My Muse Is A Whore

My Sunday Night Blues

2006-04-09T16:27:00.000-04:00

I have well and truly had it with sitting around, getting fatter (I've gained twelves fucking pounds since my knee got really bad just before surgery), with frozen squash on my knee, while making circles with my toes. This fucking sucks. I can't get up and clean the apartment, for fear that I'll slow down the fucking healing process. I can't get up and exercise and try to make myself feel better, for fear that I'll slow down the fucking healing process. In the end, I can't go see D., and I can't even work on making mmyself look and feel better for him. I mean, for me. Really.

Right now, it feels hopeless. I know that's the Sunday bug having its nasty way with my mind, but that doesn't help the pain go away. We're too far apart, with established lives more than two hundred miles apart. We've been talking for over a month and haven't been able to get together...and sometimes the talking slows down, I don't feel very important, and I wonder what the fuck the point it. It feels like I'm just waiting for an "I met someone local," or "It's just not gonna work out." It's stupid. Danny would tell me it's stupid, Simone would tell me it's stupid, D. would tell me it's stupid.

Who Needs Sleep?

2006-04-01T20:26:00.000-05:00

Last night I dreamt of being injured, my abdomen sliced open, organs hanging out. The doctors began a repair but only gave me local anesthetic, then started talking about how there was no chance I was going to make it, as if I were really under general anesthesia. I writhed on the table, tried to get them to understand that I was in pain, and they just calmly held me down.
Then, for some reason, I was in surgery again, to fix the mess that hadn't been completed before. They put me under general anesthesia and did the job right. I remember waking up to an attractive female surgeon in scrubs, and seeing out the window behind her the light blue sky, bright sun, tiny wispy clouds...They told me I was in Afghanistan. Right.

Later on, I was out getting lost in the snow, trying to get to a farm where they supposedly had a stray Kai dog (a smallish asian breed). When I got to the 'farm,' the dog was there, beaten and starved, but with the most amazing shining almost metallic gold coat. It turned out that the dog wasn't a stray, and the husband was regularly beating the hell out of it. They had skinny horses and cows too, and there wasn't a fucking thing I could do about it.

At least my dreams don't portray some sort of feeling of powerlessness or anything.

One of the medications I take is specifically to help get rid of my nightmares. Somehow, I don't think it's working. It's been almost two months, and I'm having maybe even more nightmares than before, probably because the drug helps me sleep better. Stupid drugs.

I took the stitches out of my knee today. The incisions are more or less healed, and I don't feel like taking time off of work to have the PA wrench my knee around a little, snip out two stupid sutures, then charge my insurance company a couple hundred dollars. I'm just sick of that shit. I can take care of this myself. Stubborn? You bet your ass. Though I'd never survive in the wild.

My life isn't really that bad, when I look at it from through Vicodin-colored glasses. I have a decent apartment that I rather like, four sweet and insane cats, two dogs that I mostly like, a car that is more or less in working order, a supportive (yet insane) family, and a few really great friends. Nevermind that my friends don't really have faces, to me. But right now, I don't have love. I thought I was getting somewhere with D, but it's starting to seem like all the rest. I may be able to get to him if I work really hard at it, but if I walk away, he's not going to come after me. And, well, fuck that. I don't need that sort of relationship. I've had ten fucking years of that. I don't understand why the guys that I like end up not being all that interested in me, yet the guys I don't care for think they're in love with me. I really must have been a professional puppy-smasher in a previous life.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe D will come back, tell me he cares, be more attentive. Yet it really seems the death rattle of a relationship when I don't feel like I'm getting enough out of it and we haven't even met yet. I'm too crazy for this shit. I'm too needy for what he seems willing to give. If it's just that he's scared of being hurt...good job, man. You've hurt me instead.

Lump

2006-03-30T10:32:00.000-05:00

I feel so utterly useless today. I can't bend my knee enough to drive, I can't work from home, I can't sleep peacefully, I can't just wait and let things be what they will with D. This rollercoaster ride that's all in my head is making it hard for me to survive, and yet I can't just hang on and stop screaming, but I can't make myself just get off the ride. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Except maybe an unbroken heart.

Why Do Fools...

2006-03-29T13:48:00.000-05:00

Is it really possible to know what it is about a person makes you fall in love with them, or what makes you love them after that? Think about that for a second. If you don't have children, at least, since I can understand loving a person in part for the critters you've created.

I'm pretty sure I'm falling in love, and Danny (there's your mention, Danny...feel better?) asked me what it was that I loved about the guy. I'm attracted to him, we have some similar interests, he's fun to talk to...he makes me laugh, and makes me feel like there's a reason to bother with the future. But are these the reasons I'm falling? Can't blame it on pheromones, since he and I have never been in the same room together, yet. I don't know if there's a name for it. It's like a sort of magnetism, and I could feel it the first time we talked online. Love at first click.

And what if I'm wrong? I've been wrong before. But I'm really not worried about me. I know what I feel, and I'm pretty sure I could love this person. What freaks me out is not knowing what he thinks. So I overreact, panic, cry...stable as can be. He even has the ability to calm me down (not to mention get me worked up). I really want to do this right.

Percalicious

2006-03-26T21:41:00.000-05:00

I am convinced that in some language, Percoset means "happiness." No, not for long term use. But this weekend would have been utter torment without it, between post-surgical pain, being alone, and some emotional turmoil.

The funniest thing is that Percoset wasn't the only good part of the weekend. I think it helped me feel more secure and less panicky about D., especially since he was out of town. I really hope I can continue with my new protocol of no freaking out. It's hard for me to not freak out when I think I
am falling in love...though I certainly don't have the guts to tell D. that. But I'm pretty sure he knows. He's a smart guy, and my shirt sleeves are covered in cardiac muscle. The biggest trick is not telling myself, baselessly I should add, that he doesn't feel the same way. I don't know. I hope he does. It'll really suck if he doesn't, but I know I'm strong enough to survive it...I just don't want to have to.

And then there's the strangest thing: Tommy came back. Tommy was a big, strange part of my life many years ago. I met him online, became friends, and inadvertently fell in love with him, or the persona he portrayed. I was a really weak, frightened person then. My life was falling apart, my relationship was falling apart, and he offered me the attention, friendship, support, whatever, that helped me to get through it. It was a fucked up friendship - especially when he disappeared all of a sudden, and he's not someone for me to fall in love with...but like it or not, I care about the guy. I want to ask him about his real life. I want to be friends with the person he really is, and I'm afraid he'll never let me in. Worse, how can I ever know for sure? The internet allows people to lie, portray who or whatever they want to be. I do know, though, that if he disappears again, I'm really going to give him hell.

I don't get it. I have so much love, so much caring for other people, and still I feel that people see me as a cold, sarcastic, unloving bitch. Maybe because there's no in between. Either I'll die for someone, or I wish they'd die. I think I'm getting better at not letting people know I want them to die, unless they push me. Then they deserve whatever I have to tell them.

Deja Loser

2006-03-20T09:49:00.000-05:00

So, here I am again. Uncertain but growing more and more sure that I've found another relationship that will just strip me bare and beat me bloody, metaphorically speaking. It's not even a relationship, this time. It's more like the karmic boomerang, relationship edition. Little Danny chased after me and I was absent and "too busy." And here I am, chasing after someone who is busy and uncommunicative and doesn't seem to mirror my emotional attachment. I'm a leech, an emotional vampire, a...something else bad that would explain why I can't put together a decent relationship to save my life.
I should be ok with this. I decided a while back that I like living alone. It's just such a damn tease to find someone that seems to fit so well...but they all seem to fit at first...or at least many of them. Danny didn't, Bill didn't, but the rest...I got that painful, anxious excitement that is the feeling of my common sense dying.

Just as I lose hope, something changes, I'm thrown enough of a lifeline to keep from going completely under. I never get back on the boat, but I never entirely drown. I'm supposed to have faith. Hah. Me, faith? You might as well tell me to have a penis, because I wasn't born with one and I'm not about to spontaneously grow one. It would take work, both for me and at least one other person, for me to obtain a penis. The same goes for faith. The only big difference is that I wouldn't mind having faith. All penises in my life should be part of other people.

