I keep rewriting this blog.
I'm sorry I'm a drunk.
No, I'm not all that sorry. Fuck you for judging me for it.
I cracked my first beer at 1:30 today, and am on my way to buy a bottle of scotch to mix with my bottle of Disaronno.
This is what I do.
I have my reasons.
I am just very tired of people giving me shit for how I drink.
"Dany, you drink too much." "Dany, your drunk texts are annoying." "Dany, I've never seen you sober." "Dany, I can't date you because you're always drunk."
I KNOW.
You think I don't know that I'm forever alone because I'm slowly killing myself with alcohol? Hell, that's half the reason why I was dumped by my ex. Do I wish that bothered me? Yes. But it doesn't.
I'm sorry I'm a mess. I'm sorry that I don't care I'm a mess. I'm sorry I'm drunk at 2:31 in the afternoon. I'm sorry that I don't care that I'm drunk at 2:31 in the afternoon.
But hell. If you can't accept that I'm a 23-year-old piece of shit right now, then maybe I'm better off without people.
That's an emo thing to say. Is emo still a thing? Or did that die in 2007? Gerard Way, Bert McCracken? Are you still a thing?
Either way. Judging is easy. Understanding is a lot more difficult.
Maybe you should hug me instead of pointing fingers.
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Regrettable Edibles
I'm in the middle of washing copious amounts of laundry. It's hot as fuck in this house, and I am ravenously hungry at a constant rate. I've done a lot of things this week that I regret, and boy, do I hate regrets. In the beginning, I didn't really regret anything. Transient happiness is better than no happiness, if it's all I can get. When you come crashing down from that, though, you hit hard.
I have discovered that I do not feel emotional attachment the same way others do. We can pretend that we've been married for the last seven years, stop talking entirely, and I won't feel a thing.
I am so, so broken.
But not in the I-lie-on-the-floor-and-sob-for-hours broken. I just don't function correctly. But hell, sometimes when something breaks, you jury-rig it and make it work, and it's just as effective. Hell, maybe you made it a little better because it was a shoddy piece of shit to begin with.
That was a tangent and a half. Where was my point?
Almost all humans will attest that emotions are necessary. Maybe I've watched a little too much Star Trek in the middle of the night when I'm tired and vulnerable, but I like the way I am. I have limited knowledge of how to act in social situations, and I don't give a damn if I hurt your feelings, but I get by. I would rather you suffer my cold indifference than make you happy, at times. And I like it this way.
But lately. Ohhh, lately. This lack of emotion is getting me into trouble. There are certain times in our lives where we are supposed to feel something. We are supposed to fall in love with someone, or we are supposed to suffer to see our loved ones suffer, or we are supposed to be disgusted with the pervert on the evening news. I can earnestly feel some of these stronger emotions, but the rest of them have to be faked.
Not only do I not want to fall in love with you, and I don't want to care about your achievements, and I don't pity you half as much as I should, but I'm simply not going to. My only advice to you is to run.
When not feeling an emotion causes me to regret every decision I've made for the last week, you know that an atomic bomb is brewing in the back of my brain. Duck and cover. Sound the alarms. Set your phasers to stun each other if the zombies come. Something is about to go horribly wrong.
But, hell. It's better to regret the things you've done than the ones you haven't.
BE EXCELLENT TO EACH OTHER.
PARTY ON, DUDES.
I have discovered that I do not feel emotional attachment the same way others do. We can pretend that we've been married for the last seven years, stop talking entirely, and I won't feel a thing.
I am so, so broken.
But not in the I-lie-on-the-floor-and-sob-for-hours broken. I just don't function correctly. But hell, sometimes when something breaks, you jury-rig it and make it work, and it's just as effective. Hell, maybe you made it a little better because it was a shoddy piece of shit to begin with.
That was a tangent and a half. Where was my point?
Almost all humans will attest that emotions are necessary. Maybe I've watched a little too much Star Trek in the middle of the night when I'm tired and vulnerable, but I like the way I am. I have limited knowledge of how to act in social situations, and I don't give a damn if I hurt your feelings, but I get by. I would rather you suffer my cold indifference than make you happy, at times. And I like it this way.
But lately. Ohhh, lately. This lack of emotion is getting me into trouble. There are certain times in our lives where we are supposed to feel something. We are supposed to fall in love with someone, or we are supposed to suffer to see our loved ones suffer, or we are supposed to be disgusted with the pervert on the evening news. I can earnestly feel some of these stronger emotions, but the rest of them have to be faked.
Not only do I not want to fall in love with you, and I don't want to care about your achievements, and I don't pity you half as much as I should, but I'm simply not going to. My only advice to you is to run.
When not feeling an emotion causes me to regret every decision I've made for the last week, you know that an atomic bomb is brewing in the back of my brain. Duck and cover. Sound the alarms. Set your phasers to stun each other if the zombies come. Something is about to go horribly wrong.
But, hell. It's better to regret the things you've done than the ones you haven't.
PARTY ON, DUDES.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
'Looks Aren't Everything.'
The fuck they aren't.
How many times have you heard someone tell you that looks aren't everything? Whether you're feeling like shit about your looks, or you're critiquing the looks of someone else, some jackass in the vicinity is going to say it. And it's not like he can come up with any other way to say it, that isn't cliche. He's just going to keep saying it the same way over and over again, until the sentence has absolutely no meaning at all.
We can't even blame American culture at this point. I mean, sure, we're the most vain human beings on the planet. But it isn't just us. No matter where you go, there are visual markers that we judge each other on. Certain cultures have visual status symbols, like you see in the Natty G magazines, with dudes with giant plates in their lips. That's a tangible symbol. The bigger the plate in your lip, the more of a G you are. Rabbis have beards and curls to set them apart, among other things. The Chinese like small feet for a woman. No matter where or when you look, you're doing just that: looking.
To say that you don't judge on looks is the biggest bunch of bullshit in the world. As much as I would love to say that looks don't matter and certainly aren't everything, I'd be the biggest liar on the planet. Our world is one in which our primary sense is visual. Before we learn to speak, we see everything. Our subconscious picks up things in our peripheral vision that we aren't even aware we're seeing. So much stock is put in sight. We have glasses to correct our vision, and surgery to correct our vision when we're worried about how we look. The world is made of millions of colors and patterns to please our eyes because we rely so much on sight.
So, with sight being such an important factor in our lives, why wouldn't we base most of our decisions on what we see? To be fair, we don't always choose what we find aesthetically pleasing. I love the color blue. Why? Couldn't say. I just really love the color. Our favorite everythings are different because we respond to different visual stimuli. Does our society dictate a lot of what we find appealing? Absolutely. But just as much of it are things that we have no control over.
To say that looks aren't everything defies our brain entirely. Sure, you can't marry someone that repulses you, but you'll also never be happy with someone that you aren't sexually attracted to. A good conversation is important, but we need serotonin. Even if you're only slightly attracted to someone's looks, that is still sexual attraction. It's animalistic at best, but it's a biological response we need. I would never lie to someone and tell them not to worry about how they look because looks aren't everything. Looks are a lot of it. Being attractive gets you a lot of places in life. Do I wish this were not the case? Yes and no. I don't want to live in a vain world, but I sure as hell want to live in a pretty one.
Looks honestly aren't everything, but you can't expect people not to judge you on how you look ever. If you realize how much humans use their visual world to make judgements, flip it back on them and use it to your advantage.
How many times have you heard someone tell you that looks aren't everything? Whether you're feeling like shit about your looks, or you're critiquing the looks of someone else, some jackass in the vicinity is going to say it. And it's not like he can come up with any other way to say it, that isn't cliche. He's just going to keep saying it the same way over and over again, until the sentence has absolutely no meaning at all.
We can't even blame American culture at this point. I mean, sure, we're the most vain human beings on the planet. But it isn't just us. No matter where you go, there are visual markers that we judge each other on. Certain cultures have visual status symbols, like you see in the Natty G magazines, with dudes with giant plates in their lips. That's a tangible symbol. The bigger the plate in your lip, the more of a G you are. Rabbis have beards and curls to set them apart, among other things. The Chinese like small feet for a woman. No matter where or when you look, you're doing just that: looking.
To say that you don't judge on looks is the biggest bunch of bullshit in the world. As much as I would love to say that looks don't matter and certainly aren't everything, I'd be the biggest liar on the planet. Our world is one in which our primary sense is visual. Before we learn to speak, we see everything. Our subconscious picks up things in our peripheral vision that we aren't even aware we're seeing. So much stock is put in sight. We have glasses to correct our vision, and surgery to correct our vision when we're worried about how we look. The world is made of millions of colors and patterns to please our eyes because we rely so much on sight.
So, with sight being such an important factor in our lives, why wouldn't we base most of our decisions on what we see? To be fair, we don't always choose what we find aesthetically pleasing. I love the color blue. Why? Couldn't say. I just really love the color. Our favorite everythings are different because we respond to different visual stimuli. Does our society dictate a lot of what we find appealing? Absolutely. But just as much of it are things that we have no control over.
To say that looks aren't everything defies our brain entirely. Sure, you can't marry someone that repulses you, but you'll also never be happy with someone that you aren't sexually attracted to. A good conversation is important, but we need serotonin. Even if you're only slightly attracted to someone's looks, that is still sexual attraction. It's animalistic at best, but it's a biological response we need. I would never lie to someone and tell them not to worry about how they look because looks aren't everything. Looks are a lot of it. Being attractive gets you a lot of places in life. Do I wish this were not the case? Yes and no. I don't want to live in a vain world, but I sure as hell want to live in a pretty one.
Looks honestly aren't everything, but you can't expect people not to judge you on how you look ever. If you realize how much humans use their visual world to make judgements, flip it back on them and use it to your advantage.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
'Compassion is something that they just don't teach.'
