Dear America,

Let's face it. Our TV sucks. The only really good thing is PBS. Why can't we have game shows like this:



I mean, I know that there will always be fucked up television, but the Japanese seem to do so well at it.



Sincerely,
Me

Dear Universe,

That was hilarious. Really, I mean it. I was sitting around, thinking about B, about how I couldn't find his number, about that dream, about those stupid text messages that I had, and how I didn't send them...and then he called.

You have a perverse sense of humor.

But now I'm here, hungover, and least I have his number.

Don't be a dick again.

Love,

Me

I still don't believe that they let me have my profile up at the dating website. It is silly, but I guess if I'm not breaking any major rules, then why not?

I'm quite amused at their question generator...well, amused and occasionally horrified. A lot of it is crap that I consider just silly questions to start conversations. There was one question about looking up someone's information on the internet, when you had enough information on them.

The truth is, you could look them up, but if they really are a stranger killer, they may not have any records to go by. A lot of serial killers didn't have regular run-ins with the law. Heck, there was a child-eating guy in Oklahoma (I think it was) who had a blog. Nothing on his blog indicated that he would veer into child eating. There was one cryptic post he had, about thinking about doing bad things, but anyone reading it would probably have not guessed that he wanted to kill and eat a 3 year old girl.

A lot of people freaked out at my answer, but mostly because I think that people want to believe that there's an extra layer of security by using the internet. There isn't. I have four different user names on the internet, two related, and two not related to any other names. My real name doesn't bring up anything except some genealogical records. I have no police record. I could be someone who goes out and kills people, and you wouldn't know it, because my record is clean. Every day, people get away with murder.

But let's look at those chances, because if we talk about rape and murder, it's a far different story that what people think. Most rapes go unreported. If you're trying to find out if that guy is rapist, good luck, because chances are his victims didn't report it, and even less likely that they prosecute. Also, most rapes occur with someone the victim knows and trusts. As for domestic violence, you may or may not see anything to indicate that, precisely because a victim may or may not take any action, may drop charges, or for any reason that people don't report these things. For murder, well, people get away with murder all the time. People disappear. It's much more likely that person you know will kill you (see: domestic violence) than a random stranger. It's also possible that someone could be lying completely about their identity.

I'm not saying that there aren't crazies out there. There are. But the chances of random violence at the hands of a stranger are far rarer than the plain old garden variety violence by people you know. And looking up someone's record or searching their name on the internet doesn't guarantee that you will ever find these things out. If they haven't been caught yet, you're shit out of luck.

The real crazies aren't going to be wearing signs stating that they are crazy, just like there isn't a way to know if a guy will rape you or not. There's no magic word or ritual that will ward them away. But even if it's not about murder, and just about general sketchiness, if someone gives you those vibes, then maybe you should not consider them as a potential partner and just write them off. People like to justify it for their safety, but it's an invasion of privacy. You might learn something about someone that they didn't want you to know right then. I don't think people have to be 100% honest with each other. (For an example, I'd never tell a prospective partner about what ExFiancee or Asshat did. Maybe, given years and years and years, I might say something. I don't consider it important for the prospective partner to know. I can explain myself fine without bringing it up.) And if you keep having relationships with creeps and sketchy people, where you look up their records first before anything else, then you might want to re-evaluate the relationship thing. It might not be for you.

A long time ago, an IRC friend taught me the value of internet privacy, while scaring the complete shit out of me. He looked up all of my personal information, gleaned from an email that I had sent him, and then proceed to freak me the fuck out with telling me that information. A lesson learned indeed. (I hate my work email, which has my FULL name. Most people are professional and reasonable, but you never know when someone's going to lose the conductor on the Crazy Train, and I so hope that that doesn't happen.) It was a lesson I later relearned, as I hadn't thought to look up my email user name on Google, which led to here. (Note to Self: use tertiary email addy. It brings up cupcake recipes and art projects. Also, someone else's social networking sites.) It's why I'm glad that I have more than one user name, that people can't do that with my other emails or nom de internets. But I have an awesome one that I think I'm going to start using, and if anyone gets the reference, I'll congratulate them for being awesome.

Teh Interwebs: Fucking Over the Fucked Up, One Creep At A Time.

The internets, I've gotten swallowed.

You Suck at Cragslist is a very hilarious website, and this post is really awesome.

Also, I'm loving Fuck You, Penguin.

So I decided to make a few changes to the blog. Not that anyone but me really reads this anyway. I don't have a life, sold it to someone else, so I'll amuse myself with my wit and charm, if by "wit" you mean "stupidity" and "charm" you mean "creepy". I like to think of it as a surprise for when L checks up on me to see how I'm doing. Still awesome, if you'd like to know. Trying not to be a dork, which I totally fail at, but such is life. At least I think I'll get an "A" for effort.

That, and I really wanted to know how to do the fixed background/my own image thing. I thought about doing it for my website, but geocities is shutting down, and it will be no more. I'm not going to create another one or anything, because I really don't want to. No need for it when I have thishere blog. Well, that, and nothing starkly displays your borningness more than a boring website. I'm just that boring. I'm okay with boring though, because what the hell else am I going to do?

Although I have to admit, the Equation of Bitter Resentment was awesome. It still makes me laugh. I keep trying to come up with other equations but I can't. Nothing can top my brilliance when it comes to horrible emotional pain. Ah, anger and desperation, fueled by alcohol...delicious little morsels of despair for the poet.

Now back to StumbleUpon. It's like crack, but better. But not better than beer.

Ok, so maybe StumbleUpon isn't so bad.

Hehehe...Lion Toaster. And Bagger 288! Plus, this is so, so wrong.

I completely forgot about that site. After that last video, though, I'll think I'll continue forgetting.

Curse you, StumbleUpon. And that parody music website. (Full disclosure, I really hate this song. The only way it would ever be cool is if a guy was singing it - without gender reversal.)





But this comes close to awesome:

Holy cow, some of these are really funny.

I really like the "Let's have a him'ber party and watch Bromance on DVD." Or the "At some point, our bromance took a sharp left at Gayville."

Oh. My. God. "Darling I admire a fanciful whim in the bedroom now and again, but shitting on me was a bit extravagant."

I'm never drinking Gin again. That's a surefire one-way ticket to get on the Crazy Train.

I ponder these things though. If I drink beer, I'm hungover as hell, and feel awful but not exceptionally crazy. If I drink liquor, I don't wake up so hungover, but I certainly get crazy. As long as I don't go overboard on the cider, things can be okay.

The whole getting up at the buttcrack of dawn thing, though, I can do without. Beer, I can sleep in, liquor, I'm up at ungodly hours of the morning. It wasn't always like this...it used to be the other way around.

What hasn't changed has been the effect of hormones on my drinking. When you drink four pitchers of beer and are only marginally tipsy, that's pretty impressive (that's not counting the shots). I'm not so sure I want hormonal birth control because it might affect the amount I consume. Last thing I need is to be able to drink three-quarters of a bottle of Tequila and still be sober. ("Three! Three Tequila Sunrises in an hour! And I'm NOT DRUNK!" Two hours and a few beers later: "Alright, let's just leave, because there's no drunkenness to be had tonight.") Or one beer putting me under the table. I will, perhaps, need to drink at home until I figure it out, like I did when I lost weight, because those twenty pounds really does make a difference. There's no way that I could drink that much now, but it does make me smile when I think of it.

Four pitchers. And that's the "I think" estimate, because I lost track. It could have been three or five. And I didn't lose track because I was drunk, I lost track because I just kept getting up to get more beer. Even my friend was like, "Wow, you just got that pitcher!" when I slammed through it and got up to get another one. That one was the second one. Mr. Asshat did not fare so well and ended up puking in the bushes at her house (of course, it could have been the 10 or so shots that a guy was buying for him). That was the night that the one guy whose name I can't remember showed up at her house, and he was tanked too, so I drove him part of the way home. Epic Night was fun.

And I think of all the drunken nights that I've had that were fun like that. After bars, hanging out in the hoopdy, ping-ponging between B and Weightlifter Dude, sleeping at Brandr's house, the guy who had the very crazy chick ("She's really not my girlfriend, but she thinks she is"), Classic Country Monday, The Artist and the sofa ex-girlfriend, Bipolar Girl (I'll Do Anything For A Shot, But I Won't Do That: "C'mon, it'll be fun! I bet that they would let us dance on the bar!" I will never, ever let someone talk me into doing that again, as once was enough!), ninja falling, Audience of One, Irish Coffee, discount chemical beer...jesus, I look like a fucking lush.