Kill Me, Billy

2006-03-13T20:06:00.000-05:00

Ya little pecker.

I don't think I'm quite cut out for this world. Bad things drag me down to the ground...and I'm finding that I'm so afraid of losing good things, I can barely stand having them at all. I hate the internet for fucking with my emotions. I hate the internet for muddying the waters there were never very clear to begin with. I hate the internet, and I can't shut it off.

Obsess Much?

2006-03-11T05:44:00.000-05:00

Last night, I stayed up late, waiting for D. to get online again. My knee was throbbing, but I tried to ignore it...if I took a vicodin, I knew I'd fall asleep and miss him. To top it all off, I couldn't use the nickname he knows on IRC, since somehow I'd managed to stay connected from work. Cue small panic attack.
I waited...and waited...and waited. I told a friend about the situation, and he suggested I call D. But...I don't know. I don't want to see so damn needy and insecure, even though I am. Especially since I am. I also was worried he came home from work exhausted, or with another headache, and I really didn't want to call and wake him up.
God, I hate being a stupid girl.
So, I took a vicodin when I couldn't stand my knee anymore, and struggled to stay awake. I kept dozing and forcing my eyes open to see if he had suddenly appeared online. Eventually, I just couldn't do it anymore. After a bit of sleep, I ended up closing my laptop and leaving it on the corner of my bed so I could collapse without light. This morning, 5 AM or so, I woke up and opened up the laptop. Right after I had fallen asleep, D. had come online. Just my luck.
As S. pointed out, if D. likes me, and it seems he does, it'll be harder than that to screw things up. But I worry. I always worry.

I had really strange dreams, too. I'd blame it on the vicodin, but I always have strange dreams. I remember being on a large boat, with masts all over the place, rather than in the usual arrangement. We were escaping from someone or something, I think, but there were no ropes for the sails. Someone put together paperclip chains, and we used those...I had no idea what I was doing, but I guess I managed.
I also dreamt about being a vet tech again. My old boss had some sort of spinal injury, and we were taking care of this sick dog that was owned by a greasy 'I know guys in the Mob' type.
Plus, there was something about highschool, with no one wanting to sit near me, feeling totally left out. And I think there was some sort of bomb scare, or poisonous gas or something. That was definitely the worst part. I've got to stop talking with Messy about things like that (highschool, not gas. I try not to talk to people about gas, unless it's argon or acetylene).

Kittycat

2006-03-09T09:22:00.000-05:00

I shouldn't be sitting here writing this; I have so much work to do my head is spinning. But my head spins for another reason too. I met someone. (How many times have I said or written these words? Shouldn't I know better by now?) I think for the purposes of this silly journal, I'm going to call him D.
Part of me doesn't want to say any more than that. I'm always certain someone is going to read this and cause problems for me. I'm afraid he'll read this and say, "Oh shit. All I wanted was a fuck buddy and this loony is going all googly-eyed over me." Which I guess is what happened with me and Danny the loser...I don't want to be on the other side of that sort of mistake. Ever.
It's probably best that I don't have his email address or screen name for a messaging program (yet), since I really am googly-eyed this morning. Googly-eyed but worried. Scared. I can't just ignore this, but this feeling has gotten me in trouble so many other times. I'm exhausted because I stayed up too late hoping he'd go back online. I want to track him down and ask him if he's some sort of hypnotist, though I know I'm just suggestible all on my own. All it takes is someone with the right proportions and types of intelligence, humor and desire.

I worry that I'm not good enough, every time I start to fall for someone...but if I really think about it, I'm plenty good, dammit. I like to take care of people who are good to me. That doesn't make a very good fuck buddy, but...well...I guess I just need to be patient and see where things go, if anywhere. The distance will make life difficult. I wonder if I told him that I didn't want to meet him in person until after my surgery and once I started to lose some weight, if he'd get frustrated and either drop me and disappear or tell me to get bent. I feel more like he'd try to talk me out of that, tell me that it doesn't matter. Part of me really really wants to hear that, that I'm ok the way I am and that anything I do to fix myself will only make me better. Part of me wants to hide under a rock and never come out, so I don't get hurt.

Meow meow cough...Meow?

2006-03-03T15:13:00.000-05:00

So apparently Germans are dropping their cats like they're hot, simply because one dead cat was found to have the dread flu virus. Shelters are full. I wonder if they use gas chambers in German animal shelters. C'mon, kitty, time for your bath!
I guess this shows that not only Americans are stupid. How hard is it to keep your cat inside, where it won't contract the flu virus? Fuckers.

Maybe I'm a crazy cat lady. I know four cats is a lot, but I can't imagine how lonely and drab my apartment would be without them. Even when they decide to fight in the middle of the night. I just wonder what these people are thinking. Are pets just disposable? What would you do if your little son or daughter's friend came down with the bird flu? Time to kill the kiddies, hon. Oh well, we have pictures.

What's Left of my Brain

2006-03-03T08:55:00.000-05:00

It's a good thing Winblows has a little date and time thingie down there in the bottom right hand corner of my screen. I keep getting this horrible fear that it's really Thursday, and I'll sleep in tomorrow thinking it's Saturday. Wait, that doesn't sound so bad, as long as no one told the boss.

I hate going to the post office in this town. Now, the people at the counter are friendly enough, and they generally give me my mail in a somewhat timely fashion. It's just this one guy that seems to get his mail at the same time I go, every single friggin day. If you look in the dictionary at the entry for "molester," you will see a picture of this guy, from skeezy little moustache to icky hair right down to too-tight jeans. I keep telling myself that the guy probably has no idea, thinks he looks fine, and is most likely an upstanding member of society. Oh god, now I have to wash my eyes out with bleach, after using the words "upstanding member" in regards to him. That's just not cool.

Ok, we have to get rid of that mental image. Let's think about the physician's assistant that examined my knee yesterday. Could I take him home, please? I'm sure my insurance would cover it. If not, I have a few suggestions as to how I could compensate him for his time. I just wish I had the sort of face and/or body that would make guys want to get to know me better, instead of a personality that sometimes makes guys look past my physical self.

What's Wrong With Looking Like A Person?

2006-03-02T10:54:00.000-05:00

I followed a link from some website today and came to the portfolio of a...graphic artist, I guess. There are all sorts of before and after pictures of models and celebrities. Every wrinkle is wiped away and not a blood-shot eye can remain. God forbid that a magazine image is remotely true to life. I have the urge to email the artist and tell her that she can count herself among the responsible when it comes to eating disorders and poor self esteem. I hate them for this. Maybe if models actually were shown as they are, my head wouldn't be so messed up. They actually made models skinnier! Why?!? Apparently, a few inches on the hips is all that stands between a model and actual beauty. Fuckers.

Why should a fifty year old person be pictured with the skin of a twenty year old? I don't even want to see this. It's not art. It's not selling jack shit, at least not to me. It's dishonest. They're pulling the cashmere/virgin wool blend over our eyes, here. When we hit fifty, we're disgusted that we don't look that way...no one looks that way, honey, except for maybe a twenty year old, on a really good day. I don't want to hate myself. Instead, I think I'm going to hate the people responsible for this. Not just the artists, since they have a talent and they're most likely being asked to do this stuff. I want to hurt the magazine photo editors or whoever it is that orders those tiny lines be erased from the model's face and hands. Like there isn't beauty in the unaltered human body and face.

My Mind Wanders

2006-03-02T09:36:00.000-05:00

Sometime this morning, I realized I had a song stuck in my head. It's the Oscar Mayer bologna song...kind of.

My bologna has a first name
It's Oscar
My bologna has a second name
It's Mayer
Oh I love to eat it every day
And if you ask me why, I'll say
Cuz Oscar Mayer had his way with your b-o-l-o-g-n-a

I'm twisted. And maybe just a little bit retarded.

Fuck Lent, I Want Cadbury Creme Eggs

2006-03-02T08:59:00.000-05:00

Ever pretend you're a raccoon raiding a bird's nest, cracking open a nice Cadbury Creme Egg to get to the creamy yolk....no? Ok, maybe that's just me. The bitch is when you open one and find the cream all congealed and dry; it's like finding a mostly grown chick in the egg you planned to fry. Except I'll still eat the Cadbury egg. The other one is only good for shock value.