Sometimes, I wish my friends could tell when I'm upset. My entire life has been spent perfecting the art of masking my feelings. I am so good at it that sometimes even I don't know how I'm feeling. But just once, I wish one person knew me well enough to see through me. And even if they were not perfect at this, I wish they would ask every once in a while if I am okay. Sure, I would lie. But at least the effort would be made.
I know that I pretend not to give a fuck about anyone. Unfortunately for me, I care about you more than anyone else does. If you're a part of my life, I love you deeply. That's just how I am. Do you irritate the fuck out of me? Probably. Do I think you're incredibly stupid? Most likely. Do I ignore you when you talk? Absolutely. But no one loves you more than I do, and I can promise you that. I want you to be happy. I want you to live the most beautiful life in the world, and only know love. I don't want you to ever shed one tear, or to know pain. I am so devoted to making you happy, and it damn near kills me.
I can't say anyone feels this way about me. Sure, you may say those words, but do you feel them? I highly doubt it. And if you earnestly feel it, I know for a fact that you don't show it. People are not affectionate with me. Perhaps that is because I try to distance myself from others. (I tend not to trust...anyone.) I don't want to get close to you because I know you'll let me down. EVERYONE lets me down. It's impossible not to. But when you live up to my expectations of you, you let me down even more. When you show your humanity, you let me down. When you give in to my cold indifference, you let me down. When you stop caring about me because I expect you not to care, you let me down.
I want you to love me as much as I love you. Maybe this can change my cold, cynical heart. I don't give into emotions, but I still want to be loved and admired. I want people to enjoy my company, and to want to be around me. I want people to look at the tears hiding behind my eyes, and feel pangs in their heart.
I like to say that I have three friends. I've been lying. I don't see anyone as my friend. Scouts' Honor. Friends don't treat each other like this. It's half my fault, though. I don't let you get close to me. I don't let you be my friend. So I have no one to blame but myself. But if you were my friend, you would know that I do this. You would know that I have a hard time trusting people. You would call me out on it and make me stop being such a fuckface. Have you done this lately? Then don't get offended when I think you're a shitty excuse for a friend.
I'd like to name-drop here and call people out, but I'm just not that type. I love you enough to want you to protect you from how I feel about you.
If you take anything from my disorganized claptrap, it should be this: fucking check up on people once in a while. Stop being selfish and make sure your friends aren't struggling with something on their own. Because half the time, I am, and the hardest part is that you don't know.
I know that I pretend not to give a fuck about anyone. Unfortunately for me, I care about you more than anyone else does. If you're a part of my life, I love you deeply. That's just how I am. Do you irritate the fuck out of me? Probably. Do I think you're incredibly stupid? Most likely. Do I ignore you when you talk? Absolutely. But no one loves you more than I do, and I can promise you that. I want you to be happy. I want you to live the most beautiful life in the world, and only know love. I don't want you to ever shed one tear, or to know pain. I am so devoted to making you happy, and it damn near kills me.
I can't say anyone feels this way about me. Sure, you may say those words, but do you feel them? I highly doubt it. And if you earnestly feel it, I know for a fact that you don't show it. People are not affectionate with me. Perhaps that is because I try to distance myself from others. (I tend not to trust...anyone.) I don't want to get close to you because I know you'll let me down. EVERYONE lets me down. It's impossible not to. But when you live up to my expectations of you, you let me down even more. When you show your humanity, you let me down. When you give in to my cold indifference, you let me down. When you stop caring about me because I expect you not to care, you let me down.
I want you to love me as much as I love you. Maybe this can change my cold, cynical heart. I don't give into emotions, but I still want to be loved and admired. I want people to enjoy my company, and to want to be around me. I want people to look at the tears hiding behind my eyes, and feel pangs in their heart.
I like to say that I have three friends. I've been lying. I don't see anyone as my friend. Scouts' Honor. Friends don't treat each other like this. It's half my fault, though. I don't let you get close to me. I don't let you be my friend. So I have no one to blame but myself. But if you were my friend, you would know that I do this. You would know that I have a hard time trusting people. You would call me out on it and make me stop being such a fuckface. Have you done this lately? Then don't get offended when I think you're a shitty excuse for a friend.
I'd like to name-drop here and call people out, but I'm just not that type. I love you enough to want you to protect you from how I feel about you.
If you take anything from my disorganized claptrap, it should be this: fucking check up on people once in a while. Stop being selfish and make sure your friends aren't struggling with something on their own. Because half the time, I am, and the hardest part is that you don't know.
Monday, May 23, 2011
I'm the confident girl with no confidence.
All right, so I pretty much bombed my 30-day challenge. In my defense, I work 40 hours a week and sleep whatever hours remain. Blow me.
I'd like to say that I enjoy blogging. Sometimes I do. However, I write words to be read, and I don't think anyone -actually- reads these posts, so it seems incredibly futile. I 'unno. Maybe I'm just an asshole who likes to hear herself talk. Er, type? I really only like to blog about myself. I don't care about anything else in the world. Seriously. Just watch how many times I use the word 'I' or refer to myself somehow. It will fuck your mind to pieces.
And that's another thing about me; I LOVE TO SWEAR. Honestly, I tried to stop once upon a time, but I can't get the anger out of my system. There is nothing diffusing about saying, "Gosh bless it, Nancy!" It just doesn't work. The quick burst of anger that comes with screaming FUCK! when you're angry is so relaxing and fulfilling.
I've also recently decided that my GPS's name is Audrey. She wasn't listening to me when I told her that I refused to turn right, so I screamed, "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGHHHHH! AUDREY! AUDREY!" a la Anchorman-style. It seemed to fit, so now that bossy ho's name is Audrey. I talk to Audrey a lot. I wish she were better at small talk, though. When I'm on a six-mile stretch of road and she isn't telling me where to go, I feel extremely lonely.
Right now, I'm extremely hungry. I didn't have time for breakfast, had lunch, didn't take a meal at work, and didn't eat when I got home. And I'll be a giant cock if I'm going to cook at this hour.
My cat is HORRIFIED of Frankenberry. And I use the word 'horrified' in the most severe sense possible. I'm surprised she hasn't crapped her cat pants just from looking at him. Though, if I were a tiny feline faced with a 6'6" man-beast, I'd probably hiss and hide behind the toilet, too. To each his own; we all know the monsters can't reach behind the toilet.
^^This shit right here: this is what goes on in my head all day long. Isn't it irritating as fuck? Often I wish that my brain could STFU for five minutes, but I don't really want that. Silence scares me.
You know what else scares me? Well, yes, that. But another thing: blank paper. I square to Bob. Blank paper freaks me the fuck out. And when you work at an office supply store, it's EVERYWHERE. I'm gonna have PTSD if I ever leave Staples.
Pregnant women scare me a little. A lot. I don't know what it is. But you...you have a thing MOVING AROUND INSIDE your body. How in the balls do you live with that for nine months?! I mean, it's INSIDE you, and it MOVES. *shudders* I couldn't do it. Every time I have to help a pregnant customer at work, I want to run away, screaming.
Jerry's final thought:
Thanks for showing me your kankles, but I don't want to sing about Jesus.
I'd like to say that I enjoy blogging. Sometimes I do. However, I write words to be read, and I don't think anyone -actually- reads these posts, so it seems incredibly futile. I 'unno. Maybe I'm just an asshole who likes to hear herself talk. Er, type? I really only like to blog about myself. I don't care about anything else in the world. Seriously. Just watch how many times I use the word 'I' or refer to myself somehow. It will fuck your mind to pieces.
And that's another thing about me; I LOVE TO SWEAR. Honestly, I tried to stop once upon a time, but I can't get the anger out of my system. There is nothing diffusing about saying, "Gosh bless it, Nancy!" It just doesn't work. The quick burst of anger that comes with screaming FUCK! when you're angry is so relaxing and fulfilling.
I've also recently decided that my GPS's name is Audrey. She wasn't listening to me when I told her that I refused to turn right, so I screamed, "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGHHHHH! AUDREY! AUDREY!" a la Anchorman-style. It seemed to fit, so now that bossy ho's name is Audrey. I talk to Audrey a lot. I wish she were better at small talk, though. When I'm on a six-mile stretch of road and she isn't telling me where to go, I feel extremely lonely.
Right now, I'm extremely hungry. I didn't have time for breakfast, had lunch, didn't take a meal at work, and didn't eat when I got home. And I'll be a giant cock if I'm going to cook at this hour.
My cat is HORRIFIED of Frankenberry. And I use the word 'horrified' in the most severe sense possible. I'm surprised she hasn't crapped her cat pants just from looking at him. Though, if I were a tiny feline faced with a 6'6" man-beast, I'd probably hiss and hide behind the toilet, too. To each his own; we all know the monsters can't reach behind the toilet.
^^This shit right here: this is what goes on in my head all day long. Isn't it irritating as fuck? Often I wish that my brain could STFU for five minutes, but I don't really want that. Silence scares me.
You know what else scares me? Well, yes, that. But another thing: blank paper. I square to Bob. Blank paper freaks me the fuck out. And when you work at an office supply store, it's EVERYWHERE. I'm gonna have PTSD if I ever leave Staples.
Pregnant women scare me a little. A lot. I don't know what it is. But you...you have a thing MOVING AROUND INSIDE your body. How in the balls do you live with that for nine months?! I mean, it's INSIDE you, and it MOVES. *shudders* I couldn't do it. Every time I have to help a pregnant customer at work, I want to run away, screaming.
Jerry's final thought:
Thanks for showing me your kankles, but I don't want to sing about Jesus.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Day 2: This is a little overdue.
Technically, I'm posting this after midnight, so I've already failed my "every day for a month" thing. Suck on these little Chinese nuts. I may expand upon this when I don't have a migraine.
