Uh oh. Unease. Life and its beat are wearing thin lately. Manic doesn't even begin to describe my frame of mind. My soundtrack is off, my steps are faltering. I feel as if I'm trudging up stadium steps, ankle weights making my every step heavier. The closer to the top I get, the more impossible the journey becomes.
The weights are made of doubts. Doubts are the heaviest substance known to man. They have this terrible habit of becoming even heavier in groups of 2 or more. Which means right now, I'm basically carrying out Satan's plan for me in Hell. The motherfucker obviously has designs for an eternity of carrying a shit ton of doubts up and down the stairs of my high school's bleachers. I'm guessing he'll make the chains extra long. Because he's Satan.
On paper - hell, in my head even, life is fairly okay. Mostly, everything is a varying degree of good. Some parts are even better than good. Much better. Nearly perfect. And there's the problem. Nearly perfect isn't supposed to apply to me. Nearly perfect is supposed to remain just out of reach - I'm supposed to know what it looks like in the window, but not on my body in the dressing room. But I'm not just trying the shit on. I bought it and took it home. Now I'm staring at it, wondering how I'm supposed to make it a part of my everyday wardrobe.
Life has been so much of the same for so long. And even when it changed drastically, like I took an eraser to it and drew a bunch of new stuff in - even then, it still felt like the same life. And now? WHERE THE FUCK AM I? I feel like a part of me I had all but eliminated is back with a vengeance, but I'm feeling panicked because I'm missing other parts I've grown accustomed to. Defining parts. I don't know if I should be calling this an identity crisis, but it's certainly the closest thing I've ever had to one.
How is it even possible to be so happy with so much and still be so manicpanickednervousextraspecialcaffeinatedtothemotherfuckinghilt?
S.O.S.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Monday, February 25, 2013
Life in Technicolor
Tomorrow is rife with possibility.
Tomorrow can be whatever I choose.
Tomorrow could be the beginning of a fruitful career.
Tomorrow is the last day of my 27th year.
Significant doesn't even begin to cover it. I like to speak in riddles and confusion so that I can always maintain control - I more than need it. I have to have it. The thought of another person knowing what goes on in my attic is frightening - the only place I can truly be myself, the only place where I can store my thoughts. The thoughts nobody is ever going to know, which is just the way I want it. Rather, just the way I need it. Just the way I have to have it. But when I say that the last day of my 27th year is significant, you'll just have to take my word for it. And to give some perspective, we're talking, like, significance of a lifetime here. That kind of significance.
I miss my best friend. I don't miss her everyday anymore. I miss her at random moments, and sometimes not-so-random moments. But the times which occurred daily, usually several times a day, when I would just be suddenly overwhelmed with a memory or grief, without any provocation - those are gone. I knew she would never be totally gone, though. She isn't the first ghost I've known. When you're a child, you think you have the idea of what a ghost is pegged. And I guess in the traditional sense, you might. But now I know what ghosts really are, and that they do exist. They follow us and remind us and haunt us and make us cry and laugh and smile and curse and sigh and shake our heads or fists in frustration and grip the steering wheel while we grit our teeth and taste our tears. That gaping hole they leave is the cruelest part - like the fact that their ghost is following you isn't enough. No. You have to walk around with an empty void inside, one that drains you emotionally and physically. You hold yourself together with your arms and feel the dry burn of your eyes when your body can't cry as many tears as your heart wants to make.
So I remember all the times in my 27th year when it seemed so important. When my prerogative was matte and sloped and dangerous. When I missed her far too much. Now that I don't feel that pull, I almost miss my dedication to the grief. My unwillingness to let it go. I missed her when she was dead but living, and so my memories never faded. They stayed sharp and poignant and colorful, just like she was. Now when I think of her, I see soulless and ashen and gaunt, and my memories wash away, back and forth, in and out; remember some, forget a few, remember one, forget two. And before you know it, they're gone. She's gone. Off to join the club that never really existed, and if it did it's the saddest club and I'm glad for once to feel so young, if you follow.