I started my new diet today. Zero fat. All Peeps, all the time. Hey, Peeps have no fat. Wait, where are you going? At least it's better than blowing them up in the microwave. Kinda.

Is it bad that I just had a conversation that involved the words "hot throbbing cock" with a customer? Because I rather enjoyed it. It's fun to have a customer to flirt with again. He's even married, so there's not as much chance for it to be uncomfortable. Now, I just have to find an unmarried perv.

I Am A Whiny, Self-Absorbed Asshole

2006-03-01T09:38:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I got the preliminary results of the MRI on my knee. Fluid. That's it. There's fluid in my knee. Which really sounds like no big deal, right? But without an injury to blame all the pain on, what am I left with? The fear of rheumatoid arthritis, that's what. The disease that had my grandmother in a wheelchair. The disease I've seen drag my father down over the years. Ever since I became aware of the fact that it is hereditary, I've been deathly afraid of every ache. Just thinking about that possibility yesterday brought me to tears, on the phone with my father trying not to be accusatory about his rotten genes. I told my mother it felt like a death sentence.

So I took some Tylenol with codeine, and sat down to watch some TV. I flipped through a hundred channels and stopped at A&E, one of the usual suspects. I actually stopped there just in time to see a movie starting, one that I had hoped to get a chance to see. "Murderball," about the US quad rugby team. It took me a few minutes to register the irony of it all. I was watching these broken men, most of whom bore long scars down their necks, some of whom were missing hands, legs, or were otherwise disfigured...and they were competing fiercely, then celebrating wtih girlfriends and wives...living. What kind of an asshole am I for calling arthritis death when these people are living fuller lives than I have, without the use of their legs or even full use of their arms? It gave me a combination of hope and disgust with myself. I needed both.

What I really need is a longterm goal. Something to focus on, something to make me work through whatever obstacles I come across. My version of murderball.

Are people really this stupid?

2006-02-25T14:52:00.000-05:00

I was opening a piece of cheese today when I noticed a little warning beneath the list of ingredients. "Contains milk." Yeah, right under the ingredients list which begins with pasteurized milk. Are there people out there who are dumb enough to grab a block of cheese and wonder if it has milk in it? These people should be allowed to die of their allergies. It's not quite like a bagel that's made in a plant where they process peanuts. If you buy cheese, it's got milk in it. Duh.

I have to figure out how to get my laptop keyboard fixed, since charming little Bella damaged some of the keys. It's much easier to type staying in bed right now because my knee is pretty much trashed. After slipping on the ice yet again yesterday morning (don't judge. I admit my klutziness but don't know how to fix it) my knee is sore and swollen and bruised, and it's stopped moving wrong now and then when I walk. Now it's starting to give out altogether at times, and I've gone from swearing colorfully to being unable to form words at all and just keening as the tears well up in my eyes.

Ain't this fun.

Painful Confessions of a Girl Geek

2006-02-23T09:44:00.000-05:00

I may have admitted before that I'm a geek. Sometimes I'm even proud of it, at least to the extent that it means I don't cry over broken nails or devote my Tivo to recording soap operas. Then again, I don't record Star Trek or have Star Wars posters in my apartment either. I'm sort of a multi-class geek. A little D&D, a little scientist, a little crazy cat lady. I'm sure there's more, but I'd rather not think about all the depths of my not-cool-ness.

I started reading The Order of the Stick yesterday. My exboyfriend had recommended it a bunch of times, and I wrote it off as stupid. I've been going through the archives though, and I can't stop reading it. It's even making me long for the days of playing D&D with the first ex, back when we had the perfect group. I laugh just thinking about them, especially the one rainy night we just couldn't settle down to the game and instead went out chasing after a ghost that one of the friends swore he had seen on the way home from school more than once. We never did end up seeing a ghost, to my disappointment (I'm a hardcore skeptic, but I'd really enjoy being proven wrong...about a lot of things). We just got wet and dirty and I was scared shitless that the owner of the land we were tromping around on was going to come out with a shotgun. It was farm land. It wouldn't be the first time I was warned off of farm land by an armed man. But that's another story for another day.

If opposites attract, I should find myself drooling after football players and punk boys. No, it's gamers and ... well... more gamers. I don't want to, I really don't! But then there's the dark, hidden, rpg loving part of my soul (I have a soul? Since when?) that cries out to play games and fall for dorks. Kill me now.

The Rules, According to Me

2006-02-20T09:14:00.000-05:00

Ok, look, everyone has a job to do around here. This is only going to work if we all pitch in, guys. There's no "i" in blog ( though somehow, there's a lot of "me, me, me," but that's irrelevant to the rules). If you write a blog, write a blog. Write lots. I'm bored out here, people. If you read a blog, comment. I'm sick of reading my own stupid words.

To recap:
Post
Comment
Rinse
Repeat

Are we clear?

2006-02-20T08:02:00.000-05:00

I pray that someday I will own a dog that is smart enough not to step in its own shit after going. If there really is a god, I'm totally screwed for wasting his time over dogshit.

What do you feed a person who has avian flu? You can't very well give them chicken soup. This seems like something lame comedians would have picked up on - I hope I didn't steal this from someone, since it's barely good enough to pass off as my own.

It's going to take a lot to turn this into an ok day. Right now I'm so irritable I can barely stand to hear my dogs eating. Friggin disgusting snorting and slapping lips and blech. I could puke. It reminds me of boyfriends past.

2006-02-18T19:50:00.000-05:00

I just got a strange burst of happy energy. I don't know where it came from, but I spent it on my dogs. I wouldn't change a thing, except for how long it lasted.

Why I Have Pets, Not a Boyfriend

2006-02-17T09:44:00.000-05:00

Awwwww. Just when I was feeling really awful this morning, Bella came over and rested her head on my ankle ever so softly. I swear, my dogs know a lot more about being decent people than most humans ever will.

And yes, I feel awful, but only physically. After calling Frank on the big porcelain phone last night, I look like death warmed over and don't feel a hell of a lot better than that, but my mind seems clearer. I'm not so wound up with some of the stupid petty issues that had brought me down yesterday. I'm not even pissed off that I'm probably going to have to work for a few hours on Sunday, though I'd prefer to be sitting on my ass playing World of Warcraft, because I'm a big smelly geek girl. (I don't know why "smelly" - I showered today, I swear. It just seemed the right thing to type.)

I'm not worried about my MRI anymore, what they'll find or what the surgery will be like. I'm going to let it happen, and take comfort in the fact that they'll most likely give me some nice drugs to make recovery pass by a little more pleasantly. I'm not going to think about what will happen at the office without me here, because I can always fix things. I'm not going to think about school, because there are some things I just don't know how to fix.

I feel the fiction bug wriggling beneath my skin again. I just don't have the right things to write.

2006-02-16T08:44:00.000-05:00

Maybe I should start a dream journal, like Kim has. My mornings are consumed by picking apart this brain detritus and trying to expell it from my head. Today, I can't seem to clear the cobwebs enough to write anything coherent.

I remember two parts of my dream very clearly, as they were really disturbing. First, there was this woman running some sort of cult, and I was trying to turn people away from it. She came after me with a great big knife, and I think she managed to cut deeply into me. I fought back with a knife of my own (my dream was kind enough to arm me) and hacked entirely through her torso. I pushed and pushed at her, but her body wouldn't fall apart in two pieces, and she wouldn't die. She just kept laughing at me and stabbing at me. All around her were her willing converts refusing to help me. I really don't think you need to be Freud to figure that one out. The background of that part of the dream was college, which certainly makes sense with the mass of stupid people who wouldn't see reason. I think I shared my dorm room with my old highschool friend Sarah, and to get into the room, we had to climb through an elevator - not ride up or down, but go through a door, into an elevator and out the door on the other side. I never timed it right and the doors were always closing on me and the elevator was always moving upwards.

In another part of the dream, my father and I were traveling somewhere, I have no idea where, but to get there we had to walk this long pathway over water. The path was like a floating dock, only there were big spaces in between each board...and as we progressed, the water started getting higher and higher and washing over the path. At one point, I couldn't see the boards anymore and the waves were crashing hard into us, and my dad was washed away. All I could do was keep moving. Funny, now that I write it down, it seems pretty easy to find meaning in that one too.