'Amour'
Die Liebe ist ein wildes Tier
Sie atmet dich sie sucht nach dir
Nistet auf gebrochenen Herzen
Geht auf Jagd bei Kuss und Kerzen
Saugt sich fest an deinen Lippen
Gräbt sich Gänge durch die Rippen
Lässt sich fallen weich wie Schnee
Erst wird es heiß dann kalt am Ende tut es weh
Amour Amour
Alle wollen nur dich zähmen
Amour Amour am Ende
gefangen zwischen deinen Zähnen
Die Liebe ist ein wildes Tier
Sie beißt und kratzt und tritt nach mir
Hält mich mit tausend Armen fest
Zerrt mich in ihr Liebesnest
Frißt mich auf mit Haut und Haar
und würgt mich wieder aus nach Tag und Jahr
Läßt sich fallen weich wie Schnee
Erst wird es heiß dann kalt am Ende tut es weh
Amour Amour
Alle wollen nur dich zähmen
Amour Amour am Ende
gefangen zwischen deinen Zähnen
Die Liebe ist ein wildes Tier
In die Falle gehst du ihr
In die Augen starrt sie dir
Verzaubert wenn ihr Blick dich trifft
Bitte bitte gib mir Gift
Love is a wild animal
It breathes you it looks for you
It nests upon broken hearts
and goes hunting when there are kisses and candles
It sucks tightly on your lips
and digs tunnels through your ribs
It drops softly like snow
First it gets hot then cold in the end it hurts
Amour Amour
Everyone just wants to tame you
Amour Amour in the end
caught between your teeth
Love is a wild animal
It bites and scratches and kicks towards me
It holds me tightly with a thousand arms
and drags me into its love nest
It devours me completely
and retches me back out after many years
It drops softly like snow
First it gets hot then cold in the end it hurts
Amour Amour
Everyone just wants to tame you
Amour Amour in the end
caught between your teeth
Love is a wild animal
You fall into its trap
It stares into your eyes
Spellbound when its gaze hits you
Please please give me poison
Love is anything but tame. Love is anything but predictable. Love is anything but logical. So why do we crave it so? Why do YOU want love?
Die Liebe ist ein wildes Tier
Sie atmet dich sie sucht nach dir
Nistet auf gebrochenen Herzen
Geht auf Jagd bei Kuss und Kerzen
Saugt sich fest an deinen Lippen
Gräbt sich Gänge durch die Rippen
Lässt sich fallen weich wie Schnee
Erst wird es heiß dann kalt am Ende tut es weh
Amour Amour
Alle wollen nur dich zähmen
Amour Amour am Ende
gefangen zwischen deinen Zähnen
Die Liebe ist ein wildes Tier
Sie beißt und kratzt und tritt nach mir
Hält mich mit tausend Armen fest
Zerrt mich in ihr Liebesnest
Frißt mich auf mit Haut und Haar
und würgt mich wieder aus nach Tag und Jahr
Läßt sich fallen weich wie Schnee
Erst wird es heiß dann kalt am Ende tut es weh
Amour Amour
Alle wollen nur dich zähmen
Amour Amour am Ende
gefangen zwischen deinen Zähnen
Die Liebe ist ein wildes Tier
In die Falle gehst du ihr
In die Augen starrt sie dir
Verzaubert wenn ihr Blick dich trifft
Bitte bitte gib mir Gift
Love is a wild animal
It breathes you it looks for you
It nests upon broken hearts
and goes hunting when there are kisses and candles
It sucks tightly on your lips
and digs tunnels through your ribs
It drops softly like snow
First it gets hot then cold in the end it hurts
Amour Amour
Everyone just wants to tame you
Amour Amour in the end
caught between your teeth
Love is a wild animal
It bites and scratches and kicks towards me
It holds me tightly with a thousand arms
and drags me into its love nest
It devours me completely
and retches me back out after many years
It drops softly like snow
First it gets hot then cold in the end it hurts
Amour Amour
Everyone just wants to tame you
Amour Amour in the end
caught between your teeth
Love is a wild animal
You fall into its trap
It stares into your eyes
Spellbound when its gaze hits you
Please please give me poison
Love is anything but tame. Love is anything but predictable. Love is anything but logical. So why do we crave it so? Why do YOU want love?
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Day 1: Hoppe hoppe Reiter
Keep in mind that I'm not planning this shit out before I write it.
I just sat down and started typing.
So here we go.
Check it out baby guuuuuurl.
You left me.
Oh no, we broke up.
And it's been a while since we last spoke, but....
>.>
Those are not my words.
For real this time.
+ + + + +
Mein Herz schlägt nicht mehr weiter
There is an ache in my bed. Both dull and sharp, the room is built around it. This is a room I no longer occupy, for the light blackens my skin. The ache is immense, and in its presence, no one speaks of anything but. Leave, I ask the ache. But it is resolved to stay, forever hurting and forever interfering.
Surely, Reason will solve everything. Reason will come, armed with logic and soundness of mind, and he will oust this ache from my bed. I wait for Reason. For what seems like the greater part of my life, I wait. All the while, Ache is present, tightening my chest and darkening my vision. When Reason comes, he slips in like a hurricane. We are only so prepared for him.
Time is irrelevant at this point. Moot, impertinent, consuming. That is what Time is. And this is how it passes. I have come to lie on the floor. I will wait for Reason to prevail until my bones are dust and my breath is merely the wind.
I just sat down and started typing.
So here we go.
Check it out baby guuuuuurl.
You left me.
Oh no, we broke up.
And it's been a while since we last spoke, but....
>.>
Those are not my words.
For real this time.
+ + + + +
There is an ache in my bed. Both dull and sharp, the room is built around it. This is a room I no longer occupy, for the light blackens my skin. The ache is immense, and in its presence, no one speaks of anything but. Leave, I ask the ache. But it is resolved to stay, forever hurting and forever interfering.
Surely, Reason will solve everything. Reason will come, armed with logic and soundness of mind, and he will oust this ache from my bed. I wait for Reason. For what seems like the greater part of my life, I wait. All the while, Ache is present, tightening my chest and darkening my vision. When Reason comes, he slips in like a hurricane. We are only so prepared for him.
Time is irrelevant at this point. Moot, impertinent, consuming. That is what Time is. And this is how it passes. I have come to lie on the floor. I will wait for Reason to prevail until my bones are dust and my breath is merely the wind.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
I built that bitch a brick house. Bitches love brick houses.
I can honestly say that there is no one like me.
Whether or not this is a good thing remains to be determined.
I need to get back into writing.
Staples needs to chill the fuck ooouuuuut so I have some free time.
Don't get me wrong; I love all these hours.
However, if I could work shorter shifts and balance it all out over the week, I'd be pretty stoked.
Fuck if that happens, though. I already work six days a week.
Remember that next time you want to bitch at me for not hanging out with you.
I have bills to pay.
Unless you're going to start paying my rent and put gas in my tank, CHILL THE FUCK OUT.
People put me in an extremely bad mood.
Seriously.
Just thinking about the shit I have to deal with on a daily basis because people want to either think with their genitals or their emotions.
One in the mother fupping same.
Next thing I knew, she was all up on me screamin', "Yeah!"
Okay, those aren't my words.
Shhhhh.
But back to what I was here for in the first place!
Blogging.
Right.
That.
I'm going to do it more often.
A topic a day? Maybe.
Or how about a post a day.
Even a picture?
For a month.
I think I can handle that.
And if I can't....
Well, then I need to seriously rethink some shit.
RIGHT-O!
A post a day.
I'll do it.
Post number one will be tomorrow.
For today, I shall leave you with this:
Whether or not this is a good thing remains to be determined.
I need to get back into writing.
Staples needs to chill the fuck ooouuuuut so I have some free time.
Don't get me wrong; I love all these hours.
However, if I could work shorter shifts and balance it all out over the week, I'd be pretty stoked.
Fuck if that happens, though. I already work six days a week.
Remember that next time you want to bitch at me for not hanging out with you.
I have bills to pay.
Unless you're going to start paying my rent and put gas in my tank, CHILL THE FUCK OUT.
People put me in an extremely bad mood.
Seriously.
Just thinking about the shit I have to deal with on a daily basis because people want to either think with their genitals or their emotions.
One in the mother fupping same.
Next thing I knew, she was all up on me screamin', "Yeah!"
Okay, those aren't my words.
Shhhhh.
But back to what I was here for in the first place!
Blogging.
Right.
That.
I'm going to do it more often.
A topic a day? Maybe.
Or how about a post a day.
Even a picture?
For a month.
I think I can handle that.
And if I can't....
Well, then I need to seriously rethink some shit.
RIGHT-O!
A post a day.
I'll do it.
Post number one will be tomorrow.
For today, I shall leave you with this:
Sunday, January 9, 2011
This blog is a disorganized mess because I'm angry.
I try to live my life with sincerity. I try to show everyone I meet the love and attention they deserve. You never know the personal war that someone is fighting, so I always try to make every interaction with another person worth it. Not too long ago, I had a customer at work who needed to order a toner cartridge online. He was an older gentlemen, soft-spoken, and very polite.
Now, dotcom orders are a total pain in the ass sometimes. They aren't that difficult to execute, but they are time consuming if the customer does not know what they want. However, I immediately stopped what I was doing to help this man. I have a soft spot for old people, and, like I said, I try to make every moment with a new person count.
This man was prepared. He knew exactly what toner cartridge he needed, and the whole transaction didn't take long. While he was paying for it, he told me, "Last time I tried to order this, I went through three different people." Apparently, three of my coworkers had passed him around, each not wanting to take the time to help him. I told him, "Well, I'm glad we were able to get you taken care of today." I didn't want to take extra credit for simply doing my job. I didn't go out of my way for this man; this is part of what I am required to do every day.
That night, however, I went home and cried my eyes out.
I was so upset for this man. I was so hurt that the people I work with would give someone the run-around like that. I mean, some customers can be a real pain in the ass, but we still must do our jobs. How dare we be so freaking lazy that we won't help an old man with one transaction? I cried and cried from the guilt for that guy. I was hurt knowing that when I am his age, people are going to look at me and immediately not want to deal with me because of my age. He wasn't senile, he wasn't rude, and he certainly wasn't a pain to deal with. But because we deal with so many people that are a pain, this man was discriminated against. To say the least, I was upset.
