If I’m at your disposal, does that make me disposable? …
Fighting with my hair today. It wants to be dry, frizzy and staticy. I want it to be soft, smooth, and shiny. So I brought out the big guns. I put straight olive oil in that shit. Teach you to fight with me, hair. Make you smell like olive oil, how you like that?? Stupid hair….
I forgot to take the trash out last night. Found it still sitting on the porch where I left it. Whoops.
I mostly think I’m an idiot. A simpleton. If I have a good idea, believe me that it surprises me as much as anyone else.
I’m so sick of feelings. Having them, talking about them, feeling them.
Did anyone else catch the live presentation of A Sound of Music? It was apparently so awesome, they’re thinking of doing live presentations of other musicals. Like Fiddler on the Roof, which I’ve never seen and don’t really know anything about.
Had a dream about that guy the other night. I’d finally gotten to his place to see him. It was a nice house actually, big. Pretty empty and kinda dingy looking, but totally not bad. He took me on a tour, blah blah. His girlfriend was in their room, sleeping, so we snuck off to another room, and were kinda holding each other for the briefest of moments, and it was this sick, but oh-so-good feeling.. And then a bunch of their friends come into the house and one of the girls runs me off – scratching my hand, I remember. Lonnie does nothing, of course. Anyway, that’s a dream that’s perfectly plain, innit? Never again Viki, please, never again…
How does one, as a parent, let their child get a month or more behind in their homework? An 11 year old kid. I mean, sure he can be a little liar, but it’s not like this is the first time this has happened. Isn’t there some way of checking on these things, holding him accountable from the first, so he doesn’t get punished over and over and over for the same damn thing. Isn’t that a failing on your part as a parent, even a little? My nephew lost his phone today, so no more incessant texting for a few days. I feel bad, cuz he texted me around 3:30 today, and I didn’t reply soon enough. =/
I’m still in this, “I have nothing to offer” place. There are conversations I want to reply to, messages that make me think.. And I just feel too dumb to respond. I have nothing of worth to add. Why does what I say matter… I know, I know, please don’t lecture me. ❤
My niece cut her own hair the other day. Apparently it’s not so bad. And, apparently it’s something I used to do a lot when I was younger. Does this explain those god-awful bowl-cut bangs I see in pictures? I hope so. Cuz if one of my parents did that to me intentionally, it was cruel. =P
It’s not that I really enjoy cleaning/housework. I just don’t trust anyone else to do it right. From vacuuming to scrubbing the toilet to doing the dishes. Unless I’ve done it, it’s not done right.
I have, so far, purchased 1 (ONE) Christmas present. For my nephew. That might not even get here by Christmas. It was just really cool, and I hope he’ll think so too. When he gets it. Towards the end of January…
It’s 11 P.M.. Do you know where your heart is?
My brother and the kids will be coming here for Christmas Eve. Sometime around 11 A.M.. Get it over early, I like his thinking. But, this means the cooking/baking will be starting early early. Well, except for the mini-cheesecakes I’ve been making him for the past couple years. I really do hope he likes them, and isn’t just B.S.ing me. They’re kindof a pain to make. Sorry for bitching.
My eyes are feeling itchy, and my chest feeling hollow… Keep writing…
Thinking of my last comment on my last blog, I’ve been having a lot of dreams this year. Which I find kinda weird, because I’ve been drinking a helluva lot this year, and doesn’t drunk sleep interfere with REM sleep, where dreams happen? Even a night when I’ve only slept like, 5 hours, I’ll have at least one, if not two dreams (or more). More often than not, pleasant. For months this summer, I dreamed of my first boyfriend, almost every night. Those were good.
Does anyone have a dream interpretation site that they find reliable? I’m curious.
Ouch. More writing.
When I was younger, I had a sleepover at my friend Courtney’s house. I remember thinking her family must be really rich, because she had a blanket on her bed that she didn’t sleep with. It was just, decorative. I thought that was weird, and kinda wasteful.
My mother once said that if she found out one of her closest female friends was gay, she wouldn’t be comfortable with them and would back out of the friendship. I’d like to think that over the years, I’ve had enough of an impact on her that she wouldn’t feel that way.
I’ve definitely been a bad influence on my mom though. She cusses a lot more! – I love that. She’s open to the occasional drink – we had margaritas with my sister in law a while back, and she’s always looking for a fun drink to have for New Years. I’m thinking of getting her some Zima. I loved that crap for a summer when I was younger. =P
I don’t want to stop writing, cuz there’s a pit of hurt waiting for me when I do. Hell.