I only remember tidbits of the rest: rollerskating through a mall (I often dream about getting lost in malls), seeing my middleschool friend Steph riding by on a racing bicycle, cheating on a cheating boyfriend. I wish my dreams were more coherent - they'd give me one hell of a writing career.

Whelmed Over

2006-02-15T10:10:00.000-05:00

Everything is piling up on me. It will be a brick that breaks this camel's back, not a straw. It will be bitchy, intolerant people that push me over the edge. I was just chewed out by some decrepit old crone because I closed ten minutes early last night so her daughter wasn't able to bring in a water sample. First of all, give me a fucking break. I'm human, not some robot that gets plugged into an outlet in the broom closet every night. If only I had one of those...but I digress. Secondly, it's common courtesy not to bring in a sample right before closing. Each sample takes a fair amount of paperwork, plus whatever preparation might be necessary. But no one gives a shit about that. (That's not entirely true. Lots of decent customers call and ask how late they can bring in a sample, or call to say they're running late and ask nicely if I could wait a few minutes. And I never mind waiting for those people.) The little old biddy told me she was considering writing a nasty letter. It was all I could do to not tell her to get a fucking life. There is a considerable elderly population around here, many of whom have lived here their entire miserable lives. They have nothing to do out here in the boonies, and most probably wish they could be off bitching at a waiter at a sunny cafe in Ft. Olderdale. It's not that I have a problem with elderly people. I have a problem with elderly people who feel they don't have to use the same courtesy that every else uses. "I'm old, I can do whatever the fuck I want." Right. And people wonder why there are abuses taking place at nursing homes (not that I'm condoning abuse of the elderly - I'm condoning abuse of the inconsiderate, the selfish, the petulant.)

Even the dogs are driving me to distraction. Every time I sit down, Bella has to jump up and plant her dirty paws on me. She refused to "go" this morning and made me later to work. And as usual, she howled all the way to work. My screaming at her doesn't seem to help much, but I have a hard time not doing it. I'm starting to think her howling is her way of protesting my horrible driving.

And then there's my school work. It stares at me every day from beside the computer monitor, and no matter what I do, I can't make heads or tails of it. I made a horrible mistake by ever signing up for two classes at once. I don't think I could handle either one of these on their own, maybe not even if I wasn't working. Anything that makes me feel this stupid should be illegal. My knee surgery is probably going to disrupt my studying too, unless they push it off for months, which would not make me particularly happy, since the fucker hurts. I'm worried that I'm not exercising enough because of it, and won't lose the weight I need to...and then surgery will make that even worse.

I shouldn't worry. Whatever happens will happen. Stressing myself out is just going to fuck with my immune system and make me sick, and make it hard to enjoy this life that is passing by way too fast. As sucky as it can be, I'm of the belief that it's the only one I get.

Dare I Say "Fuck?"

2006-02-14T10:09:00.000-05:00

Oh fuck this. Fuck this in its stupid ass.

My doctor just called about the xrays of my knee, the knee I injured while being a dumbass four years ago (as if there's a time when I'm not being a dumbass, I know). He told me, maybe in slightly more sensitive terms, that my knee is fucked. There's "significant" degenerative arthritis in there, and arthroscopy is called for to remove some bone spurs. That's not even addressing the cause of the arthritis, which could be a torn meniscus, damaged ligament, or a grab-bag of a bunch of bad shit.

What does this mean for me? Well, I might as well give up now. I don't even have anyone in the area who could drive for me. I live on the friggin second floor. I have two dogs who need to be walked regularly. I have a job with no one to cover for me. This means, in effect, that I am just as fucked as my knee, without the option of surgery to fix my life.

This also means I'm going to be out a thousand dollars (my deductible), plus whatever applicable co-payments. Add to that prescriptions and rechecks and maybe even physical therapy, depending on what they find is wrong with me. I'm going to need a therapist before I even get to the MRI.

Fuck Valentines Day

2006-02-14T08:43:00.000-05:00

My subconscious taunts me. Last night, the night before my first Valentine's Day without a boyfriend, I dream of falling in love. He was a tall, handsome college student with an irrestible English accent. In the dream, I was in college too, so it didn't feel quite so lecherous as if I was chasing a college student now, at 28. The summer break was about to begin and he was sullen and angry and wouldn't talk to me. Finally, I made him tell me what was wrong. He was leaving for his vacation in Italy or Greece or somewhere...and he had fallen in love with me.

That's strange enough, an attractive, intelligent man distraught with emotion over me. But it got definitely more bizarre. We spent every minute together before vacation, in the dorms, going places...at one point, we went swimming in a lake that was closed. There were large dead birds floating in the water, in our way, and smelled horrendous. And still, it was a happy dream. I wish I could remember more of it, since it's the only way I get to feel the security of being wanted. The biggest problem of it is that it still feels real. I feel like I lost something, simply by waking up. Stupid to connect to someone that exists only in the maelstrom of the subconscious left at the controls.

I don't want to be depressed today. I don't want to feel like something is missing from my life, just because the only one snoring next to me in bed is an obese tabby cat. It's so cliche to be unhappy on VD because you're unattached...but worse to be unhappy because you're with someone who doesn't even take the time to buy a 50 cent carnation for you on the way home, or make you a silly paper card. Christ, steal some flowers out of the cemetery. Money really doesn't matter on this day, as far as I'm concerned. Just let him or her know that you care and appreciate him or her. People who ignore their significant others on this day should be stapled to death.

Worst. Dream. Ever.

2006-02-13T08:50:00.000-05:00

The new medication I'm on is supposed to help with my nightmares. I've been on it for five days. I sleep much more soundly, which is wonderful...but it also means there's more opportunity for dreams. I don't wake up so often, so my dreams can develop and grow bigger and better monsters.

Last night, there were airplanes. There were airplanes catching buildings with the tips of their wings...buildings that I later saw taped together with masking tape, of all things, the seams bulging and just about to rain down bricks upon the pedestrians below.
But some of the airplanes, Russian airplanes, also carried bombs. It's a little confusing, since in one part of the dream I had survived the attack, which turned out to be nuclear. I was on a school bus making some joke about how we now had fifty years of hating the Russians, just as the Japanese had hated us. It's a lame, meaningless "joke" now, but on the bus it had people rolling. Of course, we were on the bus for no reason, because school was closed, if not destroyed. We were the only people left. I vaguely remember trying to take care of my little brother, but having him be a petulant little brat, which is how I remember him from fifteen or twenty years ago.

In the other part of the dream, the part where the nightmare was lying in wait, the bombs were falling closer and we had to escape. I chose the wrong path, and a bomb fell almost directly on the area where I had run to. There was no shrapnel, no concussion, just white flames and burning that centered along my spine, and the knowledge that I was dying. I woke up with the burning sensation all throughout my body and a panic that I couldn't quite understand.

I think it's time for caffeine. No more sleep.

Two Face

2006-02-10T11:09:00.001-05:00

It's such a strain to be two different people...and I'm two on a good day. Who knows who else I might be. The customers always have to see a smiling face, unless it's one of the very few trusted clients who enjoy mutual bitch and moan sessions. The few friends I've managed to hang on to get to witness my venting and don't see many smiles. I use up all my good cheer between 8-5, man. Most of that is nothing but a thin veneer anyway. The trick is not letting on.

Yesterday I thought things were getting better. I had gotten eleven damn near blissful hours of sleep and actually felt the sun shining. It's easy to see that sort of change as an effect of the new medication I'm on, though I've only been taking it for three days. My father warned me that my good mood was more likely a direct result of having gotten real sleep for the first time in a long while, but I didn't want to believe him. I want these little pink pills to be my silver bullets. I want them to kill my nightmares and my tendency to growl at the world (growling at blatant stupidity aside - that'll never change unless the right 99% of the world's population died all of a sudden. Wait...right meaning correct or right meaning conservative? Not sure it makes a difference. Way to go, extended but useless parenthetical aside!).

2006-02-08T10:22:00.000-05:00

Bored bored bored. Must kill sites with popups. Hate alarm clocks.

Last night was the first night with new meds. Nothing happened. If anything, I got to sleep more easily and slept deeply...and had the creature double feature of nightmares. I don't expect things to change immediately (though I wish they would).