And not all of the times have been good ones...kicked in the leg, for starters. But then all of the useless emo fights and angsty whining, mine or B's or Cat Eyes or Bipolar Girl or The Artist's, the nights where I was invisible and lonely. I want to have a drinking buddy again. The thing is, no one I know drinks like I do. I am a star champion at drinking, a Professional, and most people don't drink like that. Most people can't.

Except the Texan. He could. In fact, the bastard could be drunk for DAYS ("Oh, no, you're drinking with me on my birthday. We'll start out Friday night and keep drinking til Sunday." "Uh, I'm not drinking for three days straight! I'd need a week to recover!"). Short men are awesome. The two of us were like the Lollipop Guild on crack. I loved that boy. I hope he's okay now.

And that didn't take even an hour. *Sigh* I hate waiting for the bank to open.

I love the internets.

There is a website to aid in pronouncing names, cities, and other stuff in English. There's probably more than one.

And this is really funny.

As is this.

I still don't feel guilty. Sometimes I wonder why, because mostly people do feel that way. I suppose it's because for the longest time I felt guilty because I was incessantly teased, that I did something to make that happen. That my anger and my hate were unnecessary and uncalled for, and that I shouldn't feel like slitting people's throats open or wanting to know how to make a bomb so that I could blow something up. I had wanted to commit suicide, once, but then why? Why remove ME from it, when it's really other people who need to go?

The only thing I really feel guilty for right now is texting while drunk. I feel really sorry for doing that, almost to the point that I should apologize. I probably won't, and it probably went ignored as it should be. I'm smart but I do some really incredibly stupid things sometimes. I should not have done that, and plan to employ the "off" button in the future. I fuck things up all the time, so it's pretty much a standard with me, and I'm used to it, I guess. Next time, I won't let Fantastic Hair talk me into playing bar dice. Funny how I'm lucky at games when I have no fucking clue what I'm doing. I also have to find a drinking buddy, because sitting at the bar alone thinking is really bad. That's where the trouble comes in. Too much beer and Tequila can make a fun evening go downhill quickly.

Even then, I have here. You and me, Blog. You've been here for me when speech failed me. Where I can write my whiny anger-laden screeds and leave actual people out of it. I really do think no one wants to hear stuff, not even in the form of drunken texting. It's so ingrained in me, to not speak unless I know someone well, that's it's really hard to break out of it. No one, not my parents, not the teachers, not the school councilors, no one was interested enough in my welfare to stop what was going on. I never mattered. So mostly that's what I think. I just don't matter. I think, though, that not mattering makes me say and do stupid shit. If no one cares, then what does that matter? There's no reason for caring about anything then.

But then I do want someone to care. And I mean to really, really care and be able to take the time and attention to listen and hold me. I suppose that's why I constantly whine. I'm alone here, just talking to the night. But I will always be alone, and I know this. And it will always be like this. I say what I mean, because you can't read minds, except I can. But how are you to know what I'm thinking or feeling if I don't tell you? And why should I tell you when you can't be bothered to listen to me? It's an endless cycle, and I know that there's more men out there than Asshat and ExFiancee and B, but I don't think that I will find someone who wants to listen to me, even the bad stuff, so I'm really not going to bother to try. But this is also exceedingly common even among friends and family. Prop up the next the person because your feelings and emotions have long since been tossed aside, because people think that they know you and they have you figured out.

The other problem is what I'm thinking. I hate that question. If it's amusing enough, I'll tell someone, but most of the time I just make shit up. Because it's kind of disturbing to answer that question with "well, someone annoyed me so much today that I'm getting satisfaction in thinking of tearing a chunk of flesh out of their thigh and forcing it down their throat until they gag and choke on it". Who wants to hear that? Or "you're making me imagine that I'm driving nails into my eyeballs". Or "I feel so ashamed right now, I wish I could just rip off my skin". It was enough to say "I'm so fucking bored, I want to shoot myself." (At least The Artist appreciated that one. That led to one of the most hilarious conversations I've had that revolved around shooting things.) Would I ever do any of these things? No. But it's really fun and stress relieving to think of them. But I'm aware that these are things that you just don't share with other people, as for most of the time I think these things, it's the emotions behind them that I'm really evoking. I'm really not a violent person. I've never been in a fistfight or stabbed anyone. The worst I did to Asshat was when I pulled his hair in response to him kicking me, or when ExFinacee followed me to my room and I repeatedly shut the door on his hand and told him to leave me alone.

I think most people would be shocked at the shit I think. So quiet and disarming, cute and charming, pure evil with a little bow. And I'm sure people would think I need help or something. Violent imagery is just that - imagery. It's not reality. I mean, I really have thought about being an axe murderer, but honestly, I was just bored and wanted to occupy my mind. If you actually sit down and think about being an axe murderer, it would actually be kind of tough. For starters, you'd need to have enough upper body strength to hack at someone. And once you start hacking away, are we talking about fatal wounds, or taking off limbs? There's a lot of factors to consider, like how you clean up all of the blood or finding a place that's secluded enough.

I find this amusing. Between you and me, Blog, I don't know what's crazier - Occasionally thinking, "You're so stupid I want to stab you" and I'm not at all embarrassed by it, or drunkenly texting, "Will there be another time?" and being complete embarrassed that I drunk texted someone. But now that I think of it, it's not so crazy. One of those scenarios involves an actual person. The other, just my imagination.

Which brings me to Barfly. I don't think I'll be the Barfly again. When I thought about it, the one feature of the character that is depressing is that she has no opinion of her own and can listen intently and fawningly to people, mostly men. In its essence, it is an "innocent" character, as she never has life experience to contribute to a conversation. It is a vapid character, and what's even sadder than that, that's what gets me laid. No one cares about a sob story. No one cares about the person inside. If we lived in a world where a woman holding very strong opinions and fantastically murderous thoughts was gold, I'd fucking have a harem, and life would be fucking awesome, and I wouldn't have to worry where the next lay was going to come from, like I'm some crazed, desperate junkie. Oh, wait. When it comes to sex, I am. Fancy that.

I suppose the fact that I'm super creepy doesn't help. But that is truly me, something I can't help at times. Who else can post that she is looking for a mate who's okay with dating a benevolent dictator on a dating website? I must admit, I find it hilarious that OKCupid still keeps it up. I can't believe that they even approved it. One day I will have the best picture to put on there...and since I ordered the flame boots, I have an outfit or two in mind. Not sure how I'll do the makeup. Atrocious or dignified? I do not know.

The brain. It is complex. Humans are very interesting.

I'm sorry, why does "sexy" seem to mean "can see your ass"?

I have a large ass that I like to keep covered. When I go looking for skirts, it is important that there is enough fucking fabric so as not to show my ass. This is important to me. Why, then, are the two choices for pleather skirts super mini and long enough for me to trip over it?

I don't have a need to put the goods on display. We know what's under there. If I want someone to see, well, they're gonna have to ask.

"Mouse, is that you?"

Such a long time. Mouse.

The white mouse, specifically, from the cartoon Tom and Jerry - the explosive one.

This:


Since then, it's always been my bar name. There was Tom the Doormouse (worked the door!), but then there was just me, Mouse. Perhaps I will play Mouse again, somewhere else, a new bar. I mean, it does wear on you, playing someone else, but on the whole it's fun. Life is performance art. Messing with perception is kinda fun. I'm sure enough people thought of me as That Fucking Annoying Bitch Who Is Always In The Bar.

And I am. Annoying that is. Who should I play next? Don't know. I don't want to be creepy, but hell, I really am. I'm really fucking creepy if I think about it. Who the hell plays characters in real life? I do, because I'm fucking bored. Smile, cheat, it's all deceit. I think my next project is to dress fancy (including heels) and go grocery shopping. That would be amusing.

Or actually see if I could get a leather jacket with a picture of a vagina and "The Vagenious" emblazoned on it. Granted, I'll never get laid again, but it might be worth it. Maybe. But I'm thinking that I will never get laid again anyway. I try to be okay with that, but I'm not, not really.

Mouse. The very least I can do is buy the flame boots and the silver boots. It's a start.

I'd forgotten what it's like to be redhead.

I haven't had my hair done in a very long time. And damn, I love having red hair. Bright colors in nature serve to warn predators away. I am nothing but trouble.

