This is so fun. I sometimes think I have too much fun, and later on, when I'm old, the weight of all my fun will come crashing down on my weak bones. For all the pain and responsibility that I see other adults having to deal with, I've only ever dealt with a fraction of that. Everyone's so grumbles about their stressful lives. Sometimes I think that mine is, too, and I get grumbles. But then I have a night like last night, paired with a morning like this morning, and I have no grumble excuses.
This morning, it took everything in me to get out of bed. I didn't have to get out of bed, actually, but my teeth felt nasty and I wanted coffee really bad. My bed was so warm. So, so warm and cozy and smushy, and my brain was swollen from last night (and was at critical mass). I had this perfect pillow formation set up to where I was laying on one, and the other cold, lumpy pillow (affectionately dubbed "the Jank") was on top of my head, chilling it.
But stomach acidity and toothbrushes pulled me out. Chuggin' water and cooking eggs kept me out. Now, I've got 2 fried eggs, sauteed & curried garlic spinach, chard, and bell peppers with couscous in my tummy, and I kinda want to go back to bed.
The moral of the story, and the point of writing this, is that I CAN JUST GO BACK TO BED IF I WANT TO. I have too much fun.
19 November 2010
16 November 2010
On the Lam
When things surround me and don't let me breathe, usually I simply ignore it until it's no longer a problem, or if the things are tasks, I do them and move on. If they are bills, I pay them and cross them off a list.
I may be a lot of things, but something I'm not is easily affected by things that don't matter. That's why these past three weeks have been exhausting, surprising, and awful. Not the entire time, but you know how negativity bloats up and fills your days with thoughts concerning it, no matter what other fun things and happy people are around to distract you?
That's probably a given, but I haven't truly felt this way since I was a mopey teenager. I'm new to this. I'm pretty much sold that it's not a valid way to be, and I simply cannot get anything done when I'm not happy.
Since I don't want to directly speak of the subject matter, I will now list all the things that didn't go wrong in the last three weeks:
It wasn't sadness; no one died. My friends didn't desert me. I didn't default on my student loans, entergy has not cut off my power. My sandals didn't break in New Orleans. I didn't throw punches, though I almost wanted to. I've not gone a day without everything I need. No one caught me stealing their internet. My family didn't fall apart, I did not get into a car accident, no one overdosed. I'm not in jail, and none of my friends are either.
Those are the real things that could go wrong, not just in the last few weeks, but every day. What went wrong wasn't real, and on the way home from New Orleans this weekend, the fog around me finally dissipated. That was a terrible three-week vacation, and a real physical vacation to New Orleans fixed it.
I'm back to being impermeable. Score!
I may be a lot of things, but something I'm not is easily affected by things that don't matter. That's why these past three weeks have been exhausting, surprising, and awful. Not the entire time, but you know how negativity bloats up and fills your days with thoughts concerning it, no matter what other fun things and happy people are around to distract you?
That's probably a given, but I haven't truly felt this way since I was a mopey teenager. I'm new to this. I'm pretty much sold that it's not a valid way to be, and I simply cannot get anything done when I'm not happy.
Since I don't want to directly speak of the subject matter, I will now list all the things that didn't go wrong in the last three weeks:
It wasn't sadness; no one died. My friends didn't desert me. I didn't default on my student loans, entergy has not cut off my power. My sandals didn't break in New Orleans. I didn't throw punches, though I almost wanted to. I've not gone a day without everything I need. No one caught me stealing their internet. My family didn't fall apart, I did not get into a car accident, no one overdosed. I'm not in jail, and none of my friends are either.
Those are the real things that could go wrong, not just in the last few weeks, but every day. What went wrong wasn't real, and on the way home from New Orleans this weekend, the fog around me finally dissipated. That was a terrible three-week vacation, and a real physical vacation to New Orleans fixed it.
I'm back to being impermeable. Score!
01 November 2010
The Art of Burning Bridges
Hello, November. It's been a long year. I'm ready to throw it all back, get naked and climb under the covers for a nice, long binge sleep. Pretend that a good 60% of this never happened. Wouldn't mind dabbing a little concealer on the things I've seen, said and done in the past 3 months.
There is something eating at me, and I need to drive a stake through it before I change into someone I'm not; before everyone notices. I have bigger goals for myself than a single feeling, or a temporary reprieve from loneliness.
I'm better than this.
There is something eating at me, and I need to drive a stake through it before I change into someone I'm not; before everyone notices. I have bigger goals for myself than a single feeling, or a temporary reprieve from loneliness.
I'm better than this.
