Heh. Jesse told me last month that he wanted me to take off a Saturday so we could have a cookout…so, today rolls around and the forecast is storms and more storms…

There was some thunder, but mostly nothing all day.

And then almost none of the people he invited could come out. We wound up with three of his friends, and one of their little kids, and Toni and Schyler, since I had the presence of mind to ask her if she was free tonight.

I will have to ask him what he thought of how it went though…since it turned into two separate groups of him with his friends and me with mine, in different places and not talking to each other. Weird, I guess? Idk.

I am glad Schyler wasn’t being grumpy today though. He was super glum last time we were hanging out. I suppose that is probably how I come off when I tag along with people though. Eh.

Still. I liked seeing them again. And that Toni said she told a bunch of people from the Dine-In and they all told her to say hello. I like the idea that someone is so excited to hang out with me that they tell other people. ^_^

I wouldn’t be that excited to hang out with me. (Or, maybe I would, since I am a narcissistic moron and seem to like people best when they are most like me…)

They left around 10 to try and make it to a show for a band that someone we know is in, and it wasn’t until after they left that Jesse and his friends finally got the fire blazing…and not 10 minutes after that, it started pouring.

Some cookout. :P
We will have to do it again sometime and hope for better results.



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You know how sometimes you will forget about something until someone brings it up and you start talking about it, and as you talk, you hear your own voice getting louder and your facial muscles tighten and you…really didn’t realise you were still that upset about it, and have to stop yourself before you say too much.

I really did forget I am upset about it. But we were at work, and telling stories…and Brandi asked something about him. That repulsive creature masquerading as a human.

I knew I still felt guilty about going directly against my own nature and leaving her with him…but I didn’t realise how angry I still am at him. Until I came within a heartbeat of blurting out to Brandi what he’d done, and had to cut myself off like I’d been given some poorly scripted line…

But I am angry. So angry. The image kept popping into my mind, of smashing a rock into his smiling face, and smashing until all that remains is a pulpy mess. And that sickens me, because I don’t usually imagine harming anyone…I just feel the violence, and it doesn’t go anywhere. But apparently, deep down, I want to hurt him.

…Richard doesn’t believe that anger is my most easily expressed emotion. But it is. Or, it would be if I didn’t feel like I had to restrain myself from talking out loud about it. I mean, you don’t just tell people, “I hate that kid and want to smash his head in because he did xy and z”. (Instead, you write about it on your blog so the internetz can notify whoever monitors us all for potential violent tendencies.)

I can put it in a better light though, I suppose.

The things that make me angriest are 95% directed at people who have hurt someone I love. I like to think this makes me not such a crazy person. All that rage…because I can’t stop people from being hurt.

I keep trying to persuade myself to email K and talk to her more…I would like very much to talk to her about it…but I keep stopping myself or thinking of other stuff to do…keeping myself “too busy” so I don’t have to tell anyone when really I am bursting to tell someone…so much so that I almost today told two people who have no business whatsoever knowing what I allowed to happen to this girl.


Wears me out. (Although I guess I could still just be tired from yesterday’s roller coaster park adventures.)

Think I will go read for a bit, then sleep.



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It does sound like a sickness, doesn’t it? I’ve always thought it was with me. And so it still is.

Last post, I complained that he was absent–not so. Just quiet.
We had lots of thoughts to share while we were on vacation though. About this whole business of nostalgia…berating me without words about how I could presume to delude myself and say that my memories were so much better than what we know they are. Not that I can say his versions of them are truer, since my Wolf is the me with the penchant for all the dark embellishments.

It’s uncomfortable to be aware of rewriting your memories. They say we do it unconsciously anyway, and that our memories are as unreliable as outright fiction…but it’s bad when you see yourself doing it on purpose. I know I did. Not because I was trying to lie to myself. I just wanted to remember good things, and miss them. But the Wolf in me isn’t having it…what sort of ridiculousness am I up to?

It’s an easy answer. I suppose.
I want to feel a certain way. I want to hurt myself with these falsely warm memories. Not that they didn’t happen…just…that I revised memories of things that happened, cutting out the bad parts so that I can hurt myself in obsessing over why things were so much better then than they are now, when that just isn’t the case.

I’ve thought a good deal about it. This blasted desire to feel.