Today, I had an elderly customer who wanted to talk to a technology expert. My manager directed him to me, and I greeted him with a smile. I figured this interaction would be like all the rest: he would ask me questions about something, and I would give him all of the information I could. I would be sincere and kind through the whole thing, and he would leave knowing that I really do value interacting with people.
This second man was the polar opposite of the first.
This second guy was the absolute most racist asshole I have ever met in my life.
Through the whole conversation, he kept asking me general questions about archaic technology. When I explained to him that a transistor and a vacuum tube can have several definitions depending on what object you are tying them with, he asked me how old I am. I told him, and he said, "Well, you don't know shit." After saying that about five times, he decided to give me a history lesson on everything from World War II to telling me where Rhode Island is. By this point, I was beyond pissed off, but I wouldn't show that because that's not the type of person I am. None of the conversation made any sense; he kept asking me questions about different parts of history, none of which tied together. I frantically was looking for a manager to get this guy away from me. I was trying to work on other things, and he wouldn't stop telling me that I didn't know shit, and that there wasn't anything that I knew more about than he did. Now, when I tell this next part, keep in mind that this is a 69-year-old white man.
"Do you know what Haiti is?" he asked me.
"I know it's an island...?" I said.
"Do you know who lives there?"
"Haitians live there." I had no idea where he was going with this.
"No, those fucking niggers live there. And do you know what those fucking niggers did?"
"No, sir. I don't."
"They killed all the white people."
By this point, I honestly had no idea how to react. I simply stared at him because I was earnestly scared by him.
"And most of them were French, too. Those fucking niggers killed all the white people."
And the part of the story that sealed the deal for me was the ending.
"Do you know why no trees grow in Haiti?"
"No, sir. I don't. Why do no trees grow in Haiti?"
"God is punishing all those fucking niggers." He held up a peace sign, glared at me with the most murderous look I have ever seen, and said, "White woman." He bent down to pick up his bag, and said, "God is punishing those fucking niggers. God bless you," and left the store.
I don't give two shits about how true or false his story is. I don't care if he suffers from PTSD like he says. I don't care if he was an engineer for the Air Force. This man makes me absolutely sick, and he is a great example of why no one helps one another out anymore.
For the rest of the day, I feared talking to anymore customers. I feared that everyone I talked to would personally attack me, and then give me the most hate-filled history lesson imaginable.
I don't quite know how to explain how this made me feel. I am absolutely livid that this man was able to just walk into the store and start harassing me. I am absolutely raged beyond all belief that he had the audacity to tell me that I am stupid. I may be stupid, but nothing, NOTHING compares to his sickening ignorance.
Hey asshole, there is only one race, the human race. As far as I am concerned, if you are "racist," you are against all of humanity. I'm sorry if you think that because I don't look at people as a color, that I am stupid and naive. I'm sorry that you feel the need to look down on me because I believe in loving all human beings. But honestly, I fucking feel bad for you. I feel bad for you that you have to feel such hate in your heart. I pity that you can look at the color of one's skin and feel such rage. I feel sorry for you because you can't look passed the bridge of your nose at what a beautiful place the world is. But you make me absolutely sick to my stomach.
People like the first man make me proud to be who I am, a person that can take the time to get to like something about everyone. But people like the second man ruin any chance this world has at tolerance, acceptance, and love. Even I didn't want anything to do with him after the fifth time he told me I didn't know shit.
Don't get me wrong. I truly pity this man because I think he is mentally unstable. If he really suffers from PTSD, I am very sorry about that. This is why I didn't fight back when he verbally attacked me. I thought to myself, "If he is unstable, he needs help, not another fight." But he honestly didn't deserve any help I was willing to give him.
So here's a shout out to you, you racist son of a bitch: fuck off. You will not meet another person in the world willing to take your abuse and sickening racism with the grace I did. And while I would cry for you if someone knocked your block off, I wouldn't deny that you deserved it because you make me absolutely sick inside. You will be at a point in your life where someone will have to save you. And if God truly exists, I hope He sends a black person your way and you choke on every racist word you have ever spoken.
Now, dotcom orders are a total pain in the ass sometimes. They aren't that difficult to execute, but they are time consuming if the customer does not know what they want. However, I immediately stopped what I was doing to help this man. I have a soft spot for old people, and, like I said, I try to make every moment with a new person count.
This man was prepared. He knew exactly what toner cartridge he needed, and the whole transaction didn't take long. While he was paying for it, he told me, "Last time I tried to order this, I went through three different people." Apparently, three of my coworkers had passed him around, each not wanting to take the time to help him. I told him, "Well, I'm glad we were able to get you taken care of today." I didn't want to take extra credit for simply doing my job. I didn't go out of my way for this man; this is part of what I am required to do every day.
That night, however, I went home and cried my eyes out.
I was so upset for this man. I was so hurt that the people I work with would give someone the run-around like that. I mean, some customers can be a real pain in the ass, but we still must do our jobs. How dare we be so freaking lazy that we won't help an old man with one transaction? I cried and cried from the guilt for that guy. I was hurt knowing that when I am his age, people are going to look at me and immediately not want to deal with me because of my age. He wasn't senile, he wasn't rude, and he certainly wasn't a pain to deal with. But because we deal with so many people that are a pain, this man was discriminated against. To say the least, I was upset.
Today, I had an elderly customer who wanted to talk to a technology expert. My manager directed him to me, and I greeted him with a smile. I figured this interaction would be like all the rest: he would ask me questions about something, and I would give him all of the information I could. I would be sincere and kind through the whole thing, and he would leave knowing that I really do value interacting with people.
This second man was the polar opposite of the first.
This second guy was the absolute most racist asshole I have ever met in my life.
Through the whole conversation, he kept asking me general questions about archaic technology. When I explained to him that a transistor and a vacuum tube can have several definitions depending on what object you are tying them with, he asked me how old I am. I told him, and he said, "Well, you don't know shit." After saying that about five times, he decided to give me a history lesson on everything from World War II to telling me where Rhode Island is. By this point, I was beyond pissed off, but I wouldn't show that because that's not the type of person I am. None of the conversation made any sense; he kept asking me questions about different parts of history, none of which tied together. I frantically was looking for a manager to get this guy away from me. I was trying to work on other things, and he wouldn't stop telling me that I didn't know shit, and that there wasn't anything that I knew more about than he did. Now, when I tell this next part, keep in mind that this is a 69-year-old white man.
"Do you know what Haiti is?" he asked me.
"I know it's an island...?" I said.
"Do you know who lives there?"
"Haitians live there." I had no idea where he was going with this.
"No, those fucking niggers live there. And do you know what those fucking niggers did?"
"No, sir. I don't."
"They killed all the white people."
By this point, I honestly had no idea how to react. I simply stared at him because I was earnestly scared by him.
"And most of them were French, too. Those fucking niggers killed all the white people."
And the part of the story that sealed the deal for me was the ending.
"Do you know why no trees grow in Haiti?"
"No, sir. I don't. Why do no trees grow in Haiti?"
"God is punishing all those fucking niggers." He held up a peace sign, glared at me with the most murderous look I have ever seen, and said, "White woman." He bent down to pick up his bag, and said, "God is punishing those fucking niggers. God bless you," and left the store.
I don't give two shits about how true or false his story is. I don't care if he suffers from PTSD like he says. I don't care if he was an engineer for the Air Force. This man makes me absolutely sick, and he is a great example of why no one helps one another out anymore.
For the rest of the day, I feared talking to anymore customers. I feared that everyone I talked to would personally attack me, and then give me the most hate-filled history lesson imaginable.
I don't quite know how to explain how this made me feel. I am absolutely livid that this man was able to just walk into the store and start harassing me. I am absolutely raged beyond all belief that he had the audacity to tell me that I am stupid. I may be stupid, but nothing, NOTHING compares to his sickening ignorance.
Hey asshole, there is only one race, the human race. As far as I am concerned, if you are "racist," you are against all of humanity. I'm sorry if you think that because I don't look at people as a color, that I am stupid and naive. I'm sorry that you feel the need to look down on me because I believe in loving all human beings. But honestly, I fucking feel bad for you. I feel bad for you that you have to feel such hate in your heart. I pity that you can look at the color of one's skin and feel such rage. I feel sorry for you because you can't look passed the bridge of your nose at what a beautiful place the world is. But you make me absolutely sick to my stomach.
People like the first man make me proud to be who I am, a person that can take the time to get to like something about everyone. But people like the second man ruin any chance this world has at tolerance, acceptance, and love. Even I didn't want anything to do with him after the fifth time he told me I didn't know shit.
Don't get me wrong. I truly pity this man because I think he is mentally unstable. If he really suffers from PTSD, I am very sorry about that. This is why I didn't fight back when he verbally attacked me. I thought to myself, "If he is unstable, he needs help, not another fight." But he honestly didn't deserve any help I was willing to give him.
So here's a shout out to you, you racist son of a bitch: fuck off. You will not meet another person in the world willing to take your abuse and sickening racism with the grace I did. And while I would cry for you if someone knocked your block off, I wouldn't deny that you deserved it because you make me absolutely sick inside. You will be at a point in your life where someone will have to save you. And if God truly exists, I hope He sends a black person your way and you choke on every racist word you have ever spoken.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Thursday, August 5, 2010
I'd like to buy the world a Coke.
Do you remember those commercials? One person would buy a Coca-Cola for another, and that person would buy a Coca-Cola for someone else, and the chain would continue until everyone imaginable was sipping on a bubbly pop. The cola brought everyone together into a world where we could express our appreciation for one another without words.
I'd like to buy the world a Coke.
