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Human interaction is too complicated.

That’s not what he wanted to say, but I think I should not let my Wolf speak. Because we’ve been awake for about 21 hours now, and did not sleep much last night. Nor the one before that.

They tell me that sleep deprivation is like being drunk. I wouldn’t really know, given my lack of experience with drunkenness…but I can suppose there is truth in it.

I just have to look at Wolf to know…
He has been mentally pouring over that exchange we had, and he is so pleased with himself that his colour is different…soot black with ember-orange eyes. And he just keeps scratching the area around that exchange, like a canine marking its territory (you have seen a dog scratch up the ground like this, yes?). Like it somehow matters…

That post I put up about Satan giving you a toy? Well.
I don’t know why a fraction of me feels so pleased…like we successfully insinuated a threat and got what we wanted out of it.

Except that we did, didn’t we?
Haven’t written to K about it yet. Mostly because of the whole bit about overstepping…

Wolf’s glee is certainly overstepping.

So that. It is still a thing, of course.
And also, I am disappointed with my lack of knowledge. I have a tenuous grasp of grammar (shh…don’t tell my coworkers that “English Language” was the class I scored lowest in for my major *guilt*), but I am at a complete loss when it comes to pronunciation and the words for…mmm…describing language sounds. Phonemes? I think that is what they are called.

I have been fascinated lately by the way certain non-native English speakers will say a word ending with a D, but it will come out with the soft T sound that I didn’t really notice until I started looking for it. I think I was mistaking the sound for a K or a hard CH, but it is not that after all. *shrug* I don’t know.

My apologies that I don’t understand language descriptors well enough to even search for the proper symbols for the sounds I am talking about. (Like anyone beside me cares.)

It is interesting to me though…because I spent a long time repeating lines from TV and movies so I could improve my fake British accent (it is good enough to fool someone who doesn’t know any better), and listening over and over and over to songs not for the music, but so that I could listen for the inhales and exhales and listen for how individuals regulate their voices through their breath stops, and mimic the sounds as well as I could…

Jester would not believe it, but I sing a lot. A lot a lot.
I fancy I’ve gotten much better, but it is hard to tell because I can’t for the life of me sing in the presence of other creatures. Nope. Just myself.

I did do another thing today that I am not sure whether or not I regret.

See. My tumbler that I use for work got cracked, and I can no longer be that manager who drinks from a skull.

And because the rest of our management team has made a running joke about some things our employees have said to me–not the foolishness that went on for a while about me being a communist, and not even about me as a Vulcan, though either would be preferable–I was threatened with the gift of a personalized mug, and because I am neverendingly paranoid, I asked the internet and, to my horror, it told me that it need not be personalized, and that it already exists…

So I am waiting for it to arrive in the mail now. Because having it foisted on me as a surprise would be too uncomfortable. And because my protests have not extricated me from this joke, I suppose I shall go along with it. For now.

But more immediately, I shall end this post. And sleep.

all the things

Marzipan candy is great. People should get this for me. In other news: I should not be allowed to go into World Market because I want to buy one of everything so I can try it. For instance: I now know that cactus soda exists. I wish I did not know that. The curiosities threaten to overwhelm.

Had a weirdo dream the other night. I was walking in a building. It looked like a mall. Or something. There were other people walking around the way people do in malls. And then suddenly, I was holding this wrinkly, creepy looking baby. A psychic baby. Because it told me to take it into the sushi restaurant. And I did. And I sat down in a booth, and then suddenly the baby was gone. And everyone around me was getting food, but none was brought to me…not that I get excited about sushi…but my dream-self was hungry, and I could smell cold-fish smell and cooking shrimp smell, and despite my not even liking these foods, I was getting annoyed that I wasn’t being fed. And then things went hazy, and the restaurant closed, and I came back the next day. Right at opening. I was the only person there. It seemed like the employees weren’t even there yet. Then suddenly, the doorway and the big glass windows out into the mall disappeared, and the sushi restaurant became the entire universe (I can’t really explain that point). Little blue flames were hovering everywhere. Like bunson burner flames. And then there was this very tall, Asian chef. I looked up, and he was just vaulting over tables to get to me, meat cleaver in hand, ready to chop me into bits…so I slid out of my booth and stood, and became fire. Not the teeny blue flames, but red-gold inferno flames. I think I killed the chef. I felt very pleased about it. Because that’s the kind of dreams I dream.