Also, People Stylewatch magazine is on crack. There was this "fake coral" thing that just looked hideous. It looks like a misshaped penis or a headless child. So, so wrong.

Ok, so I don't totally hate the night.

But I'm just strange.

I started thinking about a dream I had about B. It was a really incredibly strange dream:

"I love you," he said in the dream.

"No, you don't," I replied. "You never did."

"No, really I do."

"Look motherfucker, you don't. Stop that. I know you don't mean that."

"What?! No, I do, I'm not lying."

"Do you think I'm stupid? I know you don't. I don't like it when people play games."

"I'm not!"

And it went on in this way for a fair bit. It really was a strange dream, since most of my dreams are usually WTF inducing cryfests, like schizophrenia means that furniture is on the ceiling (!) or that I was dead or that churches are a hotbed of satanism. I suppose it goes with the total bizarreness that is my head.

I'm constantly arguing with myself. It's just one long argument about if I'm crazy or not. Most of the time, I don't think so.

I am so not drinking during the week ever again. Now I remember the disaster it is, and I periodically need to have that reminder.

At least it didn't involve Tiki Drinks and The Meeting From Hell.

Satan Is Real, Working at Quarters The Tiki Bar.

I hate you demon liquor.

And I hate the night that I think of B. Night, you suck.

And I hate rain.

And I hate spins by former bar managers, and running into former bartenders from the Demon Establishment.

Gonna turn off my phone now and hope for the best, that I didn't embarrass myself too fucking much, which I probably did, and oh, well.

At least there's that ArtDude.

Five years, tomorrow.

Five years since that Monday. "The surgery took longer than expected, she's just coming out now." Five years since I went to my supervisor and said, "I can't be here, I have to go." Five years since that very long week of living at the hospital, waiting. I was the only one waiting for her to die.

The end of the time. The end of it.

"You shouldn't drink so much," she said.

"Mom, please believe me, you're not going to make it."

"Don't be silly. Of course I'll be okay. I just say that stuff, you know."

"Mom, you know I have the gift. You will not survive. Please write it down for us, we won't remember. Please, just listen to me. I love you. I love you so much."

The hardest thing I ever had to say. I was mourning for her since the clock turned midnight on that New Year's Eve. Suddenly I knew, before anything ever went wrong, I knew. Maybe that's why it shut down for a while, because I couldn't handle it. I really couldn't. Before it was "sometime in the next 5 years" but two years after that fateful New Year's, I knew that that year would be it.

She did her own eulogy because of my warning. I still can't listen to it. I refuse to. And for the longest time, I couldn't remember anything except the hospital, and maybe some bits and pieces of my life.

Now I remember. And as I was reading through some of my earlier stuff, I realized that she weighed down on me, with impossible demands and leaps of logic that drove me insane. She was gone and I moved on. That while she still lived, she kept torturing my soul, tying it into impossible knots until I felt helpless. I fell on my own two feet, and after five years, I'm me again, outside of my prison. But I knew this too, that I couldn't be me again until she was gone. It's a horrible thing to say of your mother, and many people revered her for her kind spirit, which was nil when it sometimes came to me. Hence, I could never really tell her anything, something that I'm quite sure made her mad, jealous that everyone else's daughters could share things, but that I was unwilling to. I could feel it under the surface, that jealousy, wondering what happened to make me so distrustful of her, but I cared not to elaborate, though I could have. But I took it upon myself to know that it's not worth it to share these things with people, that my mind and soul are my own, of my own making, shaped by the world.

Surely asking for the Ipass to visit "a friend" would have involved more questioning than I ever wanted to bear, because "it's none of your business" never worked. She never understood that phrase, though she said of my tormentors, "they're just jealous of you". (If I hear people say that now, I want to punch them. Repeatedly.) Every single step of the way she teased me..."OOO, you're wearing nail polish! Are you going to meet boooooooys?"..."Are there going to be any boys at that party?"...and hundreds of others that pretty much ensured that I would never contemplate even expressing interest in guys in high school. Thank god I went to an all-girls school, which made keeping to myself and not dating that much easier. I'm sure everyone thought I was lesbian. There was an exception or two, but nothing ever came of it, which was more by design than anything else. I think ExFiancee took so long to get over because that was my very first relationship. I swear, she loved him more. It didn't go too badly, well, except for all that stuff. Which she never knew because I wasn't about to fucking tell her. Ms. Nosy can put that nose back into joint and stay out of my business. She lost that right the day I was crying and pleading for her to take me out of that school. What's the point in telling anyone anything if they don't listen to you?

My dad, on the other hand, is totally awesome. I want him to live forever. He was the one who would defend me against her angry screeds. Maybe if I had begged and pleaded to him, I would have been spared. But that's the sad thing about being a child...wisdom only comes in retrospect. And I'm sure that she never told him what I said about it. When he goes, it will be so very painful. And the Ipass. He had no clue why I asked for it...all he remembered was that I was going to visit my brother. Didn't even care about the friend part. But he, too, is a private person, and respects people's privacy. In the respect of personality, I am so much more like him...different, but similar. But I couldn't marry someone like my mom, which ExFiancee was very much like her.

Of course, my mother always thought I was like her. No amount of me trying to correct that perception ever worked...well, didn't work until the last few years of her life, when she finally realized that I'm more stubborn and tenacious, that I'm willing to hold out for what I want rather than settling. I wasn't going to entertain the thought of being married while she still lived. Now, I think about being married, as the thought is nice sometimes, but if I don't want to be married, I don't have that pressure on me now. Me again, free again, on my own finally.

Midnight. When the soul takes flight. Forevermore to destiny's moonlit wings, flying at night among the stars. When the winds of change sweep across the landscape to move shadowy trees, rustling around lost souls and demons.

No more Keep Right signs to plague me.

And I drink to the night.

When I started this thing, I was going through a rough time. It was not long after the fire, when we finally settled in new place. I was fighting myself, clinging to hopes that I didn't want to have because they were so small. I had felt childish and petty, a total disappointment and failure. The year of 2001 had been the worst year up until then. Assaulted by someone I trusted, the fire, living in a hotel with my parents because I couldn't afford a place of my own, and once the insurance ran out, shuffling from house to house, all while going to work and school. Dealing with all of this and what happened to me.

"Where would you take the girl of your dreams, the girl you wanted to marry?" I asked, in response to the question of what I wanted to do when we visited his parents. To this day, knowing that he had assaulted me, trying to keep it together, I will never know what made me ask this, what made me go that extra delusional step.

We went to World Trade Center.

A month later, it was in ruins, and not much later, so was the relationship.

A gust of wind came to blow down the house of cards, and it was just over. "Whatever he did to fuck it up," The Artist said, "he's lost a really great woman." If it hadn't been for my fan club, life would have been unbearable.

Which is where my delusions of grandeur and entitlement come from, because I've always had fan clubs of some sort or another. High school, coffeeshops, Classic Country Monday, hell, that bar. I don't have many friends anymore, nor do I have fan clubs, and I'm finding it kind of lonely. Which I think is odd, because I've always been alone and lonely. I was part of a hilariously sick universe and it was fun. But as with all things in life, even that came to an end.

I think the biggest question for me is "Can I ever love like that again?" Sometimes, I want to, but most of the time, I don't. The thought of living with someone makes my skin crawl. I really hate having to do all the emotional work of two people and I just refuse to do that. But I do realize that the bar is set pretty high as to pretty much guarantee that I will never have what I really want and still be happy. So I have to go it alone. It's a scary proposition, because I'd like to have a boyfriend at some point, but even then...I'm not sure I could really handle even that. The two I've had just didn't work out, each for different reasons. It's far too easy for me to hide myself away from people, a measure of self-defense because if people get to know you, they know what buttons to push. It only causes resentment, to be manipulated into doing things that you don't want to do, because of that "boyfriendness", and I while I'm not proud of myself for being pure evil in the things I do to lash out, they are understandable. But just try talking about them in adult manner, and it almost never works, because of those horrible things that people do to stop the conversation, when they actually bother to listen to you. I keep my pity party to one and just deal with it, like I've done for the whole of my life. No one ever wants to really hear the sad things, or the angry things, or anything that involves reality (unless it's funny). No one really cares about it either, unless they're a good friend.

