people I am close to in this moment, both in LA and MA, struggling with it as we speak. I have been extremely close to it for many many years. Relationships, friendships, roommates. I am no angel. I’ve got my vices and my ways of barely dealing with them too. And for some reason I feel that people who have these relentless demons always feel that they can open their hearts to me. All the way open. Blood gushing and ventricles pumping. Bursting. Sometimes it feels like I’m addicted to addiction. So much surrounding me. So many good people that I love deeply. 

I think one of the very important misunderstandings about addictions, in general, is that their battle somehow correlates to them being a  “bad” person, or that they’re unintelligent, weak or lazy. This is a fact. The most intelligent, accepting, real, and strong person I have ever met in this life, is an alcoholic. FACT. It has no relation. Of course, the effects of drugs and alcohol over many years absolutely erode your brain, your moral compass breaks, you chemically change as a being. Your eyes change. 

I’m not saying anything here that you probably don’t already assume about this sh*t. I just feel like speaking on things I’ve seen and felt. I’ve seen my beautiful friend in a casket from drugs. I’ve been to a wake where there wasn’t even a body left to pray over due to alcohol. And I think everyone I know has similar stories. It’s horrific. And terrible. I’ve seen somebody choking on their own vomit after trying to end it. “Memories fade”-they say, but that feels like a fallacy. Memories get stronger every day. Every time I get a new laminated card with my friend’s name on it. Every time I get a late night call. They don’t fade. Ever. The homeless epidemic in Los Angeles is a shining beacon of misunderstood addicts. Not all of them. Obviously every situation is different. But more often than not these people needed treatment, burnt enough bridges with their family, and let themselves become the “monster” everyone who was supposed to love them convinced them they were. 

There are people that find themselves around toxicity often, and I, myself may have possibly become one of those people. I like to think I don’t have broken wing syndrome or something like that. It’s more that I just see a certain depth around people fighting something. I want to help this fight in some way. I want to be better. I want to UNDERSTAND. I have learned so much throughout my life from losing control. I’ve finally separated bodies from their souls. There is great strength in knowing we are fragile, but there’s also a resilience that we don’t even know we physically have. I just want to open up about how addiction has, and is currently permeating my thoughts. I have people I love suffering before my eyes, and some from far away. I love you. I GET YOU. You are beautiful, strong, worth while, human beings. I AM TOO. And if talking about any of it helps, I am lending my ear here. 

<3 

[sarahanneborrello]

Do you know how much you inspire those lucky enough to come into direct contact with you?

No, I’m not really sure. Sometimes people tell me I’ve inspired them. It always amazes me and makes me feel wonderful though.

[sarahanneborrello]

she’s different looking

For the entirety of my life, I can honestly say, (and this is going to be a trite blog post- you’ve been warned)- I’ve never felt like one of the pretty girls. 

This is a stale and extremely tired conversation. Well aware. And I’m only having it with myself because I’ve been really struggling with it lately. I’m only as narcissistic as the next artist. I’d say I’m on the moderate side with that. But lately, I have felt so hideous, that leaving my studio apartment (or cleaning it) has actually induced small anxiety attacks and real tears. I haven’t been going to shows, or making many plans, or buying groceries. Maybe this is all happening because I’ve been listening to too much f*cking Portishead. 

When I was young I always hated my face. I was happiest in costumes, or being silly and over the top characters. I knew I’d never be the beautiful princess in the play, so I made sure I was the funny, highly evolved sidekick, or the dark and brooding villain that had weird sex appeal. I could always identify with those characters. I thought them to have more depth. It’s stupid to assume that physically attractive people have less depth, I know. But that’s how I’ve survived the past 28 years. I know I post pictures of myself on my Instagram like every other insecure ham on there, and I know I wait with baited breath to see if anyone says anything really sweet to me. 