All of this is leading to an explanation of why I feel tomorrow is so important. I'm going to go full candid, because I'm that healthy right now. There is honesty in every word I just wrote.
So here's to my new career, one I feel excited/passionate/flattered/nervous/ready for. And here's to my life, because it's MY life. I've learned that I'm not so very fragile after all, and that ghosts don't call the shots. I do. I feel valuable for the very first time in my life - not just a feeling of value, but an actual measure of it. L'Oreal should probably pay me for what I'm about to say:
Tomorrow can be whatever I choose.
Tomorrow could be the beginning of a fruitful career.
Tomorrow is the last day of my 27th year.
Significant doesn't even begin to cover it. I like to speak in riddles and confusion so that I can always maintain control - I more than need it. I have to have it. The thought of another person knowing what goes on in my attic is frightening - the only place I can truly be myself, the only place where I can store my thoughts. The thoughts nobody is ever going to know, which is just the way I want it. Rather, just the way I need it. Just the way I have to have it. But when I say that the last day of my 27th year is significant, you'll just have to take my word for it. And to give some perspective, we're talking, like, significance of a lifetime here. That kind of significance.
I miss my best friend. I don't miss her everyday anymore. I miss her at random moments, and sometimes not-so-random moments. But the times which occurred daily, usually several times a day, when I would just be suddenly overwhelmed with a memory or grief, without any provocation - those are gone. I knew she would never be totally gone, though. She isn't the first ghost I've known. When you're a child, you think you have the idea of what a ghost is pegged. And I guess in the traditional sense, you might. But now I know what ghosts really are, and that they do exist. They follow us and remind us and haunt us and make us cry and laugh and smile and curse and sigh and shake our heads or fists in frustration and grip the steering wheel while we grit our teeth and taste our tears. That gaping hole they leave is the cruelest part - like the fact that their ghost is following you isn't enough. No. You have to walk around with an empty void inside, one that drains you emotionally and physically. You hold yourself together with your arms and feel the dry burn of your eyes when your body can't cry as many tears as your heart wants to make.
So I remember all the times in my 27th year when it seemed so important. When my prerogative was matte and sloped and dangerous. When I missed her far too much. Now that I don't feel that pull, I almost miss my dedication to the grief. My unwillingness to let it go. I missed her when she was dead but living, and so my memories never faded. They stayed sharp and poignant and colorful, just like she was. Now when I think of her, I see soulless and ashen and gaunt, and my memories wash away, back and forth, in and out; remember some, forget a few, remember one, forget two. And before you know it, they're gone. She's gone. Off to join the club that never really existed, and if it did it's the saddest club and I'm glad for once to feel so young, if you follow.
All of this is leading to an explanation of why I feel tomorrow is so important. I'm going to go full candid, because I'm that healthy right now. There is honesty in every word I just wrote.
- At 12:00 am, I will have traveled over a hurdle I went back and forth on the possibility of overcoming so many times, I should have coined a term in its honor. I'm not creative in that way, though, so we'll just settle for deliberation. Look, I'm not a lazy person. I'm fearful, I have a good memory, and I have limits. When all three of these buttons are activated, the probability of a smooth ride is not good. For a good portion of my 27th year, I was genuinely unsure if I would make it to see my 28th. There. I said it. I missed my friend; I was so, so tired; and believe it or not, despite having made it out alive several months ago, I was convinced that making a break would, well... break me.
So here's to my new career, one I feel excited/passionate/flattered/nervous/ready for. And here's to my life, because it's MY life. I've learned that I'm not so very fragile after all, and that ghosts don't call the shots. I do. I feel valuable for the very first time in my life - not just a feeling of value, but an actual measure of it. L'Oreal should probably pay me for what I'm about to say:
I'm worth it.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
learn to fly
I've taken a lazy but necessary week-long hiatus from writing. But my knuckles have been itching to be cracked and my fingers antsy for stretching. All in preparation for the inevitable ping ping ping and the reach reach reaching they'll be performing. Like a symphony, or at least a cacophony of taps.