I can be fun and exciting and strange and fascinating, and that's the person I will be when I'm out for adventure and fun. That's the side that gets me laid and fan clubs. But it surprises people when they find out I'm not all fun and games, that I'm a very intense and intelligent person. I really hate when people find this out, because then it's like I kept some bizarre secret from them, like I kill prostitutes in my spare time or something equally horrible. Usually, upon learning this, I get one of two reactions: they stop speaking to me, or they start hammering away wondering what else I didn't tell them and get mad when I won't tell them more. My line in the sand is that I will enhance certain aspects of my personality while suppressing others to create a particular impression and if someone breaches that line, well, it's not my fault that they're curious and it doesn't mean that I have to "come clean" because I only choose to tell what is interesting.

Which brings me back to The Writer and "mysterious". I suppose I am far too subtle in the mysterious department. But I can't help but be a subtle person. I prefer to be reserved so that I can observe and evaluate a situation. Well, that, and I'm rifling around in people's brains to determine if they mean harm or not. And I suppose that's where people get the impression that I'm innocent and trusting. I'm not all that trusting, which is probably why people get mad when they find out that they know very little about me, and somehow they've managed to tell me their life story. I do that on purpose. In rifling around, I sometimes stumble upon some very interesting things, things that I have no experience in but am curious to know. If it's strong enough, I can actually feel and see it. Well, now that I have it back, because for a while there, I couldn't do it, and that scared me. I was terrified to talk to people. That's what made the night I met Chicago Guy almost damn near magical, because I had it back. I saw That Look, and could feel it behind me, which amused me to no end. Strong emotion, indeed. (I so wanted to ask, "So, are you thinking of removing all of my clothing? Or just some?" It was like laser-beam intense.)

But it's that very thing I love to do which makes relationships hard for me, when you know what people are thinking. I've sometimes pushed too hard to get the unvarnished truth, because I know it's in there, and the mind is saying something entirely different than the words I'm hearing. Because of this, I've had to rely on what people say even though I know that it's not what they're thinking. I take it at face value because I have to, because I don't want people to realize what it actually means to be able to do what I can do. It's why I tell people who won't believe me, or people who will believe me but don't really believe me. Also, it would probably creep people out to know someone's been rifling around in the attic. I really do try to stay out, or just go in to determine if I want to talk someone or not, but some brains are far more interesting than others. I know it's an invasion of privacy on a level that no one wants to believe can happen. It's why I snicker at people who think they're pushing actual boundaries, because all they have to go on is what any other normal person goes on, and that's what people say.

It's why I will never get married, let alone be in a relationship. Unless I meet that perfect nexus of ability and attractiveness, someone who really does understand this and likes to fuck all the time, I'm not going to be happy. Because it is far too easy for me to wear the facade of "girlfriend", and say things like "Where would you take the woman you're going to marry?" and pretend that everything's alright. It's the evil impulse to know that most people can't even see the attic, much less be in it, and I can think what I want with impunity while I simultaneously creep about in theirs. Very, very rarely can someone block me from it. A time or two I've felt someone in there, but I try to block them out...or just think horribly depraved things until they go. It's why I hang onto what I said even though I knew I couldn't keep it up - just to remind myself of how horrible I can be, and to never, ever let myself do that again. It's why I can't hug people I don't know, because with each touch, the closer the proximity, the more I see, the more I feel. I'm okay with people thinking that I'm a cold bitch, because I know I'm not. It's why I can't live with someone, because they will constantly be on my radar and it will annoy me. It's how I know if someone means to harm me or not, if I can trust them if I need to say "stop". It's why I tend to leave as soon as I wake up.

I live in the world on a totally different wavelength than everyone else. Intimacy has a far greater meaning to me than "love" does, and sex is just pleasure (and, awesomely, one of the few times that touching someone doesn't matter). Perhaps it's a case of being too mysterious, or rather, manipulating the perception that people have of me. I'm never what I seem, only because most people don't really care to know.

And to tell you, the internets, the truth, I prefer it that way. Much, much easier to rifle around in brains.

Bwahahaha.

My Goth name is Death's Expulsion. Hehehehe.

The Bipolar Room

I think a lot. I am an opinionated bitch, sometimes a bit too aggressive. But by "too aggressive", I mean "aggressive like men".

Which sends them screaming for the hills. In my experience, people seem to equate short and cute with timid and shy (see also the cringe inducing "innocent" and "naive"). I can be shy, it does take me awhile to actually warm up to people.

I was timid all throughout my 20s. It sucked being trapped in a box of fear and hate. When the shackles of fear unlocked, it felt great. Now I'm trying to navigate that, to get a feel for proper aggressiveness, for being a total bitch. It's not that it's new for me, but I need to find the right balance again. I used to think I was bipolar, but pretty much every screening says I'm not. That's how much I feared myself, that maybe I was the crazy one. When you grow up with someone like that, your parent, it really does affect you in that way, that you're totally sane and normal but made to seem like you're crazy.

Although I do disagree with The Artist. Yes, you can walk down the bar and ask people to sleep with you, but if you have even the teenist bit of standards, it matters who says "yes". Let's just say I did test the theory out, and my results weren't all that bad. There's a whole world of guys who do not think that they're attractive, but they are. I find that sad. Society brainwashes them into thinking that they will never be attractive because they don't have money or aren't beefcake, and that's what women really want and care about. They believe the lies that women hate sex so much that you have to buy beer/diamonds/flowers/steaks to coerce women into having sex, that what you put into The Great Pussy Vending Machine is what you'll get out. And yes, many women believe this too, and play into it. I'm sorry, but as much as I like steak and beer and hate diamonds and flowers, if I want any of these things, I'll buy them for myself. My soul is not for sale. All I want is to be listened to and fucked. Really. That's all I require. Well, and at least for someone to pretend I'm fascinating. That would be totally awesome.

And that's not to say that there are people out there who never want to have sex. I can't imagine that, but that's just my failing. And they're free not to have it. Just like there are guys who say that they will fuck anyone, it just needs to be asked, but I've often found out that they won't. These guys either have incredibly high standards or they beat off to tentacle rape porn. And if you ever want to have lots of fun, just ask them to define what their standards are, because having standards means they're gay. (Yes, I'm an asshole. I love to suggest that there are many masturbatory aids on the market, and they recoil in horror, because a blow-up doll or Fleshlight is completely gay. I'm not making this up. People hold these opinions.) This group of men overlaps with the group of men who get mad at women who won't sleep with them. Yes, she's had 48 sexual partners and is only 25, but that doesn't mean that she lacks standards. Rarely will a woman sleep with just anyone. They hate it when you point out that that woman won't sleep with them for the same reason that other women won't sleep with them - usually bad hygiene, or they are entitled creepy fuckwits, or they're people who think this is funny. (There's a world of difference between erotic restraint and rape. Hint: it has to do with consent.)

But now that I think about it, that's probably where the fear creeps in. It takes a lot to tell someone that you'd like to be tied up, but still trust them to respect your boundaries, which you can't count on them doing, and I just don't trust people. It's my default to be skeptical of people and their intentions because more often than not, they aren't trustworthy. Which brings me back to "innocent" and "naive". The shit that goes through my head is far from innocent. I have a great imagination, and with your imagination, no one gets AIDS or syphilis, and people can do deliciously dark things without worrying about reality. Which is why the shit stays in my head, because when I actually think about seeking someone out to do these things with, it would take a very high level of trust, and an investment of time and emotion that I really don't want to get into. And I know better than to be naive. People lie about things all the time - or they don't know what they want, so have clue about anything. They don't know themselves well enough to just be who they are. I've been there, and it sucks.

I'm just glad I'm getting my footing again. Life is good.

I opened my mouth, and now I'm in trouble.

But it's a good kind of trouble. Like, the type of trouble I want to be in.

See, that's really strange about me. There's trouble I like to be in, and trouble I can do without. And this is the kind of trouble I love. Why? Because I'm a scandalous nutcase. My god, doesn't anyone see the neon sign that indicates that I'm nothing but trouble?

"Then it comes to be, that the soothing light at the end of your tunnel, is just a freight train coming your way...."

I had fun visiting my brother. Watching the children play in one of the fountains at Millennium Park made me think of a creature that I could put in a story somewhere. I had also made Crackcakes for work and brought some down with me. This time I made them rainbow with superorgasmic frosting, instead of milk...heavy cream. I had to hose down my face because I couldn't stop licking the bowl. I hereby solidified my cupcake cred with more family members. Sometimes I wonder why they think I can't cook or bake, or am unwilling to. I'm single with no kids, have a lot of time on my hands, and I enjoy making the potato salad, cupcakes, and stuff. Hell, if I'm bored, I just make stuff, because it's not like I've got anything better to do at the moment, and you have to eat sometime, right?