We always hear, "Don't judge because you never know where someone has come from." Admittedly, I am horrible about this. If I see someone with dirty hair, insults sling through my synapses before I stop and think, "Maybe that person's water has been shut off because he/she is struggling to pay for it." When I see a screaming child in the store, I silently berate the parent for spoiling the child, or not knowing proper discipline. Then I think, "Perhaps the child is autistic or mentally disturbed, and this is a meltdown." That is something I can certainly relate to.
These comments I make in my head are nearly automatic. And I hate myself afterward. No one deserves to be looked upon like they are scum simply because we are ignorant of each other.
I, for one, fear going out in public because of this. I am so terrified of the looks people will cast my way, the thoughts they may form about me, or the scoffs that will hit me when I leave the house. There isn't too much reason for people to look at me like that; I blend in fairly well. However, I know how people think--I know how I think--and I don't want others to think the way I do.
I started a personal project not too long ago in which I tell anyone who asks me to, all of the positive things about them that I see. For those I know better, the list is much longer, but I am willing to do this even for those I have met online. I do not believe in altruism, so this is no selfless act on my part, but I do believe that it could better the entire world. Can you imagine if, for one day, we all made each other feel worth the life we are living? Can you imagine what our daily lives would be like if we could receive two compliments for every insult? Can you imagine if we made each other feel valued every single day? The world would still be a very flawed and somewhat tragic place, but the sun would burn a little brighter for everyone.
I have never believed that the only thing the world needs is love. I am far too cynical and have experienced proof to the opposite of that. This entire world needs a lot of work. But love is the foundation of everything that could improve us. If we loved ourselves, others, the life we're given, the earth, the things we own, our futures, improvements would be made. This would never "fix" the world and all of its problems, but gorram, we'd have a start.
My bucket list has one goal on it: I'd like to buy the world a Coke. I want to show everyone love, hoping that, for even just a moment, they will know that I love who they are and value them. What greater gift could I give?
I'd like to buy the world a Coke.
We always hear, "Don't judge because you never know where someone has come from." Admittedly, I am horrible about this. If I see someone with dirty hair, insults sling through my synapses before I stop and think, "Maybe that person's water has been shut off because he/she is struggling to pay for it." When I see a screaming child in the store, I silently berate the parent for spoiling the child, or not knowing proper discipline. Then I think, "Perhaps the child is autistic or mentally disturbed, and this is a meltdown." That is something I can certainly relate to.
These comments I make in my head are nearly automatic. And I hate myself afterward. No one deserves to be looked upon like they are scum simply because we are ignorant of each other.
I, for one, fear going out in public because of this. I am so terrified of the looks people will cast my way, the thoughts they may form about me, or the scoffs that will hit me when I leave the house. There isn't too much reason for people to look at me like that; I blend in fairly well. However, I know how people think--I know how I think--and I don't want others to think the way I do.
I started a personal project not too long ago in which I tell anyone who asks me to, all of the positive things about them that I see. For those I know better, the list is much longer, but I am willing to do this even for those I have met online. I do not believe in altruism, so this is no selfless act on my part, but I do believe that it could better the entire world. Can you imagine if, for one day, we all made each other feel worth the life we are living? Can you imagine what our daily lives would be like if we could receive two compliments for every insult? Can you imagine if we made each other feel valued every single day? The world would still be a very flawed and somewhat tragic place, but the sun would burn a little brighter for everyone.
I have never believed that the only thing the world needs is love. I am far too cynical and have experienced proof to the opposite of that. This entire world needs a lot of work. But love is the foundation of everything that could improve us. If we loved ourselves, others, the life we're given, the earth, the things we own, our futures, improvements would be made. This would never "fix" the world and all of its problems, but gorram, we'd have a start.
My bucket list has one goal on it: I'd like to buy the world a Coke. I want to show everyone love, hoping that, for even just a moment, they will know that I love who they are and value them. What greater gift could I give?
Friday, May 14, 2010
Carpe Diem--and then bitch-smack it.
Seize the day; make something of your life. Don't sit around waiting for life to drop something in your lap. Make things happen; be a go-getter. Most importantly: never let a moment go by without making the most of it. But is that really what 'carpe diem' means?
No, it isn't. Carpe diem is not about taking every opportunity to do the things you want to do; it's about never fearing the rapidly approaching future. You cannot seize something if you're terrified of it. You will not make the most of the time you have if you fear what may come at you from around the corner.
I know this because I am afraid of everything.
Every day is an anxious battle for sanity. It isn't that something will happen to make me nervous. I simply wake up, scared for anything that could go wrong in the day. I can't watch others use scissors, knives, or other sharp instruments. I panic every time I have a migraine because I fear that I will have an aneurysm. Every moment that I am in a car, I am a nervous wreck. I don't leave the house for fear of being kidnapped, robbed, murdered, etc. When I say I am afraid of everything, I do not exaggerate.
Because of my anxiety, I don't get a lot accomplished during the day. I wake up, play some video games, read a few tech websites, read books, eat, and occasionally play a musical instrument. I am 20 years old and have nothing notable to mention from my two decades on Earth. This is not from a lack of trying to 'seize the day,' but rather, from an inability to shake the fear that keeps me from venturing outside my living room.
I bring this up because recently, I have been talking to a friend about playing an Irish sport called Hurling. I have given myself every single excuse in the book on why I should not and CANNOT play a sport. Oh, I'll be injured. Oh, I'll embarrass myself somehow. Oh, I'm not good at playing on a team, like a well-oiled machine. Oh, I'll make the team lose, and then I'll cry my eyes out. Oh, I'm so bad at sports that I will embarrass myself beyond repair. Oh, I'll be injured. (I reiterate those last two because they're all I can think about, nearly.)
However, so much of me wants to play a sport. I could use the exercise. I could use the excuse to get out of the house, to become more social, to increase my hand-eye coordination. Common sense is slapping me in the face screaming, "GO FOR IT! You know you'll regret it if you don't take this opportunity!" But that anxious part of me would rather live with the regret of missing out than the potential embarrassment, injury, etc.
Common sense is telling me to carpe diem. But for me, that does not mean getting up and doing something. That means punching my fear in the face and doing something no matter how much my brain protests. As of yet, I have been unable to quell the protests and take a chance. I am not a risk taker. Even thinking about taking this opportunity has made my hands clammy and my heart race. And I'm still sitting at my computer!
I want to seize the day and show my life that I am in control. But until I become in control, I will continue to be anxious and afraid. Should I take the chance and seize this opportunity, or should I stay safe and forget about it?
I wish I could figure it out.
No, it isn't. Carpe diem is not about taking every opportunity to do the things you want to do; it's about never fearing the rapidly approaching future. You cannot seize something if you're terrified of it. You will not make the most of the time you have if you fear what may come at you from around the corner.
I know this because I am afraid of everything.
Every day is an anxious battle for sanity. It isn't that something will happen to make me nervous. I simply wake up, scared for anything that could go wrong in the day. I can't watch others use scissors, knives, or other sharp instruments. I panic every time I have a migraine because I fear that I will have an aneurysm. Every moment that I am in a car, I am a nervous wreck. I don't leave the house for fear of being kidnapped, robbed, murdered, etc. When I say I am afraid of everything, I do not exaggerate.
Because of my anxiety, I don't get a lot accomplished during the day. I wake up, play some video games, read a few tech websites, read books, eat, and occasionally play a musical instrument. I am 20 years old and have nothing notable to mention from my two decades on Earth. This is not from a lack of trying to 'seize the day,' but rather, from an inability to shake the fear that keeps me from venturing outside my living room.
I bring this up because recently, I have been talking to a friend about playing an Irish sport called Hurling. I have given myself every single excuse in the book on why I should not and CANNOT play a sport. Oh, I'll be injured. Oh, I'll embarrass myself somehow. Oh, I'm not good at playing on a team, like a well-oiled machine. Oh, I'll make the team lose, and then I'll cry my eyes out. Oh, I'm so bad at sports that I will embarrass myself beyond repair. Oh, I'll be injured. (I reiterate those last two because they're all I can think about, nearly.)
However, so much of me wants to play a sport. I could use the exercise. I could use the excuse to get out of the house, to become more social, to increase my hand-eye coordination. Common sense is slapping me in the face screaming, "GO FOR IT! You know you'll regret it if you don't take this opportunity!" But that anxious part of me would rather live with the regret of missing out than the potential embarrassment, injury, etc.
Common sense is telling me to carpe diem. But for me, that does not mean getting up and doing something. That means punching my fear in the face and doing something no matter how much my brain protests. As of yet, I have been unable to quell the protests and take a chance. I am not a risk taker. Even thinking about taking this opportunity has made my hands clammy and my heart race. And I'm still sitting at my computer!
I want to seize the day and show my life that I am in control. But until I become in control, I will continue to be anxious and afraid. Should I take the chance and seize this opportunity, or should I stay safe and forget about it?
I wish I could figure it out.
It's 3:24 a.m. Do you know where Dany is?
Not sleeping; that's for dang sure.
I think I'm going to learn to play 'Santa Monica' by Theory of a Deadman.
It's a simple song, but I absolutely love it. It reminds me of so much.
The will to blog does not exist for me anymore.
But I promise that I will scrape up some sort of fiction soon. Somehow....
I think the problem with my writer's block stems from the fact that there are so many things I need to say, but so many things I can't say.
"Ooh, and she said, 'Don't you wish you were dead like me?'"
It's not a fear of being judged. It's a fear of pissing people off. I hate offending anyone, upsetting anyone, making anyone angry.... If I can't say what's on my mind, I tend to say nothing at all. I need to stop that. It ruins any sort of creative thought I may have.
Not to mention, everything I have ever wanted to say to the person who hurt me the most has already been said. The biggest motivator for writing in my life has already been perfectly explained. I can't come up with any better words than this. Every single word of this song is EXACTLY what I need to say to someone.
That was for you.