The feelings I have lately that have turned me into a recluse, are that my looks are actually going to be the key factor that keeps me from having a big career. It’s always been a worry. I’ve gone through more hair colors, clothing choices, and bullshit trends than I can even recall. I’ve been addicted to diet pills, tried every fad diet, stints with an eating disorder, I know I’m not alone in all of this. It’s just something I’m fixating on. I’m gunna crack it. And being completely unabashedly transparent with a bunch of strangers/acquaintances seems to be the way I deal with all of my problems so here we are. I will never forget the time a producer told me, “You don’t look like a star.” ( total douche hammer anyway )

Now, I have in fact felt beautiful and sexy before MANY TIMES. MANY MANY TIMES. That’s entirely different. But this whole pretty thing. bleh. I remember always feeling like I was basically a massive nose with a neck for most of elementary school. And then when puberty hit I always thought I looked more like a creature of some sort. An ogre or gremlin or something. Dull hair, bad skin, uneven lips, weird shaped teeth, a crooked jaw, pale with freckles everywhere, thick body hair, and big legs. I just always wanted to switch with somebody. And what A DUMB THING TO WANT. Because my lineage is amazing. I’m Italian, Portuguese, French, French Canadian, Norwegien, and Irish. My mother is beautiful. My father is handsome. I look like them. A weird mix of the two with some other things. But I’m so lucky to look like them. Yeh, I’d love to have a tiny little button nose and a big pouty top lip. I’d love to have perfect olive skin and long natural, healthy hair that doesn’t fall out in clumps. BUT GUESS WHAT. I’m not that. And I have developed a pretty great personality being whatever it is that I am. I think!? And I’ve built an entire brand around sticking out my tongue, being sweaty, loud, audacious, and flipping off the camera- because if I sat and tried to be the model kind of sexy, or left humor or anger out of images of myself, it would never work. It just would not. I’ve tried and it’s a lost cause. 

Despite feeling homely and disgusting, I’ve always scored quite attractive dudes, which I totally owe, I think, to my winning personality, not to mention a fat ass that won’t quit- but that’s besides the point. I digress- Today, I wish I was cast as the princess in the damn play. And I’ll probably cry about it. I am aware of this all being wayyyy surface level. I just wish I was pretty haha. But f*ck being pretty. I get to be the VILLAIN WITH A SICK STORY LINE AND A WAY COOLER ARCH WHO IS ACTUALLY BEAUTIFUL AND MOSTLY MISUNDERSTOOD AND BECAME A VILLAIN OUT OF THE WORLD BEING CRUEL AND SHALLOW ANYWAY! - phew.

PS: I went on birth control 3 weeks ago after being off of it for 2 years and this is all coming out because my hormones are literally the friggin KRAKEN rn. Okay. Thanks guys. Going back into my cave now. 

[sarahanneborrello]

Things are just things.

I’d like to think that I’m not a materialistic person. Things that I own don’t really weigh too heavily on me, though I must have a few very special objects. Sentimental value is real to me. Maybe it was my Catholic upbringing with all of the idolatry sewn in.. or the amount of people I’ve lost in my life that gave me such meaningful objects. It’s hard to tell where I get it from. I have this really beautiful handmade piano bench that belonged to my great grandmother who had a large hand in raising me. It’s honestly the most important thing I have. It means so much to me. And it’s just a bench. Dark, hand carved wood, some really dainty upholstery, it’s just beautiful. They just don’t make sh*t like they used to. 

If I were to lose it at some juncture, I’m really not sure how I’d feel. 

A week ago yesterday, my car windows were smashed, and somebody robbed me of all of my musical equipment, save my acoustic guitar- which I had in my apartment. Now leaving anything in your car in LA is asking for it, but I live in a terribly small space, and physically couldn’t have had my keyboard anywhere else. My electric guitar that they took, my brother built for me by hand- now that was definitely my fault. They stole all of my merch that I made, and all of my cables. 

The feeling of being violated and stolen from, is the oddest feeling. It’s just strange. I’ve never had it before. And to take the things that I’ve put great sentimental weight on, and things that help me stay alive.. it’s just weird. My keyboard has been all over the country, played the best and worst shows of my life. It’s seen tours and nights in the middle of nowhere. It’s seen me cry and scream in my car a million times. It’s allowed me to share myself with so many music lovers. My immediate response to losing it was a blood curdling scream. It almost felt involuntary and didn’t really sound like my voice. 