20 October 2010
09 October 2010
First World
Not a day and a half goes by, and most of my first-world problems have evaporated, or tended to themselves. The check didn't bounce. I'm not dwelling on the mess I used to be. I got to the bank in time. I wrote my cousin a heartfelt note detailing why exactly I would not be attending his wedding (entirely due to finances and not being able to afford taking off work for 3 weekends in a row). I'm getting enough sleep, eating well, and am not pregnant. The magazine I over-committed to, seems to have...gone under; it's October 9th and still no October issue, and no contact from the editor in a month.
It's rare, but I do love when my problems evaporate. Still want to leave, though.
It's rare, but I do love when my problems evaporate. Still want to leave, though.
07 October 2010
Shame
October is to be celebrated. Usually here in the dirty south, the climate gets mixed up and forgets that it's supposed to be autumnal outside, but this October is different. LA finally figured it out, but the cold snap feels... foreboding.
I've enjoyed having my windows open, yes. Have I been basking in the noon sunshine-breeze combo? For hours. But the unnaturalness of this season has been getting to me, along with impending clashes of multiple personal relationships, over-committing my time in all of my endeavors, my sister's impending marriage on the 23rd (and all of its accouterments, including shoes, hair, dress, jewelry, makeup, bachelorette party, gifts) and generally feeling like I can't afford my life, even though I've chopped out almost everything I used to dump my money into. Shit, I wrote a check for rent and it could bounce at any moment. The double tomorrow should take care of that, but if my landlord decides to go to the bank tomorrow morning, then I get to make one of the most embarassing phone calls ever.
My life dug a hole and I've been dancing around it with my fingers crossed.
On the bright side, I have somehow dropped 25 pounds since June. I'm 5'2", so it shows like a strip club in a neighborhood. It has been really dramatic, and hard in a way, because when I run into someone I haven't seen for awhile, they make a point to say something to the effect of, "You look great! You really let yourself go for awhile." And yes, I did, but in ways that those people don't know. It's a constant reminder that I spent a long time replacing myself with habits and junk and people that didn't make me happy. I'll come to terms with it one day, but right now, I just wish that it hadn't happened. I lost some of the best years of my life to forgetting what makes me happy. The worst part was that I was okay with it for the most part. It sickens me, angers me, makes me feel that I was lazy with my life and was just cool with letting my dreams evaporate. And yeah, it's great to be able to fit in clothes that I haven't worn in 5 years, but it's kind of a bittersweet achievement.
I can see it in my mother's eyes, she is concerned, because I had a bit of an issue with an eating disorder in high school. She thinks I'm back at it again, but that couldn't be further from the truth. I hate being hungry, and have absolutely no idea how I managed that years ago. But I really don't know how to explain it--I dropped about 10 pounds when I got my wisdom teeth out, but it just kept falling off me. I did change the way I eat, but not really consciously. Tommy moved out and I found that my grocery loads were vastly different. Also, money issues made it imperative that I eat cheaply, which meant I didn't go out to eat at all, all summer. I'm eating the way I've always wanted to eat. It's what I would have been eating if I hadn't tied myself to people for the last five years. I was making jumps and taking risks and living life on my toes, which seems to be my true nature. I felt better about my life, and somehow that all translated into looking like I did back when I was happy. It involved virtually no exercise.
Man, that was supposed to be the bright side. It is a bright side, but I don't like thinking about it right now. It'd be easier if I didn't keep running into people who remind me of how much of a mess I used to be.
My burgeoning mental state will likely catch up with me soon. Probably the weekend of my sister's wedding. After that, the climate will remember that it is dyslexic and go back to sweltering, and I can go back to remembering exactly why I'm here; I seem to have forgotten. Or maybe I won't remember. Maybe I just need to leave soon. I hear Oregon is fantastic.
I've enjoyed having my windows open, yes. Have I been basking in the noon sunshine-breeze combo? For hours. But the unnaturalness of this season has been getting to me, along with impending clashes of multiple personal relationships, over-committing my time in all of my endeavors, my sister's impending marriage on the 23rd (and all of its accouterments, including shoes, hair, dress, jewelry, makeup, bachelorette party, gifts) and generally feeling like I can't afford my life, even though I've chopped out almost everything I used to dump my money into. Shit, I wrote a check for rent and it could bounce at any moment. The double tomorrow should take care of that, but if my landlord decides to go to the bank tomorrow morning, then I get to make one of the most embarassing phone calls ever.
My life dug a hole and I've been dancing around it with my fingers crossed.
On the bright side, I have somehow dropped 25 pounds since June. I'm 5'2", so it shows like a strip club in a neighborhood. It has been really dramatic, and hard in a way, because when I run into someone I haven't seen for awhile, they make a point to say something to the effect of, "You look great! You really let yourself go for awhile." And yes, I did, but in ways that those people don't know. It's a constant reminder that I spent a long time replacing myself with habits and junk and people that didn't make me happy. I'll come to terms with it one day, but right now, I just wish that it hadn't happened. I lost some of the best years of my life to forgetting what makes me happy. The worst part was that I was okay with it for the most part. It sickens me, angers me, makes me feel that I was lazy with my life and was just cool with letting my dreams evaporate. And yeah, it's great to be able to fit in clothes that I haven't worn in 5 years, but it's kind of a bittersweet achievement.