It’s still a thing with me, it seems. The desire to feel a particular way. You’d think I wanted to feel good, with all this cutting away of bad memories. But that’s not what I want. I don’t want a rosy memory lane to walk down.
I want something altogether different. Pain. A particular kind of mental anguish, which has no business seeming desirable. But I look for it sometimes. In reading and music and daydreaming…

It’s funny, because when we were driving all day up north, I had a playlist on that had mostly Goth-type music on it…and Jester said he needed a break because he could only handle so much “dark music” in a day.

I am pretty sure that out of all the music types I have ever been into, the Goth/industrial styles don’t strain me emotionally. Not like when I used to listen to mostly Christian rock, or metal/screamo styles…those songs allowed so much more pain in their delivery, but with Goth styles…it’s like there is a foregone conclusion that we are feeling pain…like…instead of focusing so much on raw anguish, with all its keen edges, the focus is on a more developed feeling…like melancholy. More quiet contemplation, fewer actual tears.

I don’t feel nearly as sad when I listen to it as I did when I listened to other music. And that’s even without taking into account all the songs about the supernatural and about dancing and all the ones without words that have little or nothing at all to say about feelings of any kind.

But that’s not what I was talking about.

Wolf. He keeps looking at me, and I can read the disapproval in his body language, even if he doesn’t say anything.

Except about that.

I keep wanting to do something…message…call…visit, maybe…K even said I should. But I don’t. And I think it’s for the same reasons I wanted to rewrite how I remember my summers from when I was in high school and college. So I can hurt, and think about how much better things used to be.

Except they weren’t. And I know this, because it’s one of the things he and I overlap most deeply over. So much so that the pain of it extinguishes his fires, and he says in a voice that is hard and cold that she doesn’t care.

He didn’t need to say that. I know.
But those words hold so much bitterness, and in hearing myself say them, I know it still hurts too much. It still does. I don’t need to do anything at all to sharpen the pain of it.

It will never not hurt.



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1. Why the eff is it so hard to replace toilet paper when YOU used the last of it? What exactly is it that is so repellant about taking THREE SECONDS of your day to pop a new roll onto the holder? I swear…when I come into my kingdom, you cretins will be harshly dealt with.

2. It was hot out. And windy. I kept thinking, “weather like this would give the dwarves flashbacks to Smaug…” I’m an idiot.

3. She agreed to be a bridesmaid. And she already knew I was going to ask her, but it was a good visit…her eyes got that bright, shiny look that she has when she’s excited about something. Makes me feel like a less sucky friend…esp. since she said she’s been crying a lot about dumb things, and I felt bad…but she kept laughing about it when she was telling me, so she can’t be doing too poorly, right?

4. I don’t know where the rest of me is. The part that growls and has trippy dreams and wants to set things on fire…..he’s just gone. Ish. Sometimes I sense him. But not often. Not often at all. It’s ridiculous…I don’t feel angry anymore. I don’t feel that stressed. I don’t feel that excited about stuff. I don’t feel that sad. Or anything. I don’t feel much of anything. I mean. I’m alright…it’s not that “un-feel” of depression…it’s just…nothing.

I think my relationship to my emotions is obnoxious. As much as I despise feeling things the way that the Wolf me always does…the alternative is equally irritating. People ask me how I am and all I have to say is “meh”. It’s not bad. Or good. It’s not anything, really. At all.

I mean…I always want to ask, but the mere wanting to ask makes me uncomfortable…like I’ve missed some key point in being human…still…is this how it is for other people? The alternation between feeling nothing in particular and then feeling things with unbearable intensity? I just want to know that it isn’t just me…and also that it isn’t just mental illness.



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So…I saw this list on Buzzfeed, (because sometimes I’m on the internet and I get lost in dumb things) of really bizarre or outright stupid questions that were college essay options…and I saved the link because I thought, “well, those might be amusing to take a stab at answering on my blog when I lose interest in my melodramatic and narcissistic fictions about myself…”

Might be.

Here is the first one.

“What does #YOLO mean to you?”