I really need to bring a sleeping bag to work. Maybe my doctor would lie to my boss and tell him I was diagnosed with narcolepsy or something, anything to get away with catching a few more hours of sleep.

My muse really is being a whore lately. I want to write, I want to say something or even create something, but it's just not coming. I have constipation of the imagination.

I'm Much More Interesting When I'm Asleep

2006-02-07T08:53:00.000-05:00

I woke up with this thought in my head: "I need to have a threesome with two guys, so they can play good-cock bad-cock." I ask you, what in the bloody fucking hell is wrong with me?

Gag Order

2006-02-06T09:09:00.000-05:00

If you're tired of hearing yourself talk, it's easy enough to shut up. At least, for most people. If I haven't been drinking. But getting your head to quiet down is another story altogether. I don't mean that I hear voices; I'm crazy, but I'm not crazy. It's that nonstop buzzing of worries and fears that can't quite materialize into actual thoughts, loud like the drone of grasshoppers in the summertime that will drive you insane if you're not already there.

I can't even get a break at night, though it gets much more ordered and frightening, and sometimes Freudian (I mean, really, what would Freud have thought about the dream in which an ex-boyfriend and I were in a theater and I got us thrown out by taking pieces of banana and splattering them on the crowd with my hands?) It makes me look forward to the possibility of having surgery on my knee, the pain not seeming so bad because it would come with painkillers that might also give me blessed internal silence for a little while. I think that search for silence is why there's so much substance abuse in my family. I think it had a lot to do with why my little brother tried to commit suicide. I don't know if I should feel strong for not succumbing to those methods, or worry that it could get worse and drive me that far.

It's silly, but I've been thinking about getting a tattoo from a children's book. The book is called "The Dream Eater" and it's about a little boy in Japan who has terrible nightmares. One day he saves a creature that was about to drown in the river, and the creature is so grateful, he offers to help the boy. This creature is a baku, a dream eater, and he is hungry. He eats the bad dreams from everyone in the town, leaving them with only pleasant sleep. There's a part of me that wonders if I can't convince myself that a tattoo of the strange little leonine, elephant-nosed creature will get rid of my nightmares. In some illustrations, he looks like a lion, but in the book I have, he looks like a tapir with a lion's mane. If I knew the right place on my body to put it, I probably would.

Pens and Needles

2006-02-05T12:31:00.000-05:00

I don't feel like I can write here anymore without risking that I'll hurt myself or I'll hurt someone else. I'm tired of doing both those things, and so I go back into hiding within myself.
But I have to write. If I don't get these things out, I'll explode.

I dreamt last night that I was driving along and the electrical lines along the road were arcing wildly, blue-white snakes of power striking anything they could reach. One hits my car and illuminates it, renders me powerless and I drive right off the road. But in the dream, the arcs were commonplace. I woke up feeling like it was nothing unusual.

I slept for a full night, and then a nap, with no dreams this weekend. It's like I found a magic bullet. A magic bullet that would kill me along with the dreams.

And The World Spun Counter Clockwise.

2006-02-02T09:00:00.000-05:00

I just smiled for no reason at all. A big smile. The kind that if someone were to walk by while I was in the process of smiling, they'd be fairly sure that I was either insane or packing the ben-wa balls. Diet pills? I dunno. The commercials say they're supposed to be a "feel-good" pill, but nothing that would make me feel this shiny would be approved by the FDA. Better stock up, just in case. At least they don't have caffeine or other stimulants in them, since those just make me bitchy and irritated and want to figure out how to get out of my own itchy skin.

I was told yesterday that I'm "boisterous." Um, okay. Most people call it being an asshole, but hey, boisterous sounds good.
"Hey, you're an asshole!"
"Nope, I'm boisterous."
I'm not sure that'll fly.

There's a hole in the ass of my favorite jeans. They were cheap, but they're so damn soft...I'm really gonna hate to see them go. Even though they're getting too loose. I just don't love them enough to patch them or sew. Hell no, I won't sew.
I really wish I had noticed the hole before I wore them to work today. I feel a little too well ventilated.

I Don't Speak Chemistry.

2006-02-01T10:30:00.000-05:00

I want to go skydiving. I want to learn Gaelic, Spanish, Czech. I want to go horseback riding and sledding and see California (hush, you). I want to do anything but study this friggin chemistry. What in the hell was I thinking when I decided to take two chemistry courses at the same time while I worked full time? Chemistry was never my strongest subject, and I'm feeling more stupider every day. Dumber and dumberer. Ok, maybe not as stupid as that movie.

So I procrastinate. And procrastinate, and procrastinate. And then have nightmares about failing exams, and being back in highschool, and feeling hated and persecuted. Again. I try to forget by reading blogs and other websites. Postsecret (http://postsecret.blogspot.com) totally derailed my train of thought today. It made me think of the secrets, the ones that aren't so secret, that consume my mind. They're not really secret, and the person I wish I could share them with probably knows all about them. They're just things that can't really be put into words, or shouldn't. Or things I just don't have the courage to ask, or even more likely, don't want to hear the obvious answers to.

White Coats and Tachycardia

2006-01-31T09:18:00.000-05:00

I hate doctors of every variety. Not like I hate other people, more like the way I hate great big hairy spiders that fall on my face in the dark. I would rather they didn't exist, and go out of my way to avoid any possible contact with them. Before I even hit the waiting room, my heart goes from waltz to a manic bossa nova, and my stomach does trained-dolphin flips.

I have reasons for my insanity, even beyond genetics. When I was about 13, I hurt my back in a totally preventable horseback riding accident (Mary T, if you're out there, I'm still waiting for my apology, dammit). Nothing was broken, and I got up and walked away from the accident. The next day though, the pain...the PAIN. And the pain stayed, taking with it my sleep, my ability to sit in a chair, carry my books, or be a normal teenager. Numerous doctors were consulted, and my own GP ended up telling me that he didn't think my pain was as bad as I was expressing. I'm not sure of his exact words, but they were something to the effect of, "Yadda yadda, you don't hurt, I'm a big rotten asshole who got his diploma out of a Cracker Jack box." And I told him so.

Yet, I have an appointment to see the doctor next week. Two good reasons: firstly the knee I destroyed while being a geek to impress a guy. Long story, but all that needs to be said is that it hurts, and they need to fix it, or give me good drugs. Secondly, my nightmares. I need them to go away. I need the pill that makes Drop Dead Fred die and disappear. Last night, I dreamt about a cat that got run over, and I had to carry it around trying to find a vet clinic to fix it. I actually saw the cat disappear under a truck's tire, felt broken bones cradled in my hand afterwards, had a rush of adrenaline when I would walk into a store and realize there was no vet clinic. The damn cat died at the end. Stupid dreams.

Also, totally off the subject, this Matisyahu shit they're playing on all the alt rock stations has GOT to go. I hate it. Hate. Hell, at least cut it back to like once a day instead of once an hour. And the live version doesn't count as a different song. And feel free to shove the religious references up your stupid ass. Hasidic reggae? What the fucking fuck. Sounds like a joke, but I assure you, I'm not laughing. I don't care what your religious choice is, please just keep it to yourself. It's time to fire up the ipod. I've just been too lazy to put new songs on lately, but that will be changing sometime before I have to make another long-distance drive to get a rescue dog.

This Should Bother Me

2006-01-30T09:07:00.000-05:00

Last night, unable to calm my mind enough to sleep, I finished one book and started another. The first was "Marley & Me," a pretty typical story of the life of a family dog. A bad dog, even, which somewhat reminded me of a bad dog in my past that I had no trouble giving away to an unsuspecting family. Nothing too moving, right? Except that the conclusion of the book coincides with the conclusion of the dog's life, in the usual manner, and left me absolutely shattered, sobbing into a dish towel, shaking too hard to get up to find a kleenex.

When I finally got myself cleaned up and able to see straight, I started "Children of the Fire," which is an account by Jewish twins about the horrors they suffered at the hands of Dr. Mengele. In the first few pages, I encountered five year old children being ripped from the arms of their mothers, people dying in cattle cars on the way to certain death, even an account of a girl finding out that the soap she had been using may have been made from the fat of her murdered family. After all of this, I was finally calm enough to sleep.