I almost could not sleep last night, because I started to doze off, and then my brain was like, “hey…remember that Lovecraft story where this dead ghoul child rises from its grave and crashed a party because he doesn’t realize he’s dead?”
It’s not that creepy. Certainly not by comparison to other things I’ve read…but I could not fall asleep for thinking about it.

Was thinking about Ligotti’s stories again, too. I forget what. I think I was wondering what country they are supposed to be in. Because our butchers (when we have them, as opposed to supermarkets or family groceries) don’t usually advertise goat in neon signs. Or maybe I am just too limited in my knowledge of what butchers sell in other states…we just don’t eat a lot of goat in the Midwest.
It confuses me because he spent a lot of his life in Michigan (I am not clear on whether he’s from there, but that seems to be the consensus). Do they eat goat in Michigan and I just never noticed? Perhaps this is the kind of “meat-nonsense” his character is thinking about after staring too long at the neon sign for GOAT.

A different topic:
In the post-apocalyptic world, I am probably that person who dies from an infected cut.
About a week ago, I cut my hand on the tag inside my winter glove. I am trying to not think about it right now, but this cut has evolved into a purple-red spot on my hand, with a yellow-green spot in the middle of that. Washing and band aids and Neosporin and antibiotic ointment have clearly not been as effective as I would like. I am probably going to have it looked at on Friday.

What else is there?

Oh. Well. There is that. The paranoia again. That maybe Wolf and I have overstepped, and that it is known. It is uncomfortable to think that someone disapproves of a thing you have done, but is waiting for the right moment to tell you that they know, and that they do not approve. Why do they not just say it outright? I could not guess. We’d like them to do it though. Just say that you know. And then I can stop dwelling on my feeling that I know you know, and I can stop waiting for the eruption of disapproval. But I can’t just tell you that I know you know…because…what if I’m wrong? (Wolf is never wrong.)

Thinking again about friends I used to have. And books.
Mostly Katy.

I forget if I said before, but…she was my best friend while we were in grades 6-8. And She used to do this thing where she’d get books for me to read so that I could tell her about them.
The more I think about it, the weirder it seems. Like. I only remember two of the books she specifically gave me for that purpose…and it’s just…weird. Like, why did she not read them herself? Why did I accept this bizarre situation? (Because free books, probably.) Been bugging my dad to see if he knows where my old books are boxed up, because as I keep thinking about it, I kind of want them back…hm.

Going back to Lovecraft…I was thinking again about the story Dagon, and I can’t fathom why anyone thinks that’s a creepy story. It’s not. It’s a dream-fragment, which is where HP got the story, so that makes sense…but…I don’t know. It’s not scary, not the way it’s written. It could be. It could be if it was fleshed out with more backstory and then dun dun DUNNN! Suddenly, a monster! And then go from there…like…cinematize the plot or something (although not like they did in the actual Dagon film, which doesn’t seem to hold to the short story very well, since it takes place in Spain, which HP probably would have objected to), and it could be scary.
Idk…it’s not a great story. I think it only crossed my mind because of the tenuous connection to the other thing Wolf and I have been looking at.
And also because we’ve been reading Game of Thrones again, and wondering if the little prayer or affirmation among the seagod worshippers–“what’s dead may never die”–and the name Dagon being in use on the Iron Islands is a nod to Lovecraft. I think it is. It would be hard to be unaware of those things, I think, and then to also represent house Greyjoy with a kraken.

This has been my desktop picture for a while now.

house lovecraft

And with this I leave you, for I must get up ungodly early again tomorrow, and I do not look forward to it at all.



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Good news:

My next youngest sister is also familiar with this phenomena of a thing being “everywhere” once we’ve gotten interested in it. I am pleased to know I am not the only one who feels like this is a thing that happens.