I don’t know about the #, but assuming that YOLO stands for “you only live once”, I think it’s a terrible idea to be tossing around. Just terrible. In the classic sense, of course, sharing roots with terror. Because while some people might shout “YOLO!” before trying a bite of cow’s brain, or jumping out of an airplane, and others might use it as an excuse to try a drug, or as motivation to ask out that special person they’ve had their eye on…I can’t think of it like that. All I can think of is the numbered days ahead of me, and how each one that passes means I have one less.

One day less. Every day. And I don’t feel that rush of excitement that would lead me to dare myself to step out of my routines. Instead, I feel that dark panic of being so far outside my comfort zone that nothing grounds me anymore. Nothing touches my tenuous existence. Not cow’s brains, or the feel of the wind as I hurtle toward the earth with one hand on my parachute cord. All I can think about is the cow, and whether she had a good life and got to lie in green shade and chew her dinner a second and third time. Whether she got to roll in mud. Whether it was worth it for her to die so I could spit a bit of her brain into a napkin when I don’t like it. All I can see is the ground. And it rushes and rushes up at me, and I know that even if I pull that parachute cord–maybe not this day, but someday it will not open and I will hit the ground.

And what then? Well, I have my beliefs. But even they do not stop the tremor in my hands when I think too long about hypothetical hitting the ground.

One of my favourite authors had whittled it down to three possibilities–”I would die. Perhaps by violent misadventure, or by wasting disease. Or by my own hand.” I don’t think he’s wrong. And when someone smiles and exclaims, “YOLO!” to me, that is what I think about. I don’t think about the things I haven’t done or seen, but about the comforts of my routines, the familiarity of my haunts, and the dearness of the creatures I am closest to. Most of all, I think about the inevitable truth that this one life that people would have me cram so full of nonsense must end. And there’s nothing I can do about it.



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I say all the time that I want to punch people in the face: stupid characters onscreen, guests at work, bad drivers, etc.

But the truth is that I’ve never actually punched anyone.
Good for me, I guess.

Except, earlier today I saw a fb post from Luke, and he wanted someone to punch him in the face so he could be done with something. How could I pass that up? :P
I said I could do it Tuesday, but Friday night would work if he was in more of a hurry to be unconscious…so, now we have arranged for him to see a movie at my theatre and then meet me in the parking lot after my shift, so this face punching can take place.

…it’s stuff like this that helps me gauge just how much of a badass I am. So much so that I don’t threaten to beat kids up–instead, they come to me to arrange their own beatings. ;)



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Had a dream that really pissed me off.

Have you ever decided someone is dead to you?
I have done. Once. Because…when my ex broke off our engagement, he wanted to stay friends. Which was fine, I guess. I thought I could handle that. And we didn’t talk for almost three months after breaking up. Until Christmas, when I thought it would be nice to wish him a good holiday.

So I messaged him on Facebook, and he promptly blew up at me for daring to wish him a good anything because he was convinced (wrongly) that it would be the last time he spent a holiday with his family, and that the Army was going to ship him away soon…

I see being upset about that. I do. I get it.
But I don’t treat my friends that way and I feel guilty when I am harsh to them. So I left the conversation, and promptly severed my electronic ties with he and his family and his friends, and destroyed the remaining things I had from before we broke up.

Haven’t spoken to any of them since. Or about them, really. With the exception of when his mom told my mom that their cat died. Licorice was a nice cat. I liked him.

But, the dream world decided to introduce a few people I haven’t seen or thought about in a while. Apparently I’ve exhausted my subconscious zombies and chocolate dragons for the moment…instead, I was going on a vacation, and it was like when I was a kid and my parents had 15 passenger vans and would drive on school field trips. I don’t remember faces or anything, but I felt like a lot of people were in the van. And I was sitting with Luke and Sam.

Luke was my super gay manager who got fired last spring…I was super sad about that, because I haven’t had nearly as much fun messing about at work since he left. And Sam was one of my ex’s friends…he and I used to play a game where he would pretend to be my mother and I would pretend to be his son…we thought it was hilarious, but I’m sure we really annoyed our other friends…he always told me he was disappointed to have a gay son and that I shouldn’t have been dating my ex. Guess I should have listened to my pretend mother. :P
(as an aside…I am almost curious as to why my subconscious picked those two as my companions…but…best to not know, probably)

But…we were playing an eye-spy game or something, and my parents said we were stopping to get food. I wasn’t hungry, but the place we went to served iced cream, so I said I’d have that instead…and we went in and sat down at a huge table and Sam was pretending to be my mom again and tried to clean my face with spit…but I wasn’t having that and was being loud about it…and we caught the attention of a nearby table, and, as the dream world would have it, my ex was sitting there. And he came over to see Sam.