I used the word necessary to describe my absence, and I'm fairly confidant with my choice of adjective. I was absent because I needed to gain some perspective, and some focus. I can't keep floundering around, sitting on piles of work that I get neurotic over and can't let out of my superhuman fear grip, let alone summarize and synopsize and make copies and collate and stuff in an envelope and address and stamp and dump in a mailbox to travel via postal mail. I got all sweaty and queasy just typing that.
But now it's time to push that to the side, to soldier through and save the queasy and sweaty for after I've done the deed. It's more than overdue, and probably why I'm having such a hard time moving on and creating something new. I need to walk away from the other project wholly satisfied with my efforts, so I can breathe easy with the knowledge that every possible avenue was covered.
And then I can do something with all of these ingredients swirling around in my head - I've been sitting on so many story ideas, so many bits and fragments of good material. I can't wait to have a free mind to explore some of those possibilities. I think it's safe to say that when I am passionate about a project, there isn't a facet of the process I don't enjoy. And because I am so trepidatious about sharing my work, I recognize my eagerness to write for what it is: a passion, a need sometimes.
I probably repeat those points too often, but I've never apologized for the fact that this "blog" is my shitty excuse for a journalistic outlet, one that is rife with opinions and feelings and quasi-musings on shit that matters to not one single person other than myself. And that's super fabulous okay with me, because as I already pointed out, I create this work for myself. I'm way too lazy to be doing it for any other reason. But then that possibility of recognition, of providing entertainment or at least fodder for discussion, it looms larger than anything else. That could be the result of having a completed project, or just because I am more susceptible to the lure of publication than I have been willing to admit.
Whatever the reason, publication is indeed the eventual goal, and I'm ready for whatever that entails. With the aid of a barf bag.
I used the word necessary to describe my absence, and I'm fairly confidant with my choice of adjective. I was absent because I needed to gain some perspective, and some focus. I can't keep floundering around, sitting on piles of work that I get neurotic over and can't let out of my superhuman fear grip, let alone summarize and synopsize and make copies and collate and stuff in an envelope and address and stamp and dump in a mailbox to travel via postal mail. I got all sweaty and queasy just typing that.
But now it's time to push that to the side, to soldier through and save the queasy and sweaty for after I've done the deed. It's more than overdue, and probably why I'm having such a hard time moving on and creating something new. I need to walk away from the other project wholly satisfied with my efforts, so I can breathe easy with the knowledge that every possible avenue was covered.
And then I can do something with all of these ingredients swirling around in my head - I've been sitting on so many story ideas, so many bits and fragments of good material. I can't wait to have a free mind to explore some of those possibilities. I think it's safe to say that when I am passionate about a project, there isn't a facet of the process I don't enjoy. And because I am so trepidatious about sharing my work, I recognize my eagerness to write for what it is: a passion, a need sometimes.
I probably repeat those points too often, but I've never apologized for the fact that this "blog" is my shitty excuse for a journalistic outlet, one that is rife with opinions and feelings and quasi-musings on shit that matters to not one single person other than myself. And that's super fabulous okay with me, because as I already pointed out, I create this work for myself. I'm way too lazy to be doing it for any other reason. But then that possibility of recognition, of providing entertainment or at least fodder for discussion, it looms larger than anything else. That could be the result of having a completed project, or just because I am more susceptible to the lure of publication than I have been willing to admit.
Whatever the reason, publication is indeed the eventual goal, and I'm ready for whatever that entails. With the aid of a barf bag.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Don't let me be misunderstood
Psychological warfare is interesting. On the one hand, it's a fucking headache. Twisting acrobatics, with no set rules to speak of. On the other hand, it can be exciting and challenging. And hot.
I've never been a huge fan of game-playing. My efforts always failed (I'm transparent, yo), I never made it out unembarrassed, and I've almost always been called out when attempting it. I'm quite the gullible character, though, so it isn't hard to fuck with my head. Harmless toying used to turn problematic for me at the drop of a hat.