One old dog, dying after a long life of luxury, reduces me to tears. Genocide? Nothin'. Think maybe it's time to get back into therapy?

The Power of Crisco Compels You!

2006-01-29T18:50:00.000-05:00

I am an awkward specimen of h. sapiens, inside and out. Lately, I've taken to accusing my parents of assembling me out of spare parts, like a discount kit that ends up with a couple of parts missing, and one odd bit you have to file down to get to fit. And I've been bitching at my mother for picking my father, with his fat genes, odd feet, and joints that articulate like the tinman after Katrina (I appreciate my dad for the intellectual things he handed down, though he could have kept his part of the mental issues. My mom's input was enough there.)

Like just about every other female in the developed world, I am on a diet. I am exercising, which really seems pointless now that there's little chance I'll ever have to run for my life from a hungry sabre-toothed lion (or whatever was around with cavemen, give me a damn break). We altered our world faster than our bodies could adjust (you fuckers). My body was made to store and use every last calorie it touches. My metabolism would be prized in a hunter-gather culture where I might not see food for a week. But with a McDonalds on every main street, and a Dunkin Donuts and Wendy's and Burgar King and...jesus christ am I hungry. I almost had to hurt a poor girl last weekend in the laundromat because the smell of her bag of McDonalds french fries were driving me into a frenzy. Explain that to a judge. I'd have to call it PMS and pray I didn't get a female judge.

The weight is coming off. I haven't broken and done a late-night fast food run of shame. I'm proud of myself, but I keep worrying that something will happen to change the course of my diet, that the weight will decide to stay like a tenant you just can't seem to evict. And then I worry about the saggy body I'll be left with when the weight is gone. I hate our culture for teaching me to feel this way. I can't appreciate my own mind, my own attractive qualities, because I'm "supposed" to be a size 6 and I never will be. And models in a size six are just about in the "plus sized" category. My friend Kim suggested we just run away and be fat, free, happy lesbians on some island somewhere. If only.

Secrets Should Remain Secret

2006-01-27T12:09:00.000-05:00

I want to live in the office bathroom.

In case you're afraid that actually is as weird as it sounds, well, you'd be right. Our office bathroom isn't even accessible from inside the office. We...well, I, have to walk outside, to the outside bathroom door, to take one of my hourly breaks. You would too if you capped off a case of diet soda every other day, in the name of diet (and that's only counting when I'm at work. If we include home diet soda consumption, it gets really ugly).

But that has nothing to do with why I love the bathroom. Neither does the fact that it is a haven for spiders and silverfish and other creepy crawlies that make girl noises come out of me. It has a stained little toilet and a dirty little sink that the cleaning lady never cleans - most likely because my boss made me fire her. Like I'm going to clean the toilet at work. Yeah, right. I don't even clean the toilet at home. I kid, I kid...mostly. And don't look in the tub.

The big thing about the office bathroom is that it's right next to the furnace room. There's a big ol' vent that goes from the furnace to right next to the toilet. So, have a seat. Ahhhh hot, toasty and comfy, though it's negative warm outside. Sometimes it's even too warm. Plus, there is no phone in there, no one to come in and ask stupid questions...and if someone came in, I'd be perfectly within my rights to pop them in the nose. It's a good life, here in the bathroom.

Speaking My Language

2006-01-26T08:36:00.000-05:00

Most days, I will tell anyone who will listen just how much I hate people. I hate having to drive with other people on the road. I hate having other people in my car. I hate answering the phone and answering the door. But it's really not true. I hate people who are so self-absorbed and self-important that they have nothing to offer. The man who just came in to the office reminded me of that.

I really wasn't in the mood to talk, and he struck me as the kind of lonely, gregarious ol' guy that can be annoying as hell yammering away about nothing at all, or worse, his grandkids. But as soon as Bella and Frodo came gallumphing out from the office, the guy's face lit up and we started talking about dogs. He told me about his daughter's golden retriever and his son's brittany that cost him seven grand to try to save at Tufts Veterinary Hospital. And his son's new border collie, Emily, that doesn't like kids. I hear ya, Em. Give them a growl for me, sweetie.

And I didn't even mind when he told me about his newest grandchild, a little boy, not quite a year old, adopted from Kaz...Khaz...fuck it. Somewhere that used to be in the USSR that has a bunch of neglected orphans. I'm too tired to look stuff up this morning, and if it matters to anyone that reads it, you look it up. The kid's cute. That's the problem with America, you know. Too many Americans.

Stats

2006-01-25T09:52:00.000-05:00

I am utterly obsessed with checking my page stats. Which is silly, really, since the only people who visit this site are the few people I know and have given the address to, and people who have seen my comments on other blogs and wondered what the hell My Muse Is A Whore meant. They probably haven't figured it out yet, either.

Do me a favor, pretty please: if you stop by, just drop me a quick line in the comments. I want to feel like I'm not alone in the world, though I really am. Feel free to put in a link to your web page, blog, whatever...because if it's wrong to use someone else's comments to pimp your own blog, I don't want to be right.

Unfulfilled

2006-01-24T13:44:00.000-05:00

I get these wild, almost painful urges to do something creative. I've tried writing, sculpting, painting, drawing, singing (let's not talk about that one), playing several different musical instruments...it always just feels like something is missing. This right here is as creative as I get these days and it's starting to wear on me.

When I was in elementary and high school, I'd draw horses. I guess I had a shred of self-confidence left back then, since I was pretty damn proud of the horses I drew absolutely everywhere: in the margins of notebooks and textbooks, on desks, in the condensation on a car window; I even made a clock in the shape of a horse's head in woodshop. But then again, I was consumed with the concept of horses from a very young age. I blame it on the little indian and pony mobile my parents hung over my crib. Every car ride we took, my face would be plastered to the window, searching for a sign of the fences that might contain a horse. As I got older, I'd start guessing the breed, just to add a little challenge to it (and I was always right, since there was no one there to tell me otherwise).

In college, I went through a celtic obsession and bought a bamboo penny whistle. I painted it, shellacked it...I even named the damn thing. I admit that I was, and am, pretty strange. But I lived in an apartment and was too self-conscious to ever practice, since it sounded so awful. Because I know I can improve with no practice whatsoever. Then, when I left my first boyfriend, he so kindly threw a hissy fit and snapped my poor little whistle and left the splintered pieces for me to discover later.

I occasionally get this desire to get a tablet peripheral for my computer so I can express myself that way. It's stupid that I feel that's a waste of money, considering some of the useless shit I throw my money at, but I can't seem to part with it. Maybe I'm just afraid of failing to find my creative outlet yet again. I always have writing to fall back on, but drawing seems more cathartic. It's more of a struggle to write, when doodling or putting together a piece of art (I dare you to distinguish a real difference) can come almost subconsciously.

I've Got Earworms

2006-01-20T11:29:00.000-05:00

I always have a song in my head. It's a good day when that song isn't annoying or really obscure and weird. If I'm lucky, the song doesn't make me cry. But there are an awful lot of songs that make me cry.

My first boyfriend had very strong opinions about a lot of things. He didn't really get into rock music of any sort, and would give me the hairy eyeball whenever a song came on that he didn't like. For a while, I pretended to care. He liked to talk about his feelings about music, namely that people who felt some emotional response to music or identified with the lyrics, were weak and gullible. People like me. Yeah, I let him insult me like that for almost six years. I introduced him to some music, I like to think, though how much I care these days couldn't be expressed in parts per billion. I don't give a nanoshit. The strangest thing was that he thought the soundtrack to Braveheart was great for background music during sex. Which makes sense, since he's a rammer (term swiped without permission from Mimi).

Music is usually an important way for me to relate to people, since there's generally nothing else I can stand about them. One guy was several years older than me, and was into "classic" rock. Every time he turned on the radio, I'd curl up my hands into T-Rex claws and screech annoyingly, since everyone knows that's what a dinosaur sounds like...and then, if people didn't get it, I'd announce "Dinosaur Rock" in something approximating a radio deejay voice. I'm a fuckin laugh riot. The really strange thing is that I dumped him, and not vice versa.