But maybe that's because no one realizes that for the last few years she was alive, I was the one doing a lot of the cooking for family stuff, just so she could visit. I was painfully anti-social then, but I could cook. I mean, she made the pies, but I was on salad detail, and sometimes side detail, and more than a few times on the main entree detail. But that's the funny thing living with my parents. I'd come home and cook because I wanted a meal, and suddenly two old people were hovering over my shoulder like, "What are you making? That sure smells good! Do you think you'll have enough to share a bite?"

I still feel like me again. I'm waiting for the depression that usually seeps in this time of year, but so far so good. I'm still feeling awesome and creative.

So I was thinking of ring references (I'm still laughing!), and I remember a really fucking obscure one that only one other person I know will ever get, and I'm not telling him this thought.

Even better, it's a really obscure B5 reference: in the pilot, Delenn is speaking with G'kar, and she opens this thing, which reveals a set of rings that cause pain. Now, if I had a ring that could do THAT, that would be awesome.

Which brings me to my non-geekiness. It was always a hilarious joke between Mr. Asshat and myself. I'd make a joke or share a thought, and he'd go, "You're such a geek." "No, I'm not!" "Oh, how could you! You are really a geek." And we'd "argue" like this for awhile. "Hey, I'm not the geek here. You are. I wouldn't have ever known this had you not told me/introduced me to B5/brought it up first!" It was amusing. Much better than the actual emo fights. ("Why the hell do you have a heart carved in your hand?" [Something about remembering someone, it was kinda bizarre in the get-me-a-fainting-couch kinda way.] "Why would you do that? Really, don't you think that's a bit extreme?" LeSigh.)

God, I'm such an asshole. But at least I don't hang out of car windows and yell at a "fattie". That's when I wish my car came with an eject button. That would have made a very awesome night TOTALLY FREAKIN' AWESOME.

More than 12 hours later, I'm still laughing at the LOTR image of an engagement ring.

Which also brought to mind two other jokes that I will never, ever post on the internets, they are just that bad. Those jokes would prompt people to think I'm just a soulless douchey fucktard. But my god, they are so horrible and so funny. They merely not just step over the line; they cross it at light speed. It's the kind of joke that makes you feel like the world's biggest asshole for laughing, but it's really, really funny...if you're into really morbid jokes. They're close to leathal...

Little bits of memory
tied up into jewelry
a fluffy concoction
of ruby, diamond, white gold.
What it once stood for
now no longer remains
and will never be more.
A symbol of love and dreams,
of adorable children,
of life forever together,
of communication and honesty.
But somewhere along the way,
the hopes and dreams faded away,
dying a slow, prolonged death,
until they rested in earth.
This ring I hereby give,
reflects not happiness,
but pain and broken promises,
sparkling so harshly in light
a broken trust.
There are no more days of torment
for such a beautiful adornment,
each day numbered for its last.
When it is gone there will be
just a smile and memory,
no reflections of sparkles,
just a piece of jewelery.

On a lighter note, I still stand by my statement that if a guy wants to form a lifelong commitment with me, instead of buying a ring, he can buy me a Wii. If someone needs to mark his property, what better way than to keep me indoors away from other men than video games? Plus, it's cheaper, and we can play together. I would prefer none of that claptrap anyway, but it seems like it really matters more to men than to me. Of course, if I do manage to sell The Ring, I could always put the money toward a Wii of my very own.

Engagement rings are my kryptonite. I'd run screaming from it. Or, better yet, throw The Precious into a lake of fire. (Right now I can't stop laughing at the image of me fighting with a guy, him going "My Precious", and trying to throw the ring into the fiery lake. GOD, I'm such a geek! It helps NOTHING that I'm short...)

I've got the week off coming up, and I think I'm definitely going to at least get the ring appraised, so that I can sell it. I'm still debating on whether to keep the money or just write out a check to him. I don't want it anymore, but I'd feel weird keeping money that isn't technically mine. But then again, it's been 8 years, and I like Ikea. I'll have to think about it some more.

What the hell, 70s?

I was reading this list of serial killers, and wow, was there something in the water? Many of them started in the 1970s. WTF.

My mind wandered to the coffeeshop crowd. I will probably never make friends like that again, but that's okay.

I can do without constant whining about ex-girlfriends and how they're like couches, shoes, cars and how now they're seeing some good-for-nothing waste of space heroin addict. God, The Artist was hilarious, but that just got on my nerves. One day, he went on and on and on and on...finally I just said, "We get it. Why don't you just shut the fuck up about it!" much to the horror of the three other women sitting at our table. He was totally surprised. "Well, you can give her the sun and moon and all, but did you ever think to ask her if that's what she wanted? You can give someone something, but if they don't want it, they'll look elsewhere for what they want." So simple, but apparently that had never occurred to him before. Suddenly, I became intriguing. I knew he had a crush on me, but he was Lithium quality crazy, and I just can't manage that as a girlfriend. And I say this, because that's what it would be with him, because he was my first exposure to the High-Maintenance Man. Besides, I really liked B better.

Oh, B, how creepy you could be! That was what made me fall in love with him. It also was the reason I knew it would never work. Life is like that. Next time, I'm not opening up my mouth and saying anything about that. I can't handle hummed goodbyes.

And Texan - now Gay Texan, but that's not a fucking surprise - how I loved him like a brother. He was very silly but awesome. I loved the night that I drank him under the table and had to walk him home. Plus, he let me slap him, which was fun. I hated his sister. She was so completely nutty she drove me nuts. I'm glad I no longer know her, god only knows what the fuck that bitch is up to now.

Part of me wishes I had the excitement and drama back, just to observe it. But I could do without Mr. Bodybuilder, as he well and truly frightened me. His eyes would dart around as if his brain was looking for an escape from his body. Occasionally, he'd look as if his brain had succeeded.

What I really wonder is what happened to Creepy Old Man. That sounds bad, but he was only marginally creepy. He was great to talk to. He had a habit of disappearing, but he always came back. One day he didn't. I like to think of him in a cabin in Montana, hunting, like he wanted to do. I think he needed it.

It's so strange...everyone moves on and I'm just here. Oh, older and wiser, but still here. It feels strange. I feel bad, because my life is completely unexciting. I don't do anything interesting. I'm quiet and reserved. A far cry from kicking people out of the bar. ("Are you going to fight?" *blank looks* "I asked if you were going to fight. Because if you are, take it outside, the bar's closing." *blink, blink* "Oh! Okay! C'mon, let's go.") Now I'm just boring. The only thing exciting about me now is that I write...which I haven't been doing because I just haven't been able to. Now I fucking can't stop. That's not a bad thing though, as it really helps to finally work it all out, sober, and aware. It really is as if something's been lifted off of me, a fog, a blanket, and I can be again.

Sometimes I try to pinpoint where it went wrong, and I can't narrow it down, what happened to make me dazed. I think the whole marriage thing is what did it honestly, and it snowballed from there, morphing into this totally horrible thing that I couldn't get a grasp on. Pressures, from many sides, my family, ExFiancee, not wanting to be embarrassed...

I'm wondering how much I can get for the ring. Then I'm going to sell it, and write a check out to ExFiancee. "You earned it," he said, "so you keep it. It's all yours." That rings in my mind, completely aggressively passive, and you can HAVE THAT FUCKER BACK.

I should have thrown it at him. Of course, if I had listened to my inner demons, he'd be dead by now, thrown out of my second story window.

She would have turned 65 today.

For the past few years, I've been depressed at this time of year, and it's worse when the day approaches.

I don't feel depressed about it anymore.

I remember her saying, "When you're on your own, you'll call me a lot." I didn't have the heart to tell her that that would not be the case. Thank God she never lived to see the day. I may not be the world's worst daughter, but I'm also not needy.

But when I think of this, I think of all of the times people have said things contrary to who I am. Mr. Asshat, who apparently never listened to me when I opened my mouth, ever. My mom, who I made face the reality that I wasn't out to marry rich. (I also made the mistake of saying, "Stop saying that I'm unique. No one is unique or special. We're all just people." You would have thought I had actually said, "Hey, I like eating puppies!" for the way that she and my brother reacted.) ExFiancee, who didn't listen to me at crucial moments. My life has been people I loved and cared about not listening to me. I think, that is where I get "No one wants to hear it" and "I shouldn't intrude by drunk dialing you" and "I just feel like I'm whining" when I talk about myself on a personal note.