I don't find that to be the case anymore. Whether it's a new maturity, dealing with a different age group, or I'm just plain better at it; whatever the reason, I am now a formidable opponent. Concerning the battle of wits and wills, I am a patient woman. A very practiced amount of nonchalance and a poker face so flat you could deal a hand on it have given my old issues the boot.
That isn't to say I'm a huge fan of the game, either. In all honesty, it's still manipulation with a capital 'M', no matter how you try to spin it. However innocent or exciting it may be, there is still a line being crossed in regard to the level of respect one earns and deserves in the relationship. You are still forsaking a transparent honesty that is so rare to find in a partner - for this specific reason, of course. Because as I've already said, there is an allure and seduction associated with head games. Power struggles can be like fully clothed sex if the right sparring partner is involved.
I've got games on the brain today for obvious reasons. There is a baiting attempt taking place as I type this. As I mentioned, I can dish it just as well as anyone else, but my patience is unusually thin today. Also taking into consideration the fact that an extremely new relationship should rarely warrant the use of game-playing as a communication tactic, today's thoughts have come to an inevitable conclusion:
I've never been a huge fan of game-playing. My efforts always failed (I'm transparent, yo), I never made it out unembarrassed, and I've almost always been called out when attempting it. I'm quite the gullible character, though, so it isn't hard to fuck with my head. Harmless toying used to turn problematic for me at the drop of a hat.
I don't find that to be the case anymore. Whether it's a new maturity, dealing with a different age group, or I'm just plain better at it; whatever the reason, I am now a formidable opponent. Concerning the battle of wits and wills, I am a patient woman. A very practiced amount of nonchalance and a poker face so flat you could deal a hand on it have given my old issues the boot.
That isn't to say I'm a huge fan of the game, either. In all honesty, it's still manipulation with a capital 'M', no matter how you try to spin it. However innocent or exciting it may be, there is still a line being crossed in regard to the level of respect one earns and deserves in the relationship. You are still forsaking a transparent honesty that is so rare to find in a partner - for this specific reason, of course. Because as I've already said, there is an allure and seduction associated with head games. Power struggles can be like fully clothed sex if the right sparring partner is involved.
I've got games on the brain today for obvious reasons. There is a baiting attempt taking place as I type this. As I mentioned, I can dish it just as well as anyone else, but my patience is unusually thin today. Also taking into consideration the fact that an extremely new relationship should rarely warrant the use of game-playing as a communication tactic, today's thoughts have come to an inevitable conclusion:
Saturday, February 9, 2013
what is and what should never be
There is definitely a reason for my lack of creative output as of late. I can't concentrate for shit. My current employment situation actually facilitates a writing-heavy schedule. I've toyed with the idea of setting a daily itinerary for myself, like Stephen King. I've never tried it, and I've had my fair share issues with writer's block, so...
Recently it's been easy to write from a personal perspective. My pen is overflowing. But fiction-wise, I can't even settle on a plot overview - the smallest of blips is wrong, the cadence is off or it's just plain idiotic. Something that goes along with that inability to find a groove is a bruised ego - and hurt pride often results in quitters never winning. Or something like that.
Fiction is scary. For a prideful person, I've been shockingly willing to admit when I'm scared of something lately. And fiction is something that has always spooked me - I'm sure I'm not the only fan of putting pen to page who gets so immersed that I fail to recognize when I've fucked up. And speaking from experience, one of the worst feelings in the world is to spend several months constructing something that needs to be completely disassembled, or at least retooled. It's frightening. Nightmares are actually had. Plus, I'm out of practice. My efforts are awkward and noisy.
While I'm untangling my web of doubt, I think I'll make note of some things which make me nauseous these days. Either I've been there too much, or we've all been taken there too much.
The following is a list of things which I have forbidden (no trespassing, violators will be shot) from making an appearance in my future works:
The following is a list of things which I have forbidden (no trespassing, violators will be shot) from making an appearance in my future works:
- low-top Chucks
- typewriters
- libraries
- The Smiths
- owls
- photography
- vampires
- love triangles
- politics
- freckles
Friday, February 8, 2013
It Just Is
Three, oh, it's a magic number. Yeah it is. It's a magic number.