Bad news:

I am uncomfortable with the ideas my Wolf has been running by me regarding our recollection of the initial impression we had of Dr. Who, and also with a connection–not yet fully fleshed because I keep trying to dismember that patchwork monstrosity–between a film we saw (and two we’ve refused to see), and our place of work, and that stupid Seth Rogan, of all people.
It’s this sort of thing that makes me want to tell myself, “you’re drunk; go home.” Except that I am not. I’m just…you know. A crazy person, I guess. It’s a disappointing conclusion. I always hoped I would not be that crazy person who talks to ourself. :/

Good news:

One of my friends has gotten in touch after a long time of not really speaking, even though we were facebook friends. It’s a peculiar development, but not an unwelcome one, I suppose. It is nice to think that people remember me fondly, even if most of our interactions took place on–heaven help me–my old Xanga, where my self-talking-tos and ravings about nothing at all took place.
(No, not my Danish friend…I have little expectation that I will find her…this is someone I knew vaguely through one of my high schools.)

Bad news:

One of our employees has been sick for a long time. Not been at work or even scheduled this past month because it was serious enough to require hospitalization…today the caregiver called us and said they are not expected to make it through this weekend.
I cannot say I knew this employee well, since our shifts did not often overlap…but…I feel sad. If this turns out to be the case, they will contact us with info for the funeral…and I feel sad about that. I mean…do I go? Would it be right? I feel like it would not be…but…I don’t know. I feel sad for our employees, and I do not even know why.

Good news:

Ate too much junk food today, but after sitting very quietly these last four hours (and taking several pepto bismal tablets), I finally feel settled enough that I might sleep. And I would like to very much, since I have been awake for about 22 hours at this point. (Bloody HATE opening shifts…)

Bad news:

I started a thing at work. We have these squishy chickens (like, stress balls in chicken shape) in our office, and it started out as one chicken, which we named “Lucky Chicken”, but our GM brought three new ones with him when he came back from a conference a few weeks ago…but the new ones look different. More detailed and calculating (so far as a squashy, foam chicken can look) compared to slightly surprised looking Lucky Chicken.
But…I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but I was getting ready to lock up the office a few nights ago, and decided to arrange the chickens so that two of the new ones would be beheading Lucky with a pair of scissors, while the third new chicken sat in judgment on the coin tray…



And then it kind of took off from there.

Kurt wanted in on the murder scene for my next closing shift, and we decided to hang Lucky. Kurt wanted to give the new chickens hoods, but I thought that was going a bit far. We put a napkin over Lucky’s face instead.

There he is. Waiting for the new chickens to push the quarter tray from under him.


And then today…there was a splotch of something (BBQ sauce?) on the counter, so I took advantage of that and have one of the new chickens shoot Lucky with a marker…


I should stop. I really should.
But the other managers just keep encouraging me by finding it hilarious. How can I possibly stop murdering Lucky now? D:


(I swear, I do real work sometimes.)

neither meaning nor worth


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Ah, no. I don’t know anymore what this is saying. I would like so very much to know…

Every time I hear it, I think, “you know, you’re right. I believe you.” But I don’t know what it is…and probably it is not right. Or believable. But something about it…Wolf and I both look…and that is all.

That’s what this whole thing has done that I don’t understand. My Wolfish side and I, we would always look at things differently, or at different times, or we would oppose each other…one being attracted to a thing and the other repelled…and now it is all one cohesive attraction, and we look at the same time, or we hear a thing and it strikes us the same…or we find a thing to hold and consider, and we find the same ineffable fascination.

Out of all the ridiculous things to finally smooth out the discord of my self-characterisations… *sigh*

I find I understand it less and less though. Because…there is still no why. No reason at all for it. And that was what Haiko said that we found strangely comforting…that it doesn’t necessarily mean anything.
And so it doesn’t.

Most would argue otherwise, probably, but…I think he is right. Like when I visited that film club at my university. Everyone hated the same character in the film we watched, and I made the mistake of exclaiming, “Aw, but he’s so friendly. How can you hate him?” They gave me this collective look, like I must be trolling them. I find I am making mistakes like that with increasing frequency…ones where people can’t even begin to take me seriously, and which I should have been able to recognize and keep to myself.

I don’t know though…
Out of all the things in the world…
I should stop affirming that “I like upsetting things”.

That’s not what we mean. Not here.

I mean, there are upsetting things that I am not enjoying. Not one bit.

Like the constant feel that the universe has played a sly joke on me.
Like the joke is about meaning. And worth, perhaps.
Things that I am finding more and more that I do not possess. Perhaps because I have fewer and fewer people bothering to tell me that it is not true.