I think I'm going to learn to play 'Santa Monica' by Theory of a Deadman.
It's a simple song, but I absolutely love it. It reminds me of so much.
The will to blog does not exist for me anymore.
But I promise that I will scrape up some sort of fiction soon. Somehow....
I think the problem with my writer's block stems from the fact that there are so many things I need to say, but so many things I can't say.
It's not a fear of being judged. It's a fear of pissing people off. I hate offending anyone, upsetting anyone, making anyone angry.... If I can't say what's on my mind, I tend to say nothing at all. I need to stop that. It ruins any sort of creative thought I may have.
Not to mention, everything I have ever wanted to say to the person who hurt me the most has already been said. The biggest motivator for writing in my life has already been perfectly explained. I can't come up with any better words than this. Every single word of this song is EXACTLY what I need to say to someone.
That was for you.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Lazy
Right now, Frankenberry is taking a practice A+ test online, and I'm trying to think of a blog topic. This happens often. I sit down with the intention to blog about something, and my mind goes completely blank. Clean slate; I've got nothing to talk about. I usually have to stare at this blank publishing box for a while before anything comes to mind.
I started writing a novel a few months back. After about a page worth of writing, I put the notebook away for the night, and I haven't touched it since. I had a good thing going with that story, and I will.
If I can get myself motivated to pick up the notebook and a pen.
But alas, my laziness increases every day. I wake up anywhere between 1:00 and 3:00 p.m. and check my Facebook. The rest of the day consists of staying in my pajamas, eating, and playing video games. I haven't even picked up a book in over a month.
I keep telling myself that once I move out, things will be different. I'll feel much more free, and I'll be more comfortable in working on things that cater to my wants and needs. But will things really change?
Experience tells me no. How much more freedom do I need? I don't have a job, I have no bills, and I don't live with my parents. What motivator am I missing that will kickstart my rump into gear?
Whatever it is, I need to find it desperately fast.
What motivates you?
I started writing a novel a few months back. After about a page worth of writing, I put the notebook away for the night, and I haven't touched it since. I had a good thing going with that story, and I will.
If I can get myself motivated to pick up the notebook and a pen.
But alas, my laziness increases every day. I wake up anywhere between 1:00 and 3:00 p.m. and check my Facebook. The rest of the day consists of staying in my pajamas, eating, and playing video games. I haven't even picked up a book in over a month.
I keep telling myself that once I move out, things will be different. I'll feel much more free, and I'll be more comfortable in working on things that cater to my wants and needs. But will things really change?
Experience tells me no. How much more freedom do I need? I don't have a job, I have no bills, and I don't live with my parents. What motivator am I missing that will kickstart my rump into gear?
Whatever it is, I need to find it desperately fast.
What motivates you?
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
This is an obscure update.
I haven't blogged in a while. I'm a bad, bad person. I've accepted this.
Here's what I have been using to get my hands a little dirty as of late:
1. I am a stand-in bassist for the band Never Before Scene.
Add them here: MySpace and here: FaceBook
OOooh, shameless plug, go.
2. Fuck college. I fucking hate it.
3. I completely lack motivation right now. I want a job so badly, but I can hardly get out of bed after 14 hours of sleep. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me. Oh, I remember; I'm just fucking lazy.
4. I'm updating this out of duty. I feel like I have a commitment to adhere to. FUTURE BABIES COMMITMENT.
5. My love of video games has too much control over my free time. Fuck you, Grand Theft Auto 4. I can live without you. ... I'm so sorry, baby! Please take me back! Yessssss, my precious.....
WHATCHUUUU STARIN' AT?!
6. I have no idea what happened during #5.
7. 'Mambo Number Five' is now stuck in my head.
8. I need a working cell phone more than I need sleep.
9. NEW SEASON OF DOCTOR WHOOOOOOOO!!
10. It's 3:14 a.m. I won't be in bed for a few hours. Yes, I'm fucked.
11. America--FUCK YEAH!
12. The world is more positive when you're Scott Stapp. Yeah.
13. Damn it, I meant for this blog to be meaningful.
14. A little bit of Monica in my life; a little bit of Erica by my side....
15. Today, while eating shells&cheese, I wondered what I would do if I found a mouse foot in my food. I am now afraid of shells&cheese.
16. Siamese cats are the shit.
17. Speaking of Siamese shit and cats, I went to the circus not too long ago. It was awesome.
18. You're drunk.
19. Fuck this blog. I'm tired.
Here's what I have been using to get my hands a little dirty as of late:
1. I am a stand-in bassist for the band Never Before Scene.
Add them here: MySpace and here: FaceBook
OOooh, shameless plug, go.
2. Fuck college. I fucking hate it.
3. I completely lack motivation right now. I want a job so badly, but I can hardly get out of bed after 14 hours of sleep. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me. Oh, I remember; I'm just fucking lazy.
4. I'm updating this out of duty. I feel like I have a commitment to adhere to. FUTURE BABIES COMMITMENT.
5. My love of video games has too much control over my free time. Fuck you, Grand Theft Auto 4. I can live without you. ... I'm so sorry, baby! Please take me back! Yessssss, my precious.....
WHATCHUUUU STARIN' AT?!
6. I have no idea what happened during #5.
7. 'Mambo Number Five' is now stuck in my head.
8. I need a working cell phone more than I need sleep.
9. NEW SEASON OF DOCTOR WHOOOOOOOO!!
10. It's 3:14 a.m. I won't be in bed for a few hours. Yes, I'm fucked.
11. America--FUCK YEAH!
12. The world is more positive when you're Scott Stapp. Yeah.
13. Damn it, I meant for this blog to be meaningful.
14. A little bit of Monica in my life; a little bit of Erica by my side....
15. Today, while eating shells&cheese, I wondered what I would do if I found a mouse foot in my food. I am now afraid of shells&cheese.
16. Siamese cats are the shit.
17. Speaking of Siamese shit and cats, I went to the circus not too long ago. It was awesome.
18. You're drunk.
19. Fuck this blog. I'm tired.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Women Without Make-Up
I've heard a million times the myth that no woman is attractive without make-up. I even have to admit that I don't like anyone seeing me unless I'm fully done-up, for fear that I will repulse other human beings. I can't understand how I got this way, though, since I lived with only my dad for the majority of my life. He certainly didn't wear make-up, and never cared whether or not I brushed my teeth, let alone put make-up on.
I do believe that it was the grocery stores of my youth that turned me into the self-conscious monster I am now. Yes, the grocery stores. For it is here that, while waiting for the cashier to take an hour to ring up the person in front of me with five items, I had to stand and look at the tabloid covers for something to do. Every issue screamed at me, "ZOMG, LOOK AT DEEZ FAMIS PPL WIF NO MAKE-UPZZZ! :O :O :O" I couldn't care less whether or not all of these famous women are wearing their clown masks, but I couldn't resist looking.
I never could look at such pictures and see what the magazines say. I don't see a woman who should put make-up on because, without it, she looks worn and haggard. I don't see bad skin, wrinkles, freckles, puffy eyes, or whatever these women are trying to hide.
I see real women. I see someone who isn't a plastic mold of a million other women in Hollywood. I see someone who, for once, isn't hiding from the entire world. I certainly do not see any ugliness in these photos.
But more importantly, what I see is the magazine telling me that, as a person who doesn't wear make up 24/7, I look disgusting, repulsive, and lizard-like. I'm reminded that unless I'm looking my absolute Hollywood best, I should crawl back into my dark hole and better prepare myself. I'm reminded that my norm just isn't good enough. And that tears me apart.
So, with that, three cheers for real beauty, and a big middle finger to the grocery store!
I do believe that it was the grocery stores of my youth that turned me into the self-conscious monster I am now. Yes, the grocery stores. For it is here that, while waiting for the cashier to take an hour to ring up the person in front of me with five items, I had to stand and look at the tabloid covers for something to do. Every issue screamed at me, "ZOMG, LOOK AT DEEZ FAMIS PPL WIF NO MAKE-UPZZZ! :O :O :O" I couldn't care less whether or not all of these famous women are wearing their clown masks, but I couldn't resist looking.
I never could look at such pictures and see what the magazines say. I don't see a woman who should put make-up on because, without it, she looks worn and haggard. I don't see bad skin, wrinkles, freckles, puffy eyes, or whatever these women are trying to hide.
I see real women. I see someone who isn't a plastic mold of a million other women in Hollywood. I see someone who, for once, isn't hiding from the entire world. I certainly do not see any ugliness in these photos.
But more importantly, what I see is the magazine telling me that, as a person who doesn't wear make up 24/7, I look disgusting, repulsive, and lizard-like. I'm reminded that unless I'm looking my absolute Hollywood best, I should crawl back into my dark hole and better prepare myself. I'm reminded that my norm just isn't good enough. And that tears me apart.
So, with that, three cheers for real beauty, and a big middle finger to the grocery store!
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
My Bout With Christianity
Growing up, my dad and his side of my family were Jehovah's Witnesses. Okay, not every single one of them, but a good majority. I went to meetings every Sunday and Wednesday, and I really thought that it was the one, true religion. To this day, there are still fundamental Jehovah's Witnesses ideals that I accept to be the most likely to be true, but that's not what this is about.
I loved God when I was young. I thought it was crazy that a person could choose not to believe in Him. That was ludicrous! How could anyone not see everything He did?! But the older I got, and the more of the world I saw, the more I felt that something was amiss. During middle school, my dad and I stopped going to the Kingdom Hall. Eventually, I refused to talk about God with anyone. I wouldn't listen to songs that mentioned His name in any way, shape, or form. I wouldn't watch movies with religious themes, and I clammed up any time someone mentioned church.
I always claimed that certain things about God just didn't "make sense." And I knew that I wanted no part of any religion that caused so much war, hatred, and abuse of power. Sometime in high school, I simply stopped believing in God altogether. I went to a very small and very sheltered high school, so this was absolute insanity. I became a social leper after this. If anyone else in my school was an atheist, they certainly weren't open about it. At least, not till I was. Now, I didn't set some sort of trend, but I certainly made atheism a lot easier to talk about.