In truth, it’s just some plastic. It’s got no soul. No memories of me. It’s just a thing. The guitar took me a bit to realize it was gone. I shot up in my bed at 4am and realized it wasn’t in my room two days after I was robbed. I lost it. That one hit me harder because I miss my brother so much, and it’s just cool that he made it for me. He of course said he’d just build me a new one, no fuss. 

Now it’s been slightly over a week since the ordeal, and my friends, strangers, fans of my music, and just random generous humans, have raised almost $2,800 for me to replace it all. My best friend Ashley made a Gofundme for me shortly after it happened, and I can’t f*cking believe the love. It’s just bewildering to me that people care at all. I am so overwhelmed. And life is SO WEIRD lately. God. Not sure what’s up or down. I’m flying and I’m drowning. But it’s been a lot of lessons. Strange times. I guess Mercury was doing some bullsh*t or something. 

Just have to remind myself that I’m alive and I have so many people that want me to make music. And that objects, though sometimes feel Godly to me, are just objects. Things are just things. I have my health and an incredible network of humans around me. This post is for me to read. A reminder.

xxx- stay sweet

[sarahanneborrello]

PREFACE:

 (I started a guitar club in 8th grade- I’m the one with the ACDC shirt)

Being a very hot blooded woman, I’d like to think that I’ve got a fair amount to offer this cruel world. The basic intrinsic women stuff, yeh sure. I love taking care of people, especially men. I love protecting people, especially my own. I love cooking and providing warmth to other humans. I love the shape and functions of my body on certain days. It’s hard to complain seeing as I have my health, (most of it) and I am strong and safe (mostly). I find that the thing about me that has really made me the most self assured, but also the most supremely insecure, is being an artist.

From when I hit puberty around twelve years old, to when I settled into my hips- (now), I’ve struggled with my beauty and the way that I am. The insidious little patriarchy, man. For years I was conditioned to scorn other females around me for being smarter, having thinner legs, clearer skin, healthier hair, smaller noses (this is personal), bigger boobs, for being more athletic and all the other trivial things that we believe matter for some reason. I always got along with everyone for the most part. I was bullied pretty relentlessly in middle school by a group of girls. I was a very easy target. I still have all of my journals from when I was young, they are hilarious and devastating. I think I may have been more bitter then than I am now- if you can believe that.

When I turned thirteen I fell in loooooove for the first time. The hammer HIT me. So hard. My lord. His name was Jerry. He was an Elvis impersonator. If you know me well you know my affinity for Elvis. Just to clarify- he was only a year or so older than me, not some sweaty old dude. But anyways, before Jerry broke my heart I had never sang before. I had never really written a song. I mostly just stuck to my classical music, theatre, and my poetry. I listened to tons of great music, but was still not completely immersed yet. I loved music and always wanted to be on stage in front of people, (totally a ham since birth)- but never had the stones to actually sing. THANK GOD FOR HIM. Thank you, Jerry. If you didn’t break my little pubescent heart, I would never been sad enough to have sing in public!

Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door by Bob Dylan. (definitely sang it more like Axel Rose tho- not proud)

Anyways, circling back to the point of all of this. After singing and feeling so passionately in that moment, and feeling the love radiating from the crowd, I felt useful for the first time in my life. I felt powerful. I felt like I was no longer able to compare myself to others, because I found MY thing, and it was MINE! HALLELUUUUU. Phenomenal right?! I was the music girl! I was the artsy, weird, music girl in school, who was not cool but still hung with the cool musician dudes and blah blah blah. I found my spot where I felt beautiful in my way.

Okay yeh, well when you’re a big fish in a very small pond, that’s all well and good. But fast forward to 26 years old. I’m in the belly of the mother f*cking beast. Los Angeles. With every artsy, weird, super cool, attractively unattractive woman you could imagine. THEY’RE ALL HERE.

Aside: I am a bra burning feminist, and I LOVE WOMEN. I’m writing this because I love them so much. I’m getting to that I promise.