(Perhaps that’s a reason we’ve taken comfort in this thing: because regardless of the reason–projecting, or just being too obvious in our interests–others have picked up on it, and even embraced it. And as much as I have hated it at times, I have never been able to avoid taking to heart what others say I am.)

So there is that.
Also, the smell of blood.
I am getting better and better at identifying it, which is terrifying. Because I know what blood smell is, and I smell it all the time now. I smell it when I should not be smelling blood. Why is that a thing now?

Fortunately, this other thing is preventing me from dwelling too long on the blood smell. Goodness only knows what frightful conclusions I would draw if I were dwelling more on that. (Namely, that I must be dying. Or truly becoming a monster.)

But yes. Upsetting things. And, you know…

I am sorry that we both lack self-worth. I am. And I am sorry that while your lack of it turns inward to cut and hurt you, I could not bear to let mine cut me anymore, have chosen to fashion my worthlessness into a weapon to hurl at others, that they might be hurt in equal measure. I am sorry I have done this with you, and that I lack gentleness.

I am also wishing the blood smell would go away. And I hope that it is nothing serious–badly cooked meat, and the grime on one’s hands after counting coins…that is what it smells like. It is not a good thing to be smelling with such frequency, and wondering if other people smell it, and worrying about that…or wondering if they do not smell it, and perhaps you are going mad.

I am also…wondering what I am going to do with these things I have spent these last months collecting. I have thought of making a shadowbox for them. That would look nice, I think, if I could be motivated enough to do it. But…how to explain my possession of them…? (Just the one, really.) To anyone?
I did not think that bit through.

And on that note, I have a practical question for anyone who has bothered to read to the end of this post: in the case of a vintage item, or an item of historical significance, is it better to clean and restore said item, or to let it alone? This is more concerning something of a decorative nature, rather than one with a practical use or application…
I would welcome whatever advice you citizens of the internet have to offer.



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You know what I kind of miss that got lost when Xanga deleted (most of) itself? The saved private messages I had on my account.

I had a Danish friend on Xanga whose username I cannot recall…and I don’t think she ever told me her real name (which is fine…I didn’t tell her mine, either), but I liked writing to her. We wrote each other a lot during that time between when I graduated college and when I finally found a job…mostly because we were both unemployed and didn’t have a whole lot else to do.

She tried to teach me some Danish, too, but I don’t remember most of the words she taught me…just a word for shadow, mostly, since it is my name…Skyggen.

We talked a lot about writing poems, too…and I remember trying to persuade her that she wasn’t really that bad at it…and how excited she was when she messaged me one day to tell me that there was a publication that had accepted one of her Danish poems, and she would never have sent it if I hadn’t bothered her about it…

For a girl whose name I never even found out, I liked her a lot. I miss our rambling conversations. And I wonder sometimes, if she is still writing poems.

One more unsolved mystery of the internet.



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Ever daydream something so stupid and unlikely, albeit within the realm of realism (you know…as opposed to the fantastic) that you know how incredibly stupid it sounds, and you berate yourself for having such a pointlessly vain daydream?

I do.

Except that this is a thing that has happened to me now. Where one of the stupidest of daydreams becomes real.

It feels like…

…a story. With an old-fashioned setting, wherein you are a small child. And the Devil comes by with a toy–a yoyo, a top…maybe a little wooden animal with wheels and a string to pull it behind you–something like that. And he gives it to you, and pats your head and tells you to go play. And you don’t know what to do because he’s the DEVIL. Surely there’s a string attached (other than the one trailing your new wooden pet), but he just shakes his head and says, “No. Not today. Just take it.”

And you take it…


The Devil

And you walk away, watching him over your shoulder. And he smiles…

And you look at that toy trailing after you, and when you look up again the Devil is gone. And yet…you still have the toy. The thing you were so idly thinking about…

And you know you are going to spend a looong time–your whole life, maybe–waiting to learn what the catch is.




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I almost crashed my car today.

Went to the store to buy some important things–mouthwash, antiperspirant, antacid–and I was driving into the sun. Right into that blazingly orange sun whose face I want to punch because it is SO DAMN BRIGHT, and seems to take pleasure in rubbing in the fact that it is about to set and yet again plunge us into icy winter darkness (ugh…IS WINTER YOUR FAVOURITE SEASON??? IS IT?).