During my freshman year at college, I was beginning to discover the wonders of Taoism. I bought 'Tao Te Ching,' read it in an hour, and was hooked. I really believed that I had found the right religion for me. About a week later, a friend of mine invited me to her youth group. She wanted me to see the mime team that she was on, which was part of the church. Being that she was one of my closest friends, I attended the youth service. I wanted to leave before the night was anywhere near over, but I stayed. And I came back the next week. I was lonely, and my parents never let me out of the house. I needed some sort of social activity.
Week after week, I attended this youth group, and I kept secret my beliefs about the absence of God, and such. But as I looked around at this group of teenagers that so fiercely believed in a god that I didn't, I realized something that broke me all to pieces: I wanted what they had.
I didn't want the violence, wars, and fighting that came along with a Western religion. But I wanted that faith. I wanted something to fall back on when Karma was giving me the middle finger. I wanted to be part of a church family that would hold me together at my worst.
So, somehow, I made myself believe in God again. Everything I didn't understand, I gave the excuse that, "I'm just a human. How would I possibly understand such a great being?" It never made sense, but I wanted eternal love.
I wanted that eternal love so badly, that I left my only real home. My parents told me that they didn't want me to get baptized, and we fought fiercely, so I moved out. I slept on a pew in the church for a night, and then I moved in with the friend that had brought me to church in the first place.
Everything was excellent. I had my first boyfriend, who was also part of the church. I was so happy. Even when I was sad, I was still happy. But the longer things went on, the more I realized that I had told myself the most damaging lie I could: I talked myself into believing in God.
To this day, I can't believe that I managed to do it. I feel so stupid, so asinine, for becoming a believer. Now that I have regained my senses, and I have stepped back to analyze everything, I don't know how I ever went back to believing in something that makes no sense to me. I remember every tear I cried when I left my parents' house; I remember every tear my siblings cried when I left, and that breaks my heart more than anything. I remember every fight I got into over the great God debate. I remember every person I alienated for their differing beliefs.
In my world, this is what religion does. Scratch that. This is what WESTERN religion does. As a Taoist, I have never felt the needs to choke all of my friends with what I believe in. Not every person who is Christian, Catholic, Lutheran, etc., is a religious zealot, but I was. Never again, Christianity. Never again.
And to anyone I stepped on in my search for that unattainable eternal love, I apologize. I searched for love and acceptance from a being I don't believe in, when the real thing was in front of my face the entire time.
I loved God when I was young. I thought it was crazy that a person could choose not to believe in Him. That was ludicrous! How could anyone not see everything He did?! But the older I got, and the more of the world I saw, the more I felt that something was amiss. During middle school, my dad and I stopped going to the Kingdom Hall. Eventually, I refused to talk about God with anyone. I wouldn't listen to songs that mentioned His name in any way, shape, or form. I wouldn't watch movies with religious themes, and I clammed up any time someone mentioned church.
I always claimed that certain things about God just didn't "make sense." And I knew that I wanted no part of any religion that caused so much war, hatred, and abuse of power. Sometime in high school, I simply stopped believing in God altogether. I went to a very small and very sheltered high school, so this was absolute insanity. I became a social leper after this. If anyone else in my school was an atheist, they certainly weren't open about it. At least, not till I was. Now, I didn't set some sort of trend, but I certainly made atheism a lot easier to talk about.
During my freshman year at college, I was beginning to discover the wonders of Taoism. I bought 'Tao Te Ching,' read it in an hour, and was hooked. I really believed that I had found the right religion for me. About a week later, a friend of mine invited me to her youth group. She wanted me to see the mime team that she was on, which was part of the church. Being that she was one of my closest friends, I attended the youth service. I wanted to leave before the night was anywhere near over, but I stayed. And I came back the next week. I was lonely, and my parents never let me out of the house. I needed some sort of social activity.
Week after week, I attended this youth group, and I kept secret my beliefs about the absence of God, and such. But as I looked around at this group of teenagers that so fiercely believed in a god that I didn't, I realized something that broke me all to pieces: I wanted what they had.
I didn't want the violence, wars, and fighting that came along with a Western religion. But I wanted that faith. I wanted something to fall back on when Karma was giving me the middle finger. I wanted to be part of a church family that would hold me together at my worst.
So, somehow, I made myself believe in God again. Everything I didn't understand, I gave the excuse that, "I'm just a human. How would I possibly understand such a great being?" It never made sense, but I wanted eternal love.
I wanted that eternal love so badly, that I left my only real home. My parents told me that they didn't want me to get baptized, and we fought fiercely, so I moved out. I slept on a pew in the church for a night, and then I moved in with the friend that had brought me to church in the first place.
Everything was excellent. I had my first boyfriend, who was also part of the church. I was so happy. Even when I was sad, I was still happy. But the longer things went on, the more I realized that I had told myself the most damaging lie I could: I talked myself into believing in God.
To this day, I can't believe that I managed to do it. I feel so stupid, so asinine, for becoming a believer. Now that I have regained my senses, and I have stepped back to analyze everything, I don't know how I ever went back to believing in something that makes no sense to me. I remember every tear I cried when I left my parents' house; I remember every tear my siblings cried when I left, and that breaks my heart more than anything. I remember every fight I got into over the great God debate. I remember every person I alienated for their differing beliefs.
In my world, this is what religion does. Scratch that. This is what WESTERN religion does. As a Taoist, I have never felt the needs to choke all of my friends with what I believe in. Not every person who is Christian, Catholic, Lutheran, etc., is a religious zealot, but I was. Never again, Christianity. Never again.
And to anyone I stepped on in my search for that unattainable eternal love, I apologize. I searched for love and acceptance from a being I don't believe in, when the real thing was in front of my face the entire time.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Childlike Honesty
In my own head, I am famous. I am the only person I know that is 100% fake with everyone I know, with good intentions. I am not a cold-hearted liar. I do not lie to my friends and family to start drama or to be vicious. I falsify my emotions because I don't trust anyone. I hide everything about myself because I don't want anyone to know my weaknesses. This facade is in no way justified, but it's how things are.
Because of this, I value emotional honesty above most qualities in a friend, family member, or partner. I cannot be myself around anyone, so I feel liberated and almost real when someone lets me know how they feel. It can be about anything, really. A friend can tell me their true opinion about me, what they think about politics, what they think about during sex, etc. As long as everything is honest, I love it.
I simply cannot get enough honesty out of life. If I were ever to be cheated on by my boyfriend, I would want to know about it. Ignorance is not bliss, in my mind. My little sisters like to tell me that my mom "didn't want me, and that's why [I] live with daddy." (We have different biological mothers.) It shocked me the first time I heard them say this because I didn't even think they knew about that situation, but then I had to laugh. Children are known for being innocent; innocent of sin, blame, and vendettas. In reality, I think children are just honest. Kids sometimes seem to lack a rudeness filter. It shocks parents, embarrasses adults in general, and sometimes makes people laugh. Perhaps it is the innocence of children that makes them so honest, but either way, I love it. My sisters have told me several things about my appearance, personality, attitude, and hobbies that no adult would dare utter, but I wish we would. I wish we could all be like children in this sense--uncorrupted by society's definitions of what you can and cannot say to people. I wish I could tell someone that I think they're demoralized garbage without everyone getting their panties in a twist. However, all the wishing in the world wouldn't make me that honest, and it sure wouldn't make the world accepting.
Friedrich Nietzsche, in his Thus Spoke Zarathustra, speaks a lot about how adults should act like children, but not youths. I suppose there are several things he could mean by this (such as innocence), but I truly believe that his main point is in the honesty department. I cannot quote Zarathustra off the top of my head, so I cannot offer insightful passages that help my argument. I can only say that if "honesty is the best policy," then the children of the world are the most moral citizens one could find.
Because of this, I value emotional honesty above most qualities in a friend, family member, or partner. I cannot be myself around anyone, so I feel liberated and almost real when someone lets me know how they feel. It can be about anything, really. A friend can tell me their true opinion about me, what they think about politics, what they think about during sex, etc. As long as everything is honest, I love it.
I simply cannot get enough honesty out of life. If I were ever to be cheated on by my boyfriend, I would want to know about it. Ignorance is not bliss, in my mind. My little sisters like to tell me that my mom "didn't want me, and that's why [I] live with daddy." (We have different biological mothers.) It shocked me the first time I heard them say this because I didn't even think they knew about that situation, but then I had to laugh. Children are known for being innocent; innocent of sin, blame, and vendettas. In reality, I think children are just honest. Kids sometimes seem to lack a rudeness filter. It shocks parents, embarrasses adults in general, and sometimes makes people laugh. Perhaps it is the innocence of children that makes them so honest, but either way, I love it. My sisters have told me several things about my appearance, personality, attitude, and hobbies that no adult would dare utter, but I wish we would. I wish we could all be like children in this sense--uncorrupted by society's definitions of what you can and cannot say to people. I wish I could tell someone that I think they're demoralized garbage without everyone getting their panties in a twist. However, all the wishing in the world wouldn't make me that honest, and it sure wouldn't make the world accepting.
Friedrich Nietzsche, in his Thus Spoke Zarathustra, speaks a lot about how adults should act like children, but not youths. I suppose there are several things he could mean by this (such as innocence), but I truly believe that his main point is in the honesty department. I cannot quote Zarathustra off the top of my head, so I cannot offer insightful passages that help my argument. I can only say that if "honesty is the best policy," then the children of the world are the most moral citizens one could find.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
'My Immortal'
I have way too many trust issues. I mean, WAAAAAY too many. I don't trust anything anyone says to me. Literally. The only people I trust 100% are my tiny little baby siblings. (Okay, so they're seven, seven, and four now, but they're still my babies!) I don't even trust my parents all the time. ESPECIALLY not my biological mother.