Anywho- when I first moved to LA, all I could do was look around like I was twelve again. I couldn’t stop comparing myself to every single performer. The second month I was here it was nearly debilitating. I would have panic attacks and be stuck in bed all day. Just pinching my fat, or picking my face, or box dying my hair (YOU KNOW ITS BAD)-

It was painful. I wasn’t the cool music girl anymore. I was one of 29374983798457398457893 cool music girls. How would I have a purpose? I’m just me. SO INSECURE. The pain of realizing that I had to zoom in on myself again, and find something else, like, how will people define me? How will I rise above the static of beautiful, talented, rock n roll women ALL OVER THE DAMN PLACE, and how will I be remembered?

2 years later. It’s been a ride. I’m writing this post today because I felt hideous this morning. I started scrolling on Instagram (the bane of our existence)(but our narcissistic lifeblood) and looking at my pretty friends. Instead of getting upset like I would have two years ago, and pinning myself against them, I felt so different. You’re all so beautiful, and talented, and I am so inspired by you. Sometimes I’m jealous of you, but that’s only because I am passionate and want everything so badly. You are STARS. You are real stars. I am only humbled by it. And yeh that sounds silly probably. But guess what, even though I feel gross right now and I wish I could slice my face off with a meat cleaver, I’m beautiful and talented too. So we’re all in this thing. And through my deep seated insecurities, and preconditioned anti-feministic self loathing, I’d just like to say that I LOVE YOU, and I LOVE ME, and we’re killllllinggggg ittttt. SMASH THE PATRIARCHY. Go UP. All OUR way. <3

Okay girls. Have a good day. <3

[sarahanneborrello]

“We didn’t train to maim, we trained to kill”

I’m both a night owl, and an extreme morning person. Yes, I’m the asshole who puts hot water on the stove almost immediately after rising around 7:30am, puts on the talk radio and lights the candles. The talk radio thing is kind of new though. I had never lived completely alone before 8 months ago, and one of the things that would make me feel incredibly dark was just how quiet it is without the scuttlebutt of another human in the background. If there are a couple of voices going back and forth while I’m making my coffee it feels far less heavy to be making it for one.

When I first moved into this tiny apartment, it was after some weirdly traumatic experiences. There was the breakup, which I won’t dive into, because it’s nobody’s damn business... -Then I was living couch to couch, bed to bed, then at an artist commune/ hostel type deal with 33 other people, (6 per room), then with a couple with a highly dysfunctional/toxic situation going on, and then here. The landlord of this charming (sarcastic) little building is an 82 year old veteran of the Israeli army named Avi. He was an assassin trainer? which is a thing? I guess somebody’s gotta train them… ��“We didn’t train to maim, we trained to kill. “ he said to me and my friend Greg while showing us the building. He even grabbed Greg’s wrist and almost broke it to prove to us that he hadn’t lost his touch. Hilarious. The room is tiny. A bachelor, I guess. But I envisioned it as better than being a burden on my friends- So it became an option.

Fast forward two weeks later, and it was the only option. This place was the cheapest place I could find and I still couldn’t afford it at the time. I showed up here in a fit of desperation. I was sweaty, in need of a bath, and at my wits end. I smelt like a merlot soaked ash tray, and felt heartbroken. Embarrassing. I was back living in my car for what felt like the millionth time, with all of my possessions in hefty bags in the back seat. I sat in in Avi’s office for about 20 minutes and was fighting back an ugly cry. I told him the long and short version of why I had to live here. I had nowhere else to go, and Oh yeh the old ,' I can’t afford it,  but you HAVE to let me stay.’

He said, “You look sincere. I believe you. You will stay here a week rent free. Then next week we make a lease and you give me what you can.”

HE WAS MY F*cKING ANGEL. I left and ran errands all day and wasn’t able to move into my room until 11pm that night. The maintenance man let me into the empty room. A two burner stove, mini fridge, 2 large windows, lots of roaches- all different sizes. I had a backpack, a bottle of chardonnay, and a massive air mattress that a friend let me borrow. Thank god for my fire escape. It was the only thing about the place that felt romantic.

This was my new home.