I hate Christmas decorations. All they are to me is clutter. And I hate clutter. I want my dining room table empty and clean, not crammed with fake snow and stupid Rudolph characters. I want my plant stands to have plants, not *#@%^$ snowmen candles that never get lit. I hate the shadows that the stupid strings of fake plastic holly throw. I HATE poinsettias! I hate any and all kinds of tablecloths. I hate “holiday” pot holders that you can’t use because god-forbid they get stained. Holiday throw-rugs, really?? They stain this stupid carpet as soon as you put a wet boot on them! … I could list so many more things… Sorry to be a Grinch…
Maybe I’m not in the Christmas mood because I haven’t yet seen my Christmas movies. Yes, Die Hard and Lethal Weapon. I’ll try to make an effort to watch them this weekend.
I feel like an ass because I have people to spend Christmas with. And though there will be some good moments, I’ll still be lonely. I love my family, but they’re part of the reason I feel so lonely. I’ve tried to reach out to them over the years, and have been rebuked….
I read an article the other day about how to avoid static – I get shocked at least a half dozen times a day and I hate it – and among the suggestions was to not wear shoes with rubber soles. Uhm, does anyone makes shoes without rubber soles? Can someone tell me where to find good, hella cheap shoes that don’t have rubber soles??
Dolphins are among the smartest creatures on the planet, right? And they are also one of the only species acknowledged as “rapists.” As much as whales creep me out, I prefer whales.
I read a conversation Sean posted months ago about cutting (and other means to coping with loneliness). I’ll end this rambling blog with a short 1 page story I wrote on the subject a while back. To preface, I only cut for a few months or a year in high school, and was drawing on that experience among others.
The moment the blade touched her skin, her eyes closed, her breath quickened. At the first bite of the cool steel her brow furrowed. As it slid smoothly through her flesh she hissed with the exquisite pain. She drew the blade slowly around the meat of her forearm. Each second an eternity of mindless sense and release. Drawing close to her inner arm, she relaxed, the knife point easing out.
She sagged, her entire body relaxing, collapsing with relief. Blood beaded from the shallow wound. It ran sluggishly down her arm, pooling slightly at each of the thin puckered scars that lined her from elbow to wrist
She imagined this must be what heroin feels like, and smiled to herself. But instead of injecting happiness into her veins she was giving her despair an outlet to escape. It lived in her blood, surely. The aching that coursed through her daily. Through her heart. A poison that needed to be leached.
The feeling was the closest thing to peace she could remember knowing. The angst, isolation, fear – all the pieces of her misery were expressed in the delicate slice of the knife, and for a time were lessened. Bled out.
Even in her moment of tormented bliss, she knew it wouldn’t last. Her pain would build and build until she felt compelled to turn to the blade again. Just the thought made her want to go again immediately. The anxiety felt crushing suddenly. Her eyes snapped open, a high keening issuing from her throat, which already felt it was closing.
Her fingers clenched on the handle of the knife. Feeling it’s reassuring solidity. Wood and steel, reassuring in its sense of permanence. She gazed down at her arm with wide eyes, taking in the streaks of red, the meandering tracks. They’d dried somewhat, tacky to her touch. Her breathing shallowed, a sort of shock settling in.
She wondered, for the millionth time it seemed, what she would do if she went to far. If she cut too deep. She wondered if she would just sit and watch her life drain from her. A part of her hoped she’d make an effort to stop it. Another part leapt at the thought, eager for a more permanent solution to her problems.
Even if she did call out, yell and scream for help, what would that do? If someone happened to hear her, find her, what then? An assault and battery of psychological testing, a horde of therapists, a flood of medications? And the overwhelming humiliation of being known.
No, she thought grimly, if it were to happen, she’d just let it. Give in to that darker desire, and let her life, her anguish and sorrow, spill from her until there was nothing left. Nothing but the body she’d been born into. Nothing but the husk of a person that she felt she’d become.
Tears pooled in her eyes, and a strong, overwhelming feeling of hopelessness swept over her. This was her life, her future. Days filled with increasing anguish, with a loneliness so bitter it burned like lava through her. Her only comfort the kiss of a blade. Her only peace, more pain. Her legacy a path of scars. This was all that life had to offer her? All that she could expect?
A lifetime cut short, bit by bit. A soul literally bled of its warmth. She laid her head in her hands, overcome. Her life, and her depression, had never before felt so… vital. She felt that tiny niggle of doubt, heard the faintest whisper of hope. Maybe, maybe this didn’t have to be it. This didn’t have to be her path. The thought scared her more than the thought of dying. The hope scared her.
But maybe. Maybe.