The best relationship I've had yet was with someone who liked almost all of my favorite music. If a new song came out that really caught my ear, he'd usually tell me about it the same day. It's really a pity that it takes more than music to sustain a relationship.

I can be myself musically now that I'm alone. I can sing along without offending anyone (except for the cats, who have better singing voices than I do). I can listen to whiny emo shit without anyone telling me how pathetic I am. But I miss sharing.

Dreams and Dogs

2006-01-20T10:33:00.000-05:00

This day is just draaaaaaagging along, which might just have a little teeny bit to do with the fact that the dogs decided to growl and fight a bunch of times between 2am and 7am, the little fuckers. If they keep it up, Bella is going to start sleeping in her crate. Or outside. I really don't understand what her problem is. They sleep curled up together, which seems really sweet, but almost every time she wakes up growling and attacking out of a deep sleep, and Frodo counters with a bark or growl or some other noice that is terrible to hear at 3am. One of my theories is that she just gets sick and tired of listening to Frodo snore his stupid head off all night and bites him so he'll stop. More likely, she's just a little psycho freak.

Sitting here wishing the day was over isn't what I wanted to do with my life. From maybe third grade on, I was as certain as only the truly naive can be that I would be a veterinarian. God forbid anyone tell me that there would be challenges, that I might not really want to follow that path. That is, until I realized that this path meandered through years of 8am classes, painful final exams, and all without the certainty of ending up at my goal. So I pared back my dreams, finally admitted that I really didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, and was sedately pleased to walk away with my piece of paper. What made me happy was not being in school anymore. When I finally worked in a veterinary clinic, I told myself that it proved that I made the right decision in giving up. That is difficult, thankless work, though I'd do it again if I had the right people to work with. Doctors like Hank and Sarah, techs like Beth and Jenna - that would be a workplace that I could handle. But veterinary clinics don't work like that. In my experience, there was always one tech I got along really well with, and the others made me watch my back. I didn't learn about scary veterinarians until the second clinic I worked in, when the little Ben Stein-esque doctor had a hissy fit and threw a labrador against an exam table because the lab was being a lab. That was enough for me.

There was a big difference in working for a veterinarian. I did something important. Lives were saved with my help. There are so many dogs I remember, just for being so damn happy or somehow understanding, and I just don't get that in my job now. I like what I do, and I know it's an important service, testing water, but there's not the immediacy of it. I guess I have this need to be important, to be valued, to be known. Not exactly unusual. Writing holds the same promise for me, only I just don't have what it takes to get through that either. At least with writing, I could potentially create something while maintaining this job. This job that doesn't leave me in tears more nights than not. This job which has been more stable than my life at home for all the years (going on four, now, hard as that is to believe) I have been here.

I would enjoy this job more if things weren't so damn quiet. It's strange to say that, remembering the days in Manchester where business was so "good" that I couldn't think straight, and there were days I didn't get home til 8pm or later. There, people were coming in two and three at a time, and there were my favorites who would hang around to flirt, share a story, gossip or bitch about the business or life in general. Now, there are a few good ones who will chat, but more often people are too busy and there just aren't that many people. I never thought I'd complain about living in a lower population density, and for day to day life, I love it. But I'm lonely, still. The few people who understand me, or care even though they don't understand me, are far away and busy.

An Entirely Preventable Event

2006-01-19T08:56:00.000-05:00

Yesterday morning was rainy and disgusting. I followed my usual routine, dressing up the dogs and myself, hooking up their leashes, and following them out the back door onto my second-story deck. When I first looked at the apartment, my landlord had pointed out his ingenious painting of the stairs leading from the deck; he had added sand to the paint to give a poor man's version of traction. Too bad he didn't do that inside on the exceedingly narrow and steep wooden steps leading down to my front door, but that's another painful story for another painful day.

Bella and Frodo, in their hurry to make yellow snow, slipped and slided and barely managed to stay upright (by the grace of the detested leashes) on their way down the icy and treacherous stairs...but I saw their difficulty and was very, very careful. On a side note, I have fallen down every flight of stairs in every house I've ever lived in, so far as I can remember - but not these - yet. As soon as I reached the concrete walkway, I breathed a sigh of relief, and the dogs reached the end of their leashes. And pulled me in two different directions, while I went in a third - down. My left leg went back, my right leg went forward, my clean new corduroys went straight down into icy rainwater. My left shoe fell off, leaving my sock sodden and frozen. I whimpered and swore, pretty certain I was going to regret having left my cell phone at work, since I was sure my injuries would prevent me from getting to my apartment or my car.

No, I got up, brushed myself off (like that helps with freezing water that has already soaked into your clothing while you moan and cry) and cursed the dogs all the way to the car. I wanted to tell about something interesting that happened afterwards, but I decided that I'm not in the mood for writing fiction today. I still hurt, and I'm sure the concrete does too, so that's all you get, bitches.

Shopping, a la BNL

2006-01-15T12:24:00.000-05:00

Ugh, happiness hurts. No, wait, that's just the hangover. Scuse me while I take a second to dry heave. I guess smiles are like food. If you don't have any for a while, too many all at once will make you a little sick.

Last night was a typical Saturday night for me, to start out. Tears were cried, walls were kicked. The usual. But I'm pretty fucking sick of that routine. There just don't seem to be that many options out in the wilds of Cow Hampshire, unless I want to go to a cheesy bar thirty miles away, or watch a movie all by myself in a theater full of rowdy kids. So I did what anyone in my situation would do: I went grocery shopping. It was like ten or so when I decided to go, and the only store open late is all the way down in Keene, some 25 miles away, but I figured I deserved something better to subsist upon than my own pathetic fears. Frozen pizza ought to do it, the diet be damned.

I had never been to this particular store and I don't know Keene very well, so of course I got extremely lost. The drizzly rain and dirty water kicked up by other cars certainly didn't help. My windshield wipers truly suck. I never knew a cute little college town like Keene would have "slums" (argh, this fucking keyboard...stupid dog destroyed the left shift key, so everything is out of whack), but I found them. Around midnight, even small-town slums are creepy, especially towns where there are few if any streetlights.

The supermarket was right there, just down a side street I had passed no fewer than a dozen times. I'm glad I didn't give up, though, since it turns out that this store is the only one in the area that makes the sushi I like anymore. Score! I'm a little embarrassed about how much I ended up buying, but whatever. It's more or less healthy. Anyway, there was almost no one there to see what heinous diet choices I was making, so they don't count. I think I only saw like two or three customers in there, an addled-looking old couple, and a kind of cute emo girl type. I even grabbed some Guinness, to make a real meal of it, and drown my sorrows all at once.

After paying for everything - and let me say, they friggin gouge you for the convenience of being able to shop in the middle of the night - I stumbled out into the parking lot humming the song that had been stuck in my head for most of the night, something by the Gorillaz, trying to ignore the icy rain blowing in through the collar of my shirt. I was loading my plunder into the trunk of my car when a rattly little Nissan something pulled up next to me. "Hey! What does your license plate mean?" I've lost count of how many people have asked me that, in parking lots, in line at a drive-through, even slowing down in heavy traffic and leaning out the window to get my attention. It's L4BR4T. If you can't figure out that means lab rat, I don't know that there's any hope for you. But it was the cute emo girl. Somehow I explained without being a total asshole, and she asked me about some of my bumper stickers, and we got into the usual dog rescue chat that the bumper stickers tend to initiate. But damn was I getting cold. She asked me if I'd come sit in her car and talk a little more, since she had some questions to ask me. It's not like she looked particularly dangerous, since she couldn't possibly be 5'5", and I'd eat my hat if she weighed more than 120. Not exactly someone to freak out about and keep my distance, and fuck it, I'm lonely. It's not everyone that really seems to want to talk to me, though that alone made me wonder what in the world was wrong with her.