Before I set up my air mattress I got fast food from Carl’s Jr. and ate it on my floor, which was stupid because roaches were ALL over that- I think I even went live on Instagram while I ate it because I had this eerie sense of pride that I had not completely thrown in the towel that day. I blew up my mattress and drank all of the wine. Cried until the wee hours of the morning. It was the beginning of my true independence. What a terrifying thing, to be alone with me. To face her. My God, the unprecedented horror.

Eight months later, I’m finding it to be a lot more peaceful. Mornings are warm with the radio and the coffee. There are colorful gifts and the smell of tobacco leaf candles burning. Sometimes there’s an angry homeless man who yells repetitively “ NOBODY GIVES A F*CK, I SAID, NOBODY!”- and even he feels like home to me. So this morning I reflect on how I got to be sitting in this room. And how this room became MY room. So important. I’ll never forget this place. Even if I wanted to I couldn’t. A space that is truly yours is SO IMPORTANT. Grateful for my artist’s sake that I’m here. Maybe someday I’ll have a kitchen, and a closet. But until then, this is it. Today I don’t hate it. 

#struggle #musician #artist #indepence

[sarahanneborrello]

are you still doing that music thing?

Isn’t it all just so weird and grand? A lot of us get to meander through life for the first eighteen or twenty years with the preconceived notion that eventually, we will also know what’s actually going on. Eventually, we too will hold ourselves in high regard- and be the point person with all of the golden answers. We will be the ones who know how to run the perfect household, raise the angelic child, treat our bodies as temples and our minds will be undimmed and polished. We’ll do our taxes, and take a liking to gardening, and in our spare time on Sunday afternoons we will brush up on our second language.

Yehhhhhh about all of that. None of it happens- As far as I can see, at the ripe old age of twenty eight, nobody I have met through my many travels as an artist/gregarious rocknroller/professional wanderer, knows anything. Everybody is still waiting to find out what the actual f*ck is going on. This sentiment comforts me a lot. Sometimes I feel low, or I feel like a ten year old boy who would just rather go outside alone with my toy and play on the warm concrete until Mom calls for me because dinner’s ready. I haven’t quite figured out how to adult, or how to be, for lack of a better term, “civilized”. In the past two years, I have uprooted my entire life by moving across the country from Boston to Los Angeles, changed my name (not legally- but whatever it’s all made up anyway) recorded an album, ended an eight year relationship, lived in my car, moved 5 times, let go of my health, hit rock bottom, moved into a shoebox studio apartment by myself in Koreatown, LA. Oh yeh and I fell in love with myself. Because this bitch is soooo bad. I hate her sometimes because she’s really full of shit, but honestly I can’t get over her. (me- I can’t get over me). 

It’s all strange. I still wake up some mornings crying because I feel like my life isn’t even mine. Some Truman show shit. Like god I really hope somebody just saw that. I hope they saw me hit the middle of my shin on the plywood that is sitting under my shitty twin matress and fall to the ground onto the pile of laundry I STILL HAVEN’T DONE. I hope somebody saw the way that the light came in my window and the smoke from the candle I forgot to blow out last night are dancing together. Sometimes I wake up and want it to be over. Sometimes I wake up ready to go for a run and drink hot lemon water. She’s cool too, I like her spirit. That stupid one hit wonder song- “Bittersweet Symphony” from the end of Cruel Intentions.. that song. man. For some reason, it makes my heart HURT. That one line- 

“I’m a million different people from one day to the next I can’t change” 

LIKE STOP READING MY DIARY VERVE. ugh. Anyways.

This is just the intro. My full name is Sarah Anne Beatrice Borrello. (yeh I was raised catholic so I have 4. ) You can call me Annabel though. My parents call me Tooty. I’m from Dighton, MA. A town where there is a cow shit festival and a lot of Tru*p signs in front yards. I’m still trying to figure all of this out. I, like the rest of LA, am a struggling nobody musician, with big giant dreams to be a somebody musician, starry eyes, an unhealthy ego, and loads of sexy mania. I need a space to put my head that other people can see because that’s the only thing that makes me feel useful. It’s that egoooo man. She’s HUNGRY. 

okay. Nice to meet you. <3