I love you. Three words. End. Three letters. See what I did there? I love you was the beginning of my marriage. Before marriage even existed, expressions of love were exchanged. Vows were declared. The beginning held so much promise, those 3 words meant so much. And now, the opposite is true. The circle outside the marriage is what holds promise. Those 3 letters mean everything.
Today crept up on me. It would have been my 10-year wedding anniversary. In a way, it's hard to believe we made it so close. Then of course my mind travels to all of the sleeplessness, the crushing pressure, the anger and resentment and fighting. And then - you guessed it. It's hard to believe we made it so far.
You know those films, or those story lines on TV - the ones that depict a one-night stand which results in a happily ever after? Hey. Fuck that. The reason you're seeing a happily ever after ending is because you're only seeing the end of the beginning. The actual relationship, and all it entails, is yet to come.
I noticed the other day that what I perceived to be a habit developed recently was actually something I've been doing my whole life. Simply put, nobody ever ends up living up to the hype, or even more simply put, nobody is ever quite good enough. Because I carry around an unfortunate air of superiority, one that I mostly keep to myself and learned long ago how to mask, my admiration of others is limited. If I admit to admiring something, it's a sure bet I'm telling the truth. It's a definite benefit for those who know me, and alos the only way I can justify my ego - I make amends by always trying to give recognition of my company's attributes. It gives everyone the warm and fuzzies, and nobody's ego is damaged. I can't control my thoughts, but I can apologize for them in subtle ways.
So I have this problem with men. I find myself attracted to many of them. I find myself intellectually stimulated by some of them. But I find myself completely enamored with none of them. Actually, that's not true. From afar there are lots of possibles. Except everyone knows the concept. The closer you edge, the more you see, the farther a person falls. But sometimes I feel as if I'm experiencing a more severe version of this - I am scathingly critical, which is problematic, and mean, if I'm telling the truth. At least it makes me feel that way, though I try not to let my mean show. To put it as ineloquently as possible, it's pretty fucking exhausting holding my bitch inside all the time. But I can never muster respect for anyone who lives their life open and scathingly critical like that, and I want to be deserving of respect.
So while I search for something that most likely doesn't exist, freshly diagnosed with Sex and the City Syndrome (the inability to realize one's own flaws demand a less critical view of men), I hope that I'll earn respect. I'm a Charlotte, so I'll remain sweet and kind and self-deprecating. And on the inside, I'll be cackling and side-eyeing and bitch-glaring. The idea, though, has nothing to do with me and my inner workings, and everything to do with what my respect will earn. It's my hope that eventually, my capacity to respect, coupled with my need for it, will result in something I should have been looking for a long time ago.
My wedding anniversary today is pretty symbolic. Thinking of it in terms of time passed, a decade is a large chunk of life. But maybe I should just keep my snark to myself and look at it like this - in my late twenties, I'm still young. *fingers crossed* I still have a lot of life left to live. But at a decently young age, I've learned a lesson there is NO way I'll ever forget. I will never, ever again waste a decade of my life on something that my instincts are red-alerting. And that's all I'd like to say on that subject for now.
Ten years. *screams*
Okay. So on the official end of a decade-long failed experiment, I choose to put it to rest. Goodbye, resentment of time wasted. Farewell, feelings of self-loathing and failure. I will no longer refer to you in any capacity. I will find new things to write about, and better things to talk about. My mourning period is over.
Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of a new decade.
I love you. Three words. End. Three letters. See what I did there? I love you was the beginning of my marriage. Before marriage even existed, expressions of love were exchanged. Vows were declared. The beginning held so much promise, those 3 words meant so much. And now, the opposite is true. The circle outside the marriage is what holds promise. Those 3 letters mean everything.
Today crept up on me. It would have been my 10-year wedding anniversary. In a way, it's hard to believe we made it so close. Then of course my mind travels to all of the sleeplessness, the crushing pressure, the anger and resentment and fighting. And then - you guessed it. It's hard to believe we made it so far.