So yeah. Driving into the sun, and hating it and hating winter and all of that nonsense. And then I see this bird.

A giant bird, silhouetted against all that orange sunblaze.

And I think at first that it is a heron, because it is so big and we see them around a lot…but herons look like movie depictions of pterodactyls with their long necks and long, dangling legs…but this bird does not look like that. It is bird-of-prey shaped…and then I’m like, “omg! A bald eeeeeagle!” *squee*

So, while I am enjoying this glimpse of threatened wildlife, I realize that I am also not driving on the correct side of the road. Because despite my mockably un-American nature, I guess I still get pretty excited about eagles. (Or any birds of prey, I guess…since I seem to recall posting before about a time when I almost veered off the road into snow because owls…and owls = wizards!)

Idk…I was thinking, too, about when I was a kid and our city’s zoo had a condor chick…I remember them showing him to us when I was at summer camp that year (I was…eleven, maybe?), and he wasn’t a fluffy baby chick anymore, but he was already GIGANTIC…

It’s strange though, seeing wild animals. I guess it seems to me like wildlife has become so marginal that when I see an eagle or a coyote or a deer, it surprises me all over again that there are creatures living their own lives without direct human oversight. Because humans control everything, right?

Absurd, I know…but…yeah. I don’t know what I’m trying to say, I guess. I just like animals. And birds of prey. Enough that it makes me an irresponsible driver. *ashamed*



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Bah. With the exception of tomorrow, all of my shifts this next week are morning ones. How awful.

I don’t quite know how to explain why I detest mornings so much…but here are some things I have noticed–

I feel physically ill when I have to wake up early. Even if I get adequate sleep, my body seems to reject the hours between 6-11am. I have tried not eating breakfast, but that doesn’t seem to affect it at all. So I eat my poptarts or waffles or piece of fruit and feel miserable and wish that I were a plant, because then I could be excited about the sunshine and bask quietly without having to concern myself with eating or not eating, or with having a digestive system at all.

I hate people. I especially hate the television. So when I wake up before dawn (which I hate, but starting out my day in darkness seems to slightly counteract the sick feeling), and my dad wakes up and comes downstairs when I am having breakfast with my cat…and he brings down our most excitable dog, and she wants to bounce all over me and he wants to talk and turns on the TV and watches the news and offers a (slightly gleeful) commentary on how bad he thinks my drive across town is going to be…

Usually colours the next few hours in a murdery-red for me. Because in the mornings, I just want to be left the fuck alone.

I also feel uncomfortable about the lighting situation. Because over the last six years, I have grown so unaccustomed to seeing things in the AM that it looks wrong to me…the sun is making the shadows go in the wrong direction, and there is a bright newness to the light that is different from midday or afternoon, when the light is mellowed…it’s disconcerting.

I mean–how exactly do you tell people that you don’t like mornings because the shadows are the wrong way and NOT sound like a crazy?

You don’t. Of course.

Anyway. Time for bed. And I won’t even be tempted to stay up, reading, as the next book in my tbr stack is a primer on literary theory. Because for *SOME* reason, 21-year-old me thought that after I left college, I might still be interested in that. And I kind of am…but only for two reasons. And only kind of.:

1) I never did manage to grasp what the hell deconstructionism was about. I think about it sometimes, and it’s the sort of fleeting thing…like when you are near a small wild animal, like a chipmunk or a tiny bird…and you want to see it more closely, but you know that if you move, it will startle and get away from you…and I always move and deconstructionism gets away. I can’t think about it properly.

2) Marxist theory. OMG, I want to throttle my professors. They’d try and teach us these “theories”, without giving us the background necessary…and Marxism, in my classes, boiled down to “tell me about the way characters in this book represent social classes”. Except that is way oversimplified, and I don’t like that it was taught to me as being that simple…

I don’t know. I got “close reading” and I get (I suppose) feminist or “queer” theory, which were the other two they always stressed to us…and there were a few others that I can’t even remember being interested in (and also can’t remember having drilled into my brains), but…I don’t know. What good is any of it to me right now? Could not tell you. An exercise in thinking about things, I guess (because I so obviously need to do more of that).

…and now I really will go to bed. And wake up tomorrow, feeling ill and murderous. My favourite two feelings.


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