He made some remark about the iced cream at the place not being mixed evenly, and I said that’s because they mixed each bowl of iced cream when it was ordered (or something to that effect), and you couldn’t expect it to come out exactly the same each time…and he started arguing with me about it, and told me the real reason it was like that was because it was made new each time–I’d just said that! It was like being in a cartoon.

Except I was mad. Actively mad…so mad that whatever course the dream would have taken naturally was no longer possible. I knew it wasn’t real at that point, but I was still mad…I flung the heavy iced cream bowl at my ex, overturned the table, told Luke and Sam that we were leaving, and promptly woke up.

Nothing like a bit of anger to make you a suddenly lucid dreamer.



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Aha. Must be getting on towards summer again. I can tell because I stopped being able to sleep at all. And also because all the conflicting sensations of the void in my soul, and the fire in my skin, and my ineffectual efforts to deny both feelings from blotting out the rest of my personality–all those things are back, too.

An added bonus: today was World Goth Day. So I listened to all my gothy music and…man…I haven’t listened to it quite as much lately, but as a whole…it has the exact effect of enlarging all those sensations (that I am acting like I hate, but I enjoy them oh-so-much because they are who I am).

I feel like I’ve always been inclined to blame specific songs for focusing my feelings like that…nah…the collection as a whole does it. That and the blasting my air conditioning so unnecessarily that I feel the cold in my bones, and can touch my neck and think about how warm I really am…

Oh well. It doesn’t matter.

What matters is how angry I am at my fiancĂ©’s place of employ. Don’t bloody tell someone that you’ve got them on a track into a salaried spot, and they just need to complete six weeks of further training in their current position before advancing…and then NOT DO IT. And avoid them when they try to get ahold of you and find out what’s going on.

The bit of us that is all fire is wondering what exactly they promised him and who was there when these conversations happened…maybe there’s some kind of argument to be made for a verbal contract that they’re breaking…but…not being there for the conversations, I don’t know for sure…and…I hesitate to bring it up to him because I don’t think he’d go for that sort of argument. And also, part of me thinks I’m being unreasonable (except that I’m fucking NOT).

Another part of me–not entirely sure which one–is thinking that we should just give up expecting our lot to improve markedly any time soon, and we need to sit down and have a serious talk about our financial situation and figure out if we’d be able to support ourselves with what we’re making now…

And I love him…I do. I love him as much as I am capable of loving. But I refuse to put us in a situation where we’d be living paycheck to paycheck before we knew it. And I’m afraid that’s what would be in store for us if we rashly just went ahead and got married…he keeps going on about people he knows who make less than we do and still get by…I don’t want to be that way though.I don’t want to just scrape by if we can do better…and I feel like we can…he just keeps getting screwed over at this job and it’s been going on for almost an entire year

I don’t know what to think anymore. I feel like if I say, “let’s just go ahead and screw the consequences”, then I’m setting us up for failure. And I feel like if I keep hanging back and saying, “no…not yet…let’s wait and see…”, then maybe I’m being too cautious and giving us equal opportunity to fail by way of never getting there in the first place.

I don’t even know.

I look back at the younger me, when I was engaged the first time…I don’t know what on earth was wrong with me…we’d never have been okay if that had actually gone through. Idiot.

I just wish something could go right. Ever. And that I could feel calm. I just want to feel calm for once. That’s all.



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I forget where I learned that Shreve’s name implied he was supposed to be giving pardon for all the terrible things about the South. Probably in some journal or another.

And, at one point, I felt like K was that to me. That the very act of her listening to all my guilt could smooth it over.

It’s funny though…all the terrible, terrible guilt I felt was over nothing that I had even done. It was all in my mind. And yet I felt it so keenly. One of the most intensely real emotions I have ever experienced. And for such a long time. My god, I thought it would never end…

And now? Well. I can’t bring myself to speak with her, because I feel that our conversation will force me to tell her about these new things. Things that I really have done (or, rather, did not do and by my inaction brought guilt upon myself) and, by extension, should feel infinitely more guilty about because they are concrete things that happened. And, if I can waste so much time and energy on things that did not happen…surely I should feel something about that which did, right?