Long ago, The Writer told me to be "more mysterious". What the fuck is that? Mysterious? I don't get it. I try not to talk about myself, because fat lot of good that does for anyone listening. There's about three people I know that actually listen when I speak with them, and although I may not see them often, I am thankful that they do listen. I've been around enough people with boundary problems that I'm highly aware of what you do and don't say. If I'm going to be "mysterious", I may as well not fucking talk at all. I'm not saying I'm perfect; occasionally I commit the random faux pas. But I own that I may have said completely inappropriate things. It's not as if I'm going to lie if people ask me a fucking a question. And I don't think it's the height of mysterious to just say, "I'm sorry, that question is off limits". I would expect any decent person to do the same to me if I ask something they consider too personal.

I've heard "you don't mean that" far too often. I was thinking about the post that I wrote earlier this morning, and I do feel that way, but I can hear the sigh of my mother and her ghost saying, "you don't mean that", like so many times before. But I do. It may be harsh, it may be crass, but that's how I feel. I'm in love with a darkly romantic idea that will never, ever happen. I know this, and that's why I'm comfortable with it. If I can't have it, I'm not settling, because I won't be happy. It is completely unattainable. I did die a little each step closer to serious, only because the actions spoke volumes more than the words. I never want to get that close again, because who knows how long it will take me to recover, and I don't want to be a fucking hopeless alcoholic mess when I'm 40. It's part and parcel of the whole "getting over yourself" thing, the entitlement, the idiocy.

It's not that I didn't love her. She was a really good mom in most of the important ways. And it's not like I didn't love ExFiancee, because I really did. They were a lot alike, though. And that made it difficult. And heaven help me for saying this, it's not like I don't care about Mr. Asshat. Wherever life takes him, I hope he gets the life that he wants, because he deserves it.

I'm just frustrated that very few people actually listen. I'm not telling some deep, moving story to anyone. I'd rather just talk about shit, light-harted silly stuff, jokes, jobs, silly childhood things, because that's what people listen to. That's way more comfortable than talking about myself, despite the 40,000 words I've written here on the subject. I don't like it to be about me; the thought of getting married and having attention on me FOR A WHOLE FUCKING DAY pretty much paralyzed me. I don't want to be fawned over, it makes me physically ill.

That's why I can't write at that other obnoxious site. People would subscribe to it. That's really fucking creepy, and it makes me paranoid that people would actually read my shit. (Random Internet Strangers? No problem! My friends? NO!) I'm not that talented, special, or insightful. I'm just me. If people find me, I want it to be a delightful surprise - or random horror, depending on which post they see. I know that I'm a mixture of creepy cold-hearted bitch and the most amazingly nice and patient person ever. It all depends on the context. I'm stubborn, but I also know how to compromise, and will admit I can be wrong. I don't pretend to know everything, nor do I have an interest in knowing everything.

To bring this back to the original point, she probably would have retired. Which would mean calls from her bitching about my dad or just chatting. Not that I'd mind chatting, but I'm a bit of a loner and damn if I don't get tired of talking to people on the phone. I'd still be listening to it, the passive-aggressiveness, judgmental attitudes, and horrible nosy questions about boyfriends. ("You like him, dooooon't yoooooou?" My response to that should have been, "Well, until you brought it up, yes. I think I'm going to go join a lesbian commune now, thanks." But then she probably would switch to "So you like her, dooooooooon't yoooooooooou?" What part of "It's none of your business" don't you understand? GAH!)

But I knew this. I knew she wasn't going to live, and I knew that I wouldn't be able to be me until she was no longer living anymore. And that's just how it is. I never felt guilty for that, though sometimes I think I should, but I just can't. I'm happy now, and it's alright.

I can remember again. I can feel again.

Just A Number.

This is the 300th post I've written.

As I was driving home yesterday, I mused to myself about my age. I counted every year in my twenties. Once I hit 30, I didn't care anymore. It's really bizarre when anyone asks me how old I am, because I have to think about it. If I don't, I'll end up just saying "30" and be done with it, but really, I'm a little older than that, not by much. I suppose I could say "somewhere in my 30s", but that sounds kinda dumb. Really, I just don't care how old I am. I feel like I was fucking born Old, but with the sense of imagination of a child, matured by experience and age. I was wise beyond my years, but forced to still listen to my betters. When I was ten, I couldn't wait to be 25, with all its glamor and adultness. I soon learned upon turning 25, that no, it's not cool, people still treat you like shit, especially if you don't look a day over 21 (or 18, with dirty old men whiskey goggles on). But now I feel it. It's not that I automatically get respect, but I still can be a bitch, even more so because I'm older. I didn't care when I was younger about my age, as I was just biding time until adulthood, but that's how my twenties felt. Like I was just biding time. Bored and lonely, fantastically stupid things until I reached the age I wanted to be.

And as I think about it, it was almost six years of my life to ExFiancee. So for me to admit to it, to admit to the whole of everything that happened, that weighed me down, feels good. Oh, we had good times, and we had bad times. I used to think that I wanted that again, but I think it's more that I was totally surprised by it. I never thought that I would contemplate marriage, consider living with a person, day in, day out, share a bed with anyone, lay like a blanket on the man I loved. Before then, it was an impossibility for me, but totally in reach for other people, and I was genuinely happy for other people. A little envious, but still happy. And then I met him, and it challenged that thinking. Maybe, I thought, I was wrong about this love thing, maybe someone can love an independent spirit like me, and not try to stuff my soul in a box.

Yes, I was total fool. I fully admit that. I've spent the last however many years fighting myself on that account, distrusting my instincts, my brain trying to pull me away from what I really want. There was a time period after ExFiancee that I just went out to have fun, no real relationships, and I really, really had fun. I've just recently stopped capitulating to that annoying voice in my head that says that I like flowers and want that boyfriend/girlfriend thing. HA! Sure, and little by little, lose a bit of myself, chipping away at my soul, until I resent the whole of life itself, my inner self screaming and dying inside until I want to jump off of a cliff. YEAH! SIGN ME UP FOR THAT! My younger self knew who I was, and I'd kick the twenties self for EVER going against that. But those influences, dammit, they creep up on you.

And how did I ever loose that "take your judgments and shove them up your ass" attitude? I guess I was just blindsided by that insidious "love" thing. It's not that I don't believe in "love", it's just that I use different words for it. The word "love" has become pretty meaningless, so as to not really mean anything special when it's said. It's really just mutual respect, admiration, and caring. But I guess that's way too fucking wordy for such a deep concept. Attraction? Not love. Good sex? Not love. Not that I'm such an asshole when it's said to me, because I'll say it to family members and they'll say it to me. But I prefer "love" in the sense of "affection" rather than three concepts it represents. It means more to me to hear, "I really respect you a lot" than to hear "I love you". That phrase makes me think of The Great High School Soap Opera instead of anything that has to do with love. Life isn't full of puppies and unicorns and puking rainbows. It's gritty, messy, dirty, and occasionally painful...but it's also real, beautiful, wondrous, and interesting. It's all of that at once.

Love is in the eye of the beholder. Everyone has a different definition. Which does irk me, because I like to write, and I like to use words that convey exactly what I'm thinking. "Love" doesn't mean anything. "I care for you/admire you/respect you" does. And I had to fight with this all those years. There's very few people in the world who think I like do, and I've always known that if I ever wanted to be married/in a relationship with someone where I was happy and my soul didn't die, they would have to think like I do. Otherwise I would have to settle, and I damn near did. I will never get that close to settling ever again, because I don't want to go through that pain and torture again. I've had enough pain and torture in my life, thank you very much, and I'm done. And most guys will pay lip service to the concept, but we as humans are awesome at fooling ourselves; actions speak louder than words in that department.

What does that have to do with 30? No one's going to talk me out of my instincts, and I'm going to make damn sure that I don't talk myself out of them. Not anymore.

Remembrance.

I remember. I remember things that I haven't thought of in years, things that I just could not recall. Intellectually, I knew that they happened, and in a way, I did remember them, but not the actual memory. It's been more like a web page that comes up, and you know there's an image there, but it doesn't load. You know something's there, but you can't see it.