You know those films, or those story lines on TV - the ones that depict a one-night stand which results in a happily ever after? Hey. Fuck that. The reason you're seeing a happily ever after ending is because you're only seeing the end of the beginning. The actual relationship, and all it entails, is yet to come.
I noticed the other day that what I perceived to be a habit developed recently was actually something I've been doing my whole life. Simply put, nobody ever ends up living up to the hype, or even more simply put, nobody is ever quite good enough. Because I carry around an unfortunate air of superiority, one that I mostly keep to myself and learned long ago how to mask, my admiration of others is limited. If I admit to admiring something, it's a sure bet I'm telling the truth. It's a definite benefit for those who know me, and alos the only way I can justify my ego - I make amends by always trying to give recognition of my company's attributes. It gives everyone the warm and fuzzies, and nobody's ego is damaged. I can't control my thoughts, but I can apologize for them in subtle ways.
So I have this problem with men. I find myself attracted to many of them. I find myself intellectually stimulated by some of them. But I find myself completely enamored with none of them. Actually, that's not true. From afar there are lots of possibles. Except everyone knows the concept. The closer you edge, the more you see, the farther a person falls. But sometimes I feel as if I'm experiencing a more severe version of this - I am scathingly critical, which is problematic, and mean, if I'm telling the truth. At least it makes me feel that way, though I try not to let my mean show. To put it as ineloquently as possible, it's pretty fucking exhausting holding my bitch inside all the time. But I can never muster respect for anyone who lives their life open and scathingly critical like that, and I want to be deserving of respect.
So while I search for something that most likely doesn't exist, freshly diagnosed with Sex and the City Syndrome (the inability to realize one's own flaws demand a less critical view of men), I hope that I'll earn respect. I'm a Charlotte, so I'll remain sweet and kind and self-deprecating. And on the inside, I'll be cackling and side-eyeing and bitch-glaring. The idea, though, has nothing to do with me and my inner workings, and everything to do with what my respect will earn. It's my hope that eventually, my capacity to respect, coupled with my need for it, will result in something I should have been looking for a long time ago.
My wedding anniversary today is pretty symbolic. Thinking of it in terms of time passed, a decade is a large chunk of life. But maybe I should just keep my snark to myself and look at it like this - in my late twenties, I'm still young. *fingers crossed* I still have a lot of life left to live. But at a decently young age, I've learned a lesson there is NO way I'll ever forget. I will never, ever again waste a decade of my life on something that my instincts are red-alerting. And that's all I'd like to say on that subject for now.
Ten years. *screams*
Okay. So on the official end of a decade-long failed experiment, I choose to put it to rest. Goodbye, resentment of time wasted. Farewell, feelings of self-loathing and failure. I will no longer refer to you in any capacity. I will find new things to write about, and better things to talk about. My mourning period is over.
Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of a new decade.
chicks for free
Money is the root of all that's evil. I wouldn't say that's true. I maybe wouldn't say it's untrue, either. Money is just another one of those commodities, one of those dreaded things, which we feel tethered to. How could we not? Money's boundaries, its limits, those points when its reach ceases to exist - well, those stopped existing, too. Our society values money more than any other commodity. In the world.
It feeds us, clothes us, puts a roof over our heads. You know the drill. But what happens when we don't have enough of it? Or, in contrast, what becomes of us when we have too much? No example is needed here. Money - that damned currency, it changes everyone. It's very rare for someone to fall exactly in the realm of comfortable and stable, with no desire to earn more money. We are a pitiful species, with no regard for our own well-being. More is always desirable. What we have is never quite enough. We flaunt what we have in an effort to feel superior, wreaking havoc on our own and one another's psyches in the process.
And I haven't even touched the topic of inflation, nor do I want to. It sickens me. The cost of fucking everything these days is a direct result of the bullies in control of our economy and their moreMOREMORE attitude. And the very worst part? The more expensive things become - the more these assholes pad their wallets, the more we want it.
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