I can see it in my mother's eyes, she is concerned, because I had a bit of an issue with an eating disorder in high school. She thinks I'm back at it again, but that couldn't be further from the truth. I hate being hungry, and have absolutely no idea how I managed that years ago. But I really don't know how to explain it--I dropped about 10 pounds when I got my wisdom teeth out, but it just kept falling off me. I did change the way I eat, but not really consciously. Tommy moved out and I found that my grocery loads were vastly different. Also, money issues made it imperative that I eat cheaply, which meant I didn't go out to eat at all, all summer. I'm eating the way I've always wanted to eat. It's what I would have been eating if I hadn't tied myself to people for the last five years. I was making jumps and taking risks and living life on my toes, which seems to be my true nature. I felt better about my life, and somehow that all translated into looking like I did back when I was happy. It involved virtually no exercise.
Man, that was supposed to be the bright side. It is a bright side, but I don't like thinking about it right now. It'd be easier if I didn't keep running into people who remind me of how much of a mess I used to be.
My burgeoning mental state will likely catch up with me soon. Probably the weekend of my sister's wedding. After that, the climate will remember that it is dyslexic and go back to sweltering, and I can go back to remembering exactly why I'm here; I seem to have forgotten. Or maybe I won't remember. Maybe I just need to leave soon. I hear Oregon is fantastic.
28 September 2010
Series
She loaded the DVD into the player out of habit, and he pressed play on the remote control.
"Which one did we stop on?" she asked.
"I forget," he replied.
How do we always forget? she wondered. They watched this show every night, and had, for...awhile. She just picked the first episode on the disc and told him to press play. She vaguely remembered doing it the night before, but she couldn't remember what had happened in the episode, so they might as well watch it again.
They had seen this one before, but neither said anything against replaying it. It was the one where Mulder and Scully end up trapped in an abandoned house on Christmas Eve, and the ghosts of a couple who had died there trick them. The agents go from room to room, and every time they think they've found a door, it's the same room again. This big library, with lots of books and multiple floors, but the ghosts had taken away the ladder. The exit was boarded up.
She sipped on some water and glanced over at him; he seemed engrossed with the episode. Yet, every time something funny happened, or scary, or anything that begged for a reaction, he didn't give one. He just stared.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked.
"This is a good one," he replied.
She quietly wondered if he was unhappy with her. Unsatisfied, out of love, or otherwise. Was she ugly? Had she somehow changed since they'd gotten together to make him not notice her? She'd always been prone to thoughts like these, and rarely did they have any basis in reality, so she hushed her mind. He was probably just watching the episode, and it had nothing to do with her.
She resumed her attentions to the television. Mulder and Scully were pulling up the old floorboards in the library, and they found two skeletons, dead en embrace, which they thought were just some old murder victims. But upon closer inspection, the skeletons were dressed identically to the agents. Same socks and everything.
All of a sudden, she didn't like this episode. She started mildly panicking, looking at him and then at the wall. She didn't know what had set it off--she didn't like those skeletons, though they'd never bothered her before. Not wanting to stir up worry in her significant other, she tried to keep her irrational panic out of his view.
What was it? What was making her anxious about an episode of X-Files, or two skeletons in the floorboards? She loved this show. Maybe it wasn't the show. Was it him? Was it their apartment? A hot wave of sick nausea washed over her, like how she felt when he'd made her watch the Texas Chainsaw Massacre a few months ago.
Then an idea crept out from an overgrown mental pathways. She knew it was irrational, unreal, and plenty of other words in the same vein, but she knew without a doubt that if she pulled up her own floorboards at that instant, she'd find her skeleton next to his, holding a DVD. And his would be holding the remote control.
She didn't remember it getting this way, but they'd somehow ended up here. She tried hard to think of the moment it happened, but nothing registered. When had she stopped remembering things? She didn't even remember what she'd done yesterday, or what episode they'd stopped on. How long had they been dating? It was somewhere around three years, but she didn't remember at least one of them. Not the specifics. Not the fun things, the double dates, the bad things, anything. It was just a chunk of white time.
Still not wanting to alarm him, she took the DVD case to check which season they were on. Season 6, out of 9. In the back of her mind, she knew the right thing was to turn off the TV and bring this up--the whole thing, that whole year of white time that she couldn't recall, and break it off. But he would inevitably ask where this thought came from, and all she'd have to say was the X-Files. Because she couldn't remember how it got this way. She had no argument.