But I remember. I remember the Norfolk Pine we had, I think it's name was Norman. We had that tree for YEARS. We made jokes about it, treated it like a member of the family. I remember the night where two friends were being completely obnoxious and pretending to have sex in my car at a very loud volume. Oh, that car! At least it was kind enough to break down near payphones. I remember the shoe incident, and how angry I was at BOTH of them. I remember Lava Java, the pool table...and the night that I think a guy swiped a five from me. I remember "I saw that you staring at the chess board." I remember sitting on the street with Cat Eyes and smoking a not-cigarette, her laughing and saying, "This is really cool". I remember twisting my ankle when I got out of the car to put a note in Asshat's mailbox. I remember talking to the oldest nephew when he was baby, sucking on his bottle and just staring at me as I talked to him. I remember the time that ExFiancee and I went to babysit him, he was about 3 then, I think, and he spent TWO HOURS just entertaining us. All we did was sit there and watch him. I remember playing a slapping card game and my friend had to go get ice for her hand because I slapped too hard. I remember lightly coating the burger with pudding to see if the Nemisis would notice. I remember "Hey, Cool it man" and "He tried to kill me with a forklift!" and a thousand and one other bits of silliness, stop signs painted with smiley faces in shoe polish. Oh, god, I remember the "Will you marry me?" when ExFiancee found the Optimus Prime, complete with my mom rolling her eyes and sighing, because I'm probably the lamest person on the planet. I remember Open Forum and the tape recorder and "Can't shake the Devil's hand and say you're only kidding", and the notes, oh I remember those, but I'd like not to think of those, because really, how could a person be so evil and so good at the same time? And the guy who missed his bus, how I gave him a ride to the bus stop, or the poor guy who I gave bread and jelly to to feed his children because I didn't have cash. And who got puked on. I remember absinthe. I remember when Cuz and ExFiancee were drinking, parents gone, and we trying to get him drunk, and we got REALLY plastered instead. Oh holy hell, that was funny when the 'rents came home and we just talking and out of NOWHERE, I puked on the carpet. I didn't even feel it coming, no warning. And my dad, the most awesome guy in the universe, just cleaned it up like it was nothing. Heh, and then Cuz passing out on the bathroom floor, and my mother just shoving her aside to pee...and the two of us, Cuz and me, our heads together and puking. I remember trying different liquors with my friend and my mom when they went through Ye Olde Liquor Cabinet. I remember the combination of ExFiancee and my mom and FIRE. God, I remember so much.

It's like a fog has been lifted and I can remember things, good funny things, not just those horrible days. They don't play on a loop anymore. It's strange, exciting, and really fucking funny, when I think of all those bizarre things. I don't want to go back to the fog, and I'm terrified I will. I haven't felt this good in ages.

Heh.










Mmmm...gelfling! (On a side note, I do an awesome impression of the Skeksis. No doubt that one day a man will find that so awesome, he'll fall in love with me and want to marry me. Plus, I have Optimus Prime, which worked the first time.)







So did Mr. Asshat when he shaved his head. I'd actually call him Bat Boy. God, I really, really miss the Weekly World News.

And now I should really get back to laundry and cleaning.

I completely forgot that geocities will be shut off permanently, so I've posted some poetry here, but just the favorites that I've written. I also should write more poetry, or actually write a few more pages of my story, instead of here.

Brain Drain
One day, and uncontrolled,
uncomfortable, and unleashed
thought got loose.
It walked through the Brain,
Down the Back, to the Nerves,
And escaped out the Mouth.
Then It crawled into the other Mouths,
surprised and dangling,
to the Nerves, up the Back
And nestled into the Brain again.

Midnight
When the soul takes flight,
no sunlight,
here's to the night-
the moonlight in the dark.

The shadow patterns of trees
against a midnight sky;
no love lost or gained,
just a simple night
of letting souls free,
of not being seen,
of hide and go seek.
The fine infinite line
between here or there,
sanity or insanity,
love or hate.

In the garden of statues and shadows,
where the wind whips against fallen leaves
and fallen angels
and the cold unforgiving stone.
No respite for the weary here
in this secret, silent garden;
the serenity is frightening
only in the nighttime.
The cool caress of the wind
beckons again and again,
whispering secrets
to the stones and the night.

The moonlight consumes all that it touches,
its power staying in the night wind.
The lines that blur between
the dark and the light
are the eternal battles
of moonlight and night,
while hordes of statues
lovingly caress the shadows,
and the wind performs its own deeds.

Just a simple night
of darkness and moonlight,
of gardens of statues and shadows,
of the sweet breath of cold wind,
and of the souls to be freed.

Storm
The storm begins-
A solitary drop on the pavement,
Beckoning to the rest,
A suicide mission of sorts.
Then a few more test the waters,
And the rain pours down.
I stand there wondering, longing,
To dance with the rain.
I jump into a puddle;
I'm done for, the seductive dance
Of the rain pulls me in.
I jump and I leap
I twirl and I laugh
I lift my face skywards
As the rain washes away
My hate, my hurt,
And everything that is wrong with me
Drips slowly to the ground
And dies there, absorbed by the Earth.
The rain lessens, the drops tire
of their little game.
I stand, rain-drenched, amid the water-
Water that is filled with pain and loneliness,
My hurt and my hate.
The sun shines again, the puddles will dry.
And I find, now, that I can live
For another day of rain.

Love Story
I smile, willingly,
at your presence and surprisingly
you smile back.
I know you've walked the long, dusty road
Deep in thought or with no thought at all.
I've almost been in your shoes, but not quite.
Don't mistake me; I can deeply understand,
Standing at the pungent river
Of disappointment, anger, rage, desperation.
I stood on one end, you on the other,
the fog so thick that you merely became
Shadow, not man, amorphous and there.
That one world, dreamlike and vain,
Swirled around me as if I did not exist-
because I did not, merely a Shadow
Of my former self, I am, was, will be.
I found myself standing in Sun, if not
For the daylight to burn shame into me,
but also for it to burn my flesh,
melt my muscles and expose me rawly.
I wanted to grab my chest
and pull open my wounds
-gaping as they were-
and set my soul, my soul
free from my embodiment.
And I always saw you in dark of pitch night
unobscured by fog, daylight, and hate.
But you were on the other side of the river,
And all I could do to sooth your weary soul
was to extend my hand out to your face
and lovingly, lovingly, stroke the face
Of your Shadow.

Well
In my well
hot, steamy
water smells
pungent with guilt
of an unrepentant sinner.
There-
in this eternal stench
it swirls and
echoes around me-
solitude
I fell
too deep to think
not knowing how I'd get
back to reality, to comfort,
security, to loving.
Round and round
the shadows creep
inside the water
impaled on the stone
In my well.

"Come back to me," it said. Oh, like a moth to flame I would follow it wherever it led me, uncaring what it was leading me into. It wanted me to stay, to stay in that forever place of fevered daydreams and sleep deprivation. To control, excite my inner demons and warp my needs to its own.

"Come back to me." I had wanted to. I wanted to reach out and grab what I wanted and pull it inside warmth and comfort, shielding it. But I no longer have the will to do so anymore. Tired of its lies and hard comforts, swirling emotions empty platitudes. Never again.

For the first time in my life, I damn near set fire to my kitchen.

I suppose that's what I get for making jokes about setting Clueless on fire.

Morning WTFery.

Words fail to describe this video. It is goofy on so many levels...in addition to the obvious, I'm intregued by the German/Japanese/English thing going on.

Truly, What. The. Fuck.

Dear Cosmos,

This better be as good as January. I'd say better than January, but as good as will do.

Or I will come and kick your ass.

At least there are no cats to puke on.

I am so totally wondering what kind of responses I'd get if I posted an ad that read, "Moonlight looking for Night. Coercive Assholes need not apply."

It will be five years.

I had to think about that, how many years. It feels like an eternity. Like she's been gone longer than that.

Oh I miss her. Greatly. And there were many positive things that she gave me, life being just one of a thousand. But I hated being smart, being logical, having to fight for my independence, having to deal with her "disappointment".

But she was gone to me for so long before that. I remember sitting on the couch, watching a Dateline that featured bullying in schools. One set of parents were talking about how they didn't know how bad it was, how they were so sorry that they could not protect their young son, that they didn't listen. He'd committed suicide in 5th grade. As we were watching, she said, "HOW do you NOT know?"