Or. Maybe I am tricking myself. Maybe I think I’m being smart, and by not talking about it, I can pretend that it didn’t happen, and continue with the delusion that I feel nothing about it.

Except that I do. I certainly do. See, there is a song (isn’t there always?) that I really enjoy. Except I can’t now. Because I kept listening and listening to it when she was dying. And I test myself sometimes…I play it and dare myself to sing along, but I cannot. I start to choke. And weep. And have to skip it. But I listen every now and then to see if I still feel guilty about not coming back when I said I would. Because I did say that. It was the very last thing I said. And then I didn’t come back. And then she died.

And the other thing? I let him hurt her. And I want her to forgive me because it is so very much my fault. But she only sees herself as being to blame, so how could she ever forgive me when she thinks I didn’t do anything wrong? I did. I did. I did.
I kept saying to myself that I didn’t love her. That I certainly did not. Because what good has that ever done me? Loving these creatures who I call my friends? So I said I would not do it. And I would not even consider it. And I would act like I felt nothing. And that’s just what I did, and by doing that, I let him hurt her and now I know why she spent all that time crying and alone, and why she wouldn’t tell me why she was crying alone, when it wouldn’t matter if I had just allowed that other voice of mine to say, “you know, I love this girl. We have to look after her…”

But I didn’t let him say that. And it’s done. And she tells me in little ways how it’s hurting her still, and it kills me because I could have fucking stopped it.

So now what? I keep busy. Busy busy busy. So I never have to think about it for too long. So I won’t have enough time to write to K and tell her the terrible things I did. So that, this time, I really don’t feel the terrible guilt that I know awaits me. Because it’s there. I know it is. It’s made up my mind for me to ask her to be in my wedding, because I care so much and I’m so so sorry for not looking after her, but I don’t know how to even begin to express that to her.

Not that she would see a correlation between the two things…but…I don’t know. I want her to know that she’s important to me, and I hope that she’ll interpret the gesture that way, even if she says no or even if I never manage to explain myself.

I don’t know.

I suppose what I want is to be free from feeling all these things, but to also be free of the necessity of talking about it, because in the moments like this where I do think about it…I also feel like I’m being ridiculous and melodramatic. Even if they are some of my best qualities…I find it increasingly difficult to take pleasure in that knowledge.

…sometimes I just want it to be over.


So. This is uncomfortable and terrifying. And I can’t see what anyone likes about it. That said…

I slept all day today. And I suppose in a little while I will take a 3-4 hour nap so I can get up at 530 and go to work. So people can get up ungodly early to see Godzilla. Wth, people. Wtfh.

We have a training class on Wednesday. I have no idea what to wear. They said “don’t wear jeans and a t-shirt”, but wtf else do I own? I have my Goth clothes, which aren’t work-acceptable…and also…well…jeans and t-shirts. I have dress clothes…but I hate them. And haven’t worn any of them in over 2 years. Oh. And it’s gonna be bloody 80 degrees that day, so it’ll be extra hot in the room they have set aside for the class.

She texted me back today. Finally. And I feel extra stupid because I admitted I was worried she was upset with me. (Because what else are you supposed to think when she has an iPhone and you can see that she looked at your messages and hasn’t responded in 2 days?) She said no. I guess it’s alright. I just have to keep reminding myself that she’s like me, and that not hearing back from her doesn’t mean anything in particular. Because it doesn’t when I don’t answer. (And I keep second-guessing myself. That maybe she’s not like me. But…she is.)

And then there’s this paragraph, in which I’ve forgotten whatever thought was holding these disparate things together.


Some days I just don’t even know.

I think…though…I think just a little bit…that I might ask if she would be my maid of honour when he and I get married. Because I think (and we still need to go look at it) that maybe we have a venue…and if we like the look and the price…then we can set a date…and then I bloody need a bridesmaid who is NOT one of my sisters. And whom I can maybe coax into sharing my anxiety, since she has been actively aware and managing hers for longer than I’ve known her.

…and now my head feels numb. Like I’ve had an ice pack against the right side. Except I haven’t.

Time to get off the computer, I guess.


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