Technically there shouldn't have to be an argument, but she figured he was in the same spot she was, and didn't realize it. She'd have to convince him, because it's hard to move someone out of such a comfortable, unmemorable existence. It's scary. She was scared.
So scared, she decided that when the series was over, she'd do it. She'd pull up the floorboards and show him, and he would have to believe her. He'd have to see that they were either dead or dying, she didn't know which; perhaps he could tell her. Perhaps he would agree, and they could just call this whole thing off. The whole three years, or however long it had been.
What if they had been watching the same episode over and over again, for years? She could not produce a shred of evidence proving that wrong. The skeletons, the same room, over and over. The exit blocked.
She might not last another three seasons. Her skin might start falling off, and she'd have to put on extra makeup to cover it. And at some point, the floorboards would open up and swallow the both of them, and they'd never even know it. She turned her head to look at him, oblivious, one last time.
Then, he met her gaze and turned the TV off.
"We need to talk," he said.
"Which one did we stop on?" she asked.
"I forget," he replied.
How do we always forget? she wondered. They watched this show every night, and had, for...awhile. She just picked the first episode on the disc and told him to press play. She vaguely remembered doing it the night before, but she couldn't remember what had happened in the episode, so they might as well watch it again.
They had seen this one before, but neither said anything against replaying it. It was the one where Mulder and Scully end up trapped in an abandoned house on Christmas Eve, and the ghosts of a couple who had died there trick them. The agents go from room to room, and every time they think they've found a door, it's the same room again. This big library, with lots of books and multiple floors, but the ghosts had taken away the ladder. The exit was boarded up.
She sipped on some water and glanced over at him; he seemed engrossed with the episode. Yet, every time something funny happened, or scary, or anything that begged for a reaction, he didn't give one. He just stared.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked.
"This is a good one," he replied.
She quietly wondered if he was unhappy with her. Unsatisfied, out of love, or otherwise. Was she ugly? Had she somehow changed since they'd gotten together to make him not notice her? She'd always been prone to thoughts like these, and rarely did they have any basis in reality, so she hushed her mind. He was probably just watching the episode, and it had nothing to do with her.
She resumed her attentions to the television. Mulder and Scully were pulling up the old floorboards in the library, and they found two skeletons, dead en embrace, which they thought were just some old murder victims. But upon closer inspection, the skeletons were dressed identically to the agents. Same socks and everything.
All of a sudden, she didn't like this episode. She started mildly panicking, looking at him and then at the wall. She didn't know what had set it off--she didn't like those skeletons, though they'd never bothered her before. Not wanting to stir up worry in her significant other, she tried to keep her irrational panic out of his view.
What was it? What was making her anxious about an episode of X-Files, or two skeletons in the floorboards? She loved this show. Maybe it wasn't the show. Was it him? Was it their apartment? A hot wave of sick nausea washed over her, like how she felt when he'd made her watch the Texas Chainsaw Massacre a few months ago.
Then an idea crept out from an overgrown mental pathways. She knew it was irrational, unreal, and plenty of other words in the same vein, but she knew without a doubt that if she pulled up her own floorboards at that instant, she'd find her skeleton next to his, holding a DVD. And his would be holding the remote control.
She didn't remember it getting this way, but they'd somehow ended up here. She tried hard to think of the moment it happened, but nothing registered. When had she stopped remembering things? She didn't even remember what she'd done yesterday, or what episode they'd stopped on. How long had they been dating? It was somewhere around three years, but she didn't remember at least one of them. Not the specifics. Not the fun things, the double dates, the bad things, anything. It was just a chunk of white time.
Still not wanting to alarm him, she took the DVD case to check which season they were on. Season 6, out of 9. In the back of her mind, she knew the right thing was to turn off the TV and bring this up--the whole thing, that whole year of white time that she couldn't recall, and break it off. But he would inevitably ask where this thought came from, and all she'd have to say was the X-Files. Because she couldn't remember how it got this way. She had no argument.
Technically there shouldn't have to be an argument, but she figured he was in the same spot she was, and didn't realize it. She'd have to convince him, because it's hard to move someone out of such a comfortable, unmemorable existence. It's scary. She was scared.
So scared, she decided that when the series was over, she'd do it. She'd pull up the floorboards and show him, and he would have to believe her. He'd have to see that they were either dead or dying, she didn't know which; perhaps he could tell her. Perhaps he would agree, and they could just call this whole thing off. The whole three years, or however long it had been.
What if they had been watching the same episode over and over again, for years? She could not produce a shred of evidence proving that wrong. The skeletons, the same room, over and over. The exit blocked.
She might not last another three seasons. Her skin might start falling off, and she'd have to put on extra makeup to cover it. And at some point, the floorboards would open up and swallow the both of them, and they'd never even know it. She turned her head to look at him, oblivious, one last time.
Then, he met her gaze and turned the TV off.
"We need to talk," he said.
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