It took all I had not to pick up the walnut bowl and bean her with it. Every last bit of restraint I had to sit there, unreacting, cool, calm, collected. She didn't know, she didn't listen. For so long I thought it was malicious intention, but when I was 16, I learned that she never knew. God, that day...confirmation retreat. Having to spend three days with your former tormentors. I kept to myself. She'd noticed that I had not been social. "Well, they made fun of me all the time when we were in grade school." "Oh? I thought it was teacher." I could feel my heart sink, and my soul melt through my body, oozing out of my feet and through the floor of the van, puddling in the street. It was then that I vowed no matter how compelled I felt to say something about it, I would never let them know. It is long passed but still effects me once in a while, but I've still managed never to tell. And I never will.

Even after watching that Dateline, I still said nothing, and I could have said a lot. She never knew why I wrote that I hated her, and it would be for that reason. If, as she truly believed, a parent's job is to protect their children, she'd done a piss poor job of it with me.

And then I think of her talking about marriage. I know she trying to dispense wisdom to me, but her version of marriage sound so stifling and constricting, I still think I'll never get married. Even before the betrayal of trust, I was having doubts. And it should have ended right there. But I was too stupid, too forgiving of something I couldn't forgive. A lesson learned, is all. And I never told her.

My whole life, just not telling her. Enforcing the boundaries. Protecting her from the things I knew would devastate her. But that is okay, I really think I'm coming to terms with it, on the fifth anniversary that she's been gone. I loved her, I miss her, but not like how other people would. I don't understand when people say, "I wouldn't be able to function if I lost my mother". I miss the good things, the talking, Sunday paper reading, taping West Wing. But there's those glaring things, things that I carry with me, that I can never forget nor forgive. I've been functioning without her for a very long time, and such as it is, I could go on without her. But I knew this when I knew she was going to die. That I'd be sad of course, but it would never erase the years of pain, and those years are etched deeply into my soul. Everyone thinks I'm strong, that I was able to still go to work the Monday after, that I wasn't devastated by her death, and in that, I feel like a fraud, because it's not so much strength, as it is that I've only had to rely on myself for my own emotional support ever since I was about 9.

I learned lessons that no child should have to learn. For that, I feel a mixture of pain, pity, regret but also of relief and reliance. Because of this, though, I've been acting like some petulant teenager for the past few years, pouting and whining. Now, for once, being the person I am, that I wanted to be. Peeling off the layers of insanity to be free, living in Magical Night.

If she had lived, I'm not sure that I would have found myself again.

This is an amazing story.

Wish I had adventures like this. My life is more of "Choose Your Own Adventure", and it sucks.

When You Care Enough...

Check out these greeting cards from the CDC. Yes, that's right, you read that correctly...from the CDC.

For those who wish to send a healthy message on Valentine's Day...there's this card.

Frost Bite Hurts!

Don't kill your family with unsanitary practices this holiday!

OMG! A Halloween one! Frankenstein looks like he enjoyed that vaccination a bit too much...

This one. I...I can't stop laughing. Words fail for the awesome cheesiness of this.

A treasure trove of hilarity.

I think, for once, it's actually working, this getting over myself. This horrible sense of hopelessness and stupidity feel like they're lifting away, leaving me to think my creative thoughts, to help, to be. To be the person I once was, the person I wanted to be. Back to my less worn path, create my own footsteps in the mud path, to listen and just be free. I think about it now, and suddenly, it's not so bad, not so here, not so there, not anywhere, to close eyes and feel the world again, to hear the sounds of trees and their wisdom, that the buildings speak, that feeling of other people, to be in the world. Alone, but not alone. I feel as if I'd been estranged from them for far too long, but maybe they heed my cries and lonely pleading. Have I not been punished enough? A lifetime of silly suffering, not making me stronger but weaker, broken, hidden, dead. Free to pretend to be any person at any given moment, not caring for thought or time or space or anything else. Free of my own ennui, not to be an idiot, spirit crushed, soulless swirling, mired in thought and the mud. Touching each object and knowing, again, as I once did, as I wanted to pretend I never could, but couldn't help. Fighting against my nature, struggle of reasons, denying that which is essentially me. Of not being a child, which was done and over with long before being a teenager, of wanting to move on to a better place alone, to stand away from crowd, feeling the thoughts, seeing the night for what it is, not that daybreak isn't beautiful. Creatures, demons, dark ones, and we're friendly, always have been, and always will, calling me, talking to me again, and that, that is where I wanted to be because I missed them, I missed them, my friends, so much while I was hiding, denying, lying to myself. It did change, didn't it, be damned if a random psychic on the internets is right. It's that world, that is the world I live in, which makes it a far more interesting world than a person would think, to think and know things, to see far beyond facades and words and actions, to follow the threads of life itself to an infinite end. The times, they come, they go, seasons change but the emotional seasons reflect a far deeper course. To be in the element, sneaking, hiding, just observing, no hint or trace of it all, spying and taking notes. Sneaking around, feeling them out, knowing what is and is not. So normal looking, no real guess...and it pleases me. Oh, how it does, A Great Performance, a smile, a casual look. The thought was always there, rattling around, seeking out sympathy. And I'm ecstatic, euphoric even that he or she has gone, hopefully for good, bogging the brain down in useless hopefulness of so many things, it took far too long for the toxic to ooze away, slithering in contempt and righteousness. And I can just be again, like so long ago, in the Garden of Statues and Moonlight, dancing with those guardians, childlike and evil, poetic dances at high moon, basking in the glow of silly, no longer mired in the mud of desperation and sadness...knowing that I will just let me be me.

Who the fuck pleats the end of their toilet paper?

Taco Bell Liberation Army.

Teehee.

So I've become recently paranoid about my blogs n' stuff. But I will take a deep breath, and hopefully, let that pass. ("Paranoia, paranoia, everybody's out to get me, just say you never met me...")

In being paranoid about it, I went through the other blog...the one with OKCupid questions on it. I am one hilarious motherfucker.

Would you like to go on a five night spiritual retreat?

* Yes.
* No.

No.
Catholic high school cured me of that.

Would you rather be the performer or in the audience/behind the scenes?

* Performer
* Audience
* Behind the Scenes

Performer
Honestly, depends on the role. I used to think that life was a stage, but now I'm more inclined to think it's performance art.

What would you think of a romantic prospect who uses childish language when being affectionate?

* I'd like it.
* I wouldn't like it.
* It would depend upon the situation.

Why isn't "I would kill them" a choice?

I am completely and totally awesome.

I also think I scared Clueless. Life couldn't be more fucking awesome than that. Bwahahaha.

Oh, and because I'll have to eventually post my poems on here...here's the one that goes with performing question:

Performance
Lie, cheat,
All deceit:
Smile!
Get up there!
You're in front of everyone:
Look happy!
They stare.
(What's wrong?)
They stare.
(I'm smiling!)
They stare.
(i'm afraid)
Cover your worries,
You don't care:
Keep smiling!
(I'm nervousandafraidandscaredandsomethingiswrong!)
Keep smiling!
(I don't want to. They are saying
things about me. It hurts inside!)
Smile: the outside is more important!
Lie, cheat,
All deceit:
Smile!

I spend a fair amount of time denying that I'm in the least bit geeky. But really I am. Because you know you're just a bit geeky if you recognize where this comes from:



The kids can now commence with removing themselves from my lawn. My building's been invaded. On the upside, it would be nice if the rent went down because of this, but I'm not holding out hope.

Jesus, this is funny...



Hehehehehehe.

Telling the world.

You assaulted me. You grabbed me, forced me onto your lap, and said, "I don't care how you feel". And what? You were surprised when I didn't want you to touch me? I tried so hard to be the good girlfriend/fiancee.

No. I will never do that again. Fuck you for doing that. Fuck you for taking the trust I had in you, and completely crushing it. You asshole. And now I move on, hopefully to much better things, rather than kicked-in-the-leg or assaulted.

I hope this turns out. Chicago, here I come!!!!

Not Entitled.

If you think you're creepy, I can be way creepier than you. You don't know the depths of creepy until you have talked to me when I've been tanked. Text me again, I dare you. I don't have many friends, and not many friends who are willing to text me back. So I'm there, ALWAYS THERE, and I hope I'm sufficiently creepy to creep you out. Unless you're not. Then, um, after a fashion, maybe dating?

Text me.