I won't tell the whole story about her (unless you specifically request it), but she left me. It was a long-ass time ago, and I've forgiven her. I grew up without her, and I didn't mind it. It wasn't till I was older that I realized that I was supposed to have a mom, and that she wasn't supposed to physically and mentally abuse me. She wasn't supposed to neglect me, and she was supposed to see me when she promised she would. Through everything, and because of everything, and in spite of everything, I don't hate her. I can't hate her. I grew up and realized that, as badly as she hurt me, she did me the greatest favor in the world by leaving my father to raise me. He's my main man, and he raised me well. And it wasn't till I was older that I also realized that, as badly as she hurt me, she was hurting herself even more. I know her life was full of pain, maybe even moreso than mine. And even though she did it out of selfishness, I know it must have hurt her to leave a four-month-old baby.
That's right, I forgave her. I said goodbye to bitterness, anger, resentment, and whatever else she made me feel. But I cannot get rid of that lack of trust. I cannot shake the dislike I have for the female population, and I certainly don't trust a soul, besides the three aforementioned.
I haven't seen my mother since I was ten, and I'm now twenty. I never even heard from her in those ten long years. I could have a relationship with her now, if I wanted. I could search for her on the various social networks, and I could try to be that long-lost daughter again.
But why fucking bother? I know what we'll happen. I'll be the best damn thing that happened to her for a while. She'll realize that I love her more than anyone else has ever loved her, or ever will love her. She'll remember that I am her first-born child, her oldest daughter, that I have her eyes; and she'll weep. She'll cry for all that lost time, and for not being around when I went to kindergarten, when I discovered art, when I went to two proms, when I graduated high school, when my heart was broken. And then I'll be old news again. It'll be too much of an effort for her to be my mom. I'll be that pain in her ass that she wasn't ready for, and wasn't worth the attempt. And I'll be heart-broken all over again. I'll stay up every night, crying and missing her, missing the potential of knowing exactly who my mommy is.
And I don't want that.
But really, it's not that different from now.
Mom, I've forgiven you, and I've tried to forget you. But you are woven into my soul for all of eternity. I will forever be the one child she didn't want to bother with. I'll be the girl with her eyes; eyes she hasn't looked into in ten years. If I never talk to her again, and I never know what cards life dealt her, it won't change a thing. The damage has been done, and I'll never trust a soul as long as I live. I'll still hear songs that remind me of her, and cry myself to sleep at night. I'll still miss her and love her with more love that she deserves. My heart will never ever be able to leave her behind, though my brain tells it that it should.
(Obviously not my vid.)
I won't tell the whole story about her (unless you specifically request it), but she left me. It was a long-ass time ago, and I've forgiven her. I grew up without her, and I didn't mind it. It wasn't till I was older that I realized that I was supposed to have a mom, and that she wasn't supposed to physically and mentally abuse me. She wasn't supposed to neglect me, and she was supposed to see me when she promised she would. Through everything, and because of everything, and in spite of everything, I don't hate her. I can't hate her. I grew up and realized that, as badly as she hurt me, she did me the greatest favor in the world by leaving my father to raise me. He's my main man, and he raised me well. And it wasn't till I was older that I also realized that, as badly as she hurt me, she was hurting herself even more. I know her life was full of pain, maybe even moreso than mine. And even though she did it out of selfishness, I know it must have hurt her to leave a four-month-old baby.
That's right, I forgave her. I said goodbye to bitterness, anger, resentment, and whatever else she made me feel. But I cannot get rid of that lack of trust. I cannot shake the dislike I have for the female population, and I certainly don't trust a soul, besides the three aforementioned.
I haven't seen my mother since I was ten, and I'm now twenty. I never even heard from her in those ten long years. I could have a relationship with her now, if I wanted. I could search for her on the various social networks, and I could try to be that long-lost daughter again.
But why fucking bother? I know what we'll happen. I'll be the best damn thing that happened to her for a while. She'll realize that I love her more than anyone else has ever loved her, or ever will love her. She'll remember that I am her first-born child, her oldest daughter, that I have her eyes; and she'll weep. She'll cry for all that lost time, and for not being around when I went to kindergarten, when I discovered art, when I went to two proms, when I graduated high school, when my heart was broken. And then I'll be old news again. It'll be too much of an effort for her to be my mom. I'll be that pain in her ass that she wasn't ready for, and wasn't worth the attempt. And I'll be heart-broken all over again. I'll stay up every night, crying and missing her, missing the potential of knowing exactly who my mommy is.
And I don't want that.
But really, it's not that different from now.
Mom, I've forgiven you, and I've tried to forget you. But you are woven into my soul for all of eternity. I will forever be the one child she didn't want to bother with. I'll be the girl with her eyes; eyes she hasn't looked into in ten years. If I never talk to her again, and I never know what cards life dealt her, it won't change a thing. The damage has been done, and I'll never trust a soul as long as I live. I'll still hear songs that remind me of her, and cry myself to sleep at night. I'll still miss her and love her with more love that she deserves. My heart will never ever be able to leave her behind, though my brain tells it that it should.
(Obviously not my vid.)
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Linoleum
The tile is cool against my face. Cool, and so familiar. It isn't the first time that I've chosen to lie with my skin upon the floor. It isn't the first time that I've sunk as low as the floor. It isn't the first time that I've given up on myself in my own bathroom.
As I lie, I trace the pattern with my fingers. Beautiful red snapdragons, full of passion, lust, and pretension. How many times have I been in this spot? I can still see a pool of my tears drowning one of the snapdragons. My eyes hurt, but it isn't from the tears I've shed. My eyes are sore from looking at myself. They burn because of the person I have become.
A peace sign is painted on the bathroom door. I feel the urge to run my fingers over the creases and lines. How long ago did I paint this? Was it minutes, days, months? The blend of blue and green is faded. I must have been here a while.
Can I reach up and touch the symbol on the door? No, I am on the floor; I am in the comfort of the smooth, arrogant flowers. They are as fake as my heart, and as fragile. But I dare not leave the comfort of the familiar.
But the door. I need to touch those colors. I need to feel the vibrations in the wood and know that something is beyond it. I have a window seat. A window seat is beyond the door. The door of peace. A little further from that peace is a view.
But I am here, not there. I cannot walk through the door. Solid, it is. By nature, and the laws of Earth.
I kiss one of the snapdragons, and beg them to grow and cover me. I would very much like to be a piece of the earth. But these tile flowers do not grow, no matter how long I have been here.
I cannot stroll through the door, I repeat. But the door, the door of peace, it has something through it. A small sphere, brass. It wiggles, turns, and it can give me freedom.
Brass. Does it burn? Will it turn for me?
I give the snapdragons another look. I beg, plead with my sore eyes. These flowers, so familiar, push me. They push me with everything they are; false, pretentious, deceptive. They push and prod and poke until I am sitting upon my knees. They lift me and move me until I can touch the brass with my fingers. It does not burn. The flowers urge me on until I grasp the brass and pull myself from the reach of their red control. My feet are trodding on the flowers now, and I splash in the pool of my own tears.
I am against the door of peace. The blues and greens are not so faded from this level. I breathe deeply the smell of wood. Strength, natural strength.
My hand is still upon the brass. I hold my breath as my hand tricks the brass, and the door reveals the world beyond.
My eyes are sore, but I see. I see, I see, I see a window. And beyond that window, a sky. The sky is bright. How long was I there?
The sky outside is a conundrum. It can change infinitely, but is always there; a constant. It has always been there.
I sit upon the window seat and rest my face upon the panes. They are warm from the day that ticked on. I will stay here.
As I lie, I trace the pattern with my fingers. Beautiful red snapdragons, full of passion, lust, and pretension. How many times have I been in this spot? I can still see a pool of my tears drowning one of the snapdragons. My eyes hurt, but it isn't from the tears I've shed. My eyes are sore from looking at myself. They burn because of the person I have become.
A peace sign is painted on the bathroom door. I feel the urge to run my fingers over the creases and lines. How long ago did I paint this? Was it minutes, days, months? The blend of blue and green is faded. I must have been here a while.
Can I reach up and touch the symbol on the door? No, I am on the floor; I am in the comfort of the smooth, arrogant flowers. They are as fake as my heart, and as fragile. But I dare not leave the comfort of the familiar.
But the door. I need to touch those colors. I need to feel the vibrations in the wood and know that something is beyond it. I have a window seat. A window seat is beyond the door. The door of peace. A little further from that peace is a view.
But I am here, not there. I cannot walk through the door. Solid, it is. By nature, and the laws of Earth.
I kiss one of the snapdragons, and beg them to grow and cover me. I would very much like to be a piece of the earth. But these tile flowers do not grow, no matter how long I have been here.
I cannot stroll through the door, I repeat. But the door, the door of peace, it has something through it. A small sphere, brass. It wiggles, turns, and it can give me freedom.
Brass. Does it burn? Will it turn for me?
I give the snapdragons another look. I beg, plead with my sore eyes. These flowers, so familiar, push me. They push me with everything they are; false, pretentious, deceptive. They push and prod and poke until I am sitting upon my knees. They lift me and move me until I can touch the brass with my fingers. It does not burn. The flowers urge me on until I grasp the brass and pull myself from the reach of their red control. My feet are trodding on the flowers now, and I splash in the pool of my own tears.
I am against the door of peace. The blues and greens are not so faded from this level. I breathe deeply the smell of wood. Strength, natural strength.
My hand is still upon the brass. I hold my breath as my hand tricks the brass, and the door reveals the world beyond.
My eyes are sore, but I see. I see, I see, I see a window. And beyond that window, a sky. The sky is bright. How long was I there?
The sky outside is a conundrum. It can change infinitely, but is always there; a constant. It has always been there.
I sit upon the window seat and rest my face upon the panes. They are warm from the day that ticked on. I will stay here.
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