Nothing is wrong with Julie. She's lonely too. As she drove me back to her apartment, just a couple of miles away on the main drag in Keene, she started to tell me a little bit about her life, as it is. She's from Montana, so I guess Keene doesn't seem quite so podunk for her - but she's without her family here. Her boyfriend moved here for college and brought her along, so she studied too, but not very seriously. Keith, her boyfriend, was in the Army Reserves to pay for college - which was fine until he graduated and was shipped off to some land of brown people to kill them. I think she said he's in Afghanistan, but I'm not sure. She teared up every time she tried to talk about him. They were supposed to get married last month. Now here she is, thousands of miles away from her family, many more thousands from her love, failed out of school because she just couldn't get her ass out of bed in the morning. Funny thing is, she asked me since I like animals if I would feed her boyfriend's snake. Sounds like innuendo, but she just doesn't like to have to deal with the great big ball python, and she can't very well just get rid of it. Doesn't bother me, and I just imagine the terrified little mice with the faces of my ex-boyfriends and the job is done. After he (it? Julie didn't know) was lumpy and satiated, I set aside my beer and pulled him out of the aquarium. After pretending he was lunging at Jules a few times, I put him back in the aquarium and we put on some music and kept drinking. It's so much easier to get comfortable with someone when you're both swaying and giggling like jackasses.

A big problem I've faced before is spending the night at someone else's house. I get a little anxious and weird about it. But apparently alcohol is the antidote. I crashed on the couch, but woke up on the floor. Julie's bedroom door was closed, but I could hear little snores from the other side. I really didn't want to wake her, so I left a note...it was strange, like sneaking out on a one-night-stand, except there was no sex and I really want to see her again. It was only about five blocks to my car, but the cold wind bit through my forehead and made it feel like five miles. The drive home was even worse - I never realized just how loud my turn signal was. Fuckin thing. Now I just hope she calls.

2006-01-14T18:17:00.000-05:00

I don't know exactly how many times a day I give up, but it's up there.

I'm really pissed off about the news report I read about James Frey's book "A Million Little Pieces." Apparently, people with nothing better to do went and looked into some of the things he wrote about, such as his run-ins with the law, and found nothing to substantiate his reports. Now, this book wasn't passed off as a legal document, academic study, or anything else like that. Just the life of a fucked up addict. I don't see how changing the story a little to make it more interesting to read makes it any less valuable. I enjoyed the book a lot. But now it seems I could get my money back, since the author wronged me by twisting the facts a little. Does that mean people can get their votes back if they voted for Bush?
I don't understand why the publisher didn't tell everyone to get bent.

A publisher might not, but I will. Tonight, I want to tell everyone to get bent. All the people who only have time for me on their terms, which is everyone except for the people who never have time for me to begin with. I hardly understand why I want to get in shape. I mean, I know it will make me feel better physically, and make me feel better about myself, but I'll also be so much more likely to attract people who are likely to use me. Fat is a defense? I'm lonely, but I'm afraid that my only other option will end up being like the relationshits I've been in in the past. Those relationships were like suspended animation, suppressed growth, blighted portions of my life. But now, alone, I feel like I'm missing something, not doing whatever it is I'm here to do. Not that being part of a couple is that, though caring for someone who cares for me in return is an attractive concept. Argh. This is why I always stop writing journals. I know I've said these words any number of times. I just can't get them out of my head. I need to find something else, something to drive me, to make life feel worthwhile.

Casual Thursday

2006-01-12T08:25:00.000-05:00

No boss, I'm not posting to my journal (blog, online p.o.s., whatEVER) from work. I wouldn't do such a thing. Now go away so I can write.

This week my new doctor suggested that maybe I should consider adding another medication to the handful of pills I swallow every day to keep myself functioning physically and mentally. He's the first medical professional to listen to me and take seriously the problems I have with nightmares. Maybe the drug he prescribes will even help with my friggin' mood swings, since there's still considerable room for improvement, though I know I have to do some of that work on my own (dammit). Of course, last night I actually had a good dream, the first in quite some time. I dreamt of both real and imagined objects of my lust, was happy and desired and all the things that would make my life pleasant. It's just one dream. But the possibility of killing those dreams along with the nightmares...is it worth it? I have a creative mind, more or less. I come up with plenty of daydreams. That should make up for whatever dreams I might poison and bury in the basement...Right? This is one of the reasons I've never really demanded that a doctor address the issue with my nightmares. When my nightmares aren't bad, I consider the dreams my own private movie theater, and the screenwriter is my subconscious. When my nightmares are bad, the screenwriter is Stephen King on acid, with a broken window into my subconscious. Not only is King a creepy fucker, he's made some pretty crappy movies. But I used to be able to sleep, nightmares or no. I was a champion. I could nap after work and still sleep all night. These days, I barely even have any caffeine. My brain is probably so pissed at me for depriving it of caffeine, it's waking me up at all hours just for revenge.

Being single has done one really bad thing for me lately. I have no one to focus on but myself, which fuels and twists my depression. It really sucks when someone else has to call you on it, but I guess it's better than never snapping out of it at all. I guess. I think I'm introspective rather than self-centered by nature, since I'd rather talk to other people about other things, given the choice. Being self-centered out of the lack of options is a little different. I swear, I don't believe that everything must revolve around me. If anything, things should revolve around my pets and my volunteer work and my job. I really liked having someone to take care of; if only the feeling and actions were reciprocated, I'd be in a totally different place right now. I can feel myself expanding into the area of my life a boyfriend once filled (if just barely), like a single person is the gaseous phase of human. I don't know if I'll be able to shrink back into the role of half a couple again. It might smother me. And if I have to share a bed with a snorer, I'll end up in prison.

I'm a Fuckin Rock Star

2006-01-10T22:06:00.000-05:00

Why oh why do I feel so honored when other bloggers (I'm a blogger? Just cuz I have a few entries of crappy journaling..."Dear Diary, None of the boys in my fifth grade class like me") write to me, responding to my embarrassingly sycophantic comments or emails? They're just like me, only they can write, and some of them even have lives. Yeah, that's all I have to say about that. Loser.

I love the internet. It's tailor-made for antisocial wallflower dipshits like me. All of my friends come with an off button. No one knows I'm fat unless I tell them (aw, shit. There I go.). And if I remember to proofread, no one knows I'm a dumbass. My self-esteem issues might be a bit more difficult to disguise. I've met and dated other losers that I met through the internet. Is anyone surprised that every single attempt ended in tears?

I wonder if anyone ever decided to become a serial killer, without the mental problems that one usually associates with that sort of thing, more just to see if they could do it, and succeeded. It's not so hard to come to hate people - isn't that what public school is all about? It really shocks me that we don't get more killers out of the system.

Fuck Sundays

2006-01-08T23:01:00.000-05:00

Yeah, Mondays suck, but they've got nothing on my Sunday nights. Something about being alone and feeling alone and...music and tears and ARGH. Fuck this shit. If i wasn't such a wuss, I would have stayed out there in the fuckin snowbank the first time. I could try it again, but I'm still working out a reason not to. It's getting worse every day, now that I think about it. Of course, there are upswings. Is that a manic phase or a sunbeam? Fucked if I know. Everyone tells me it's a sunbeam. All I know is that the day after, it burns like a urinary tract infection, but all over. Yeah, all over. But it's not, is it? It'll come back, with a vengeance, every Sunday I decide to wake up. Great, huh?

Comedy is great. This Christopher Titus special right now is actually managing to make me smile. He's married, you know. Two kids. Everyone's fuckin' married, and everyone has or wants kids. I am most definitely not everyone. Most days I don't feel like anyone. And sure as hell no one's feeling me. The few options I've had haven't been so good, and why should I think the future will bring any different? It's not where I live, dammit. My mom met my dad in Michigan. That ended in tears. My mom met her ex waste of carbon (he's still a waste of carbon, he's just not hers anymore) in Pennsylvania. I met the first one in RI, the second one was from NY, the third one from NH. It doesn't matter where I go or what I do. Even if I weren't a total loser magnet, I don't know if there's anything else out there. And it doesn't help that I'm not exactly gorgeous, stable or anything else anyone would want for long term. I should qualify that: Not anything anyone worthwhile would want for long term. No, I fall for guys who care more about computers or games or their cars or a friend's sixteen year old sister, or guys who aren't even remotely available, and even if they were...heh. Not sure where to go with that, but let's just say it isn't good and my keyboard can't take many more tears before it dies in a puff of smoke beneath my fingers.

This shouldn't bother me. I've lived on my own for six months. I take care of myself just fine. I'm losing weight, getting into shape, and not taking shit from anyone. I got a new kitten, even though the landlord probably wouldn't approve, and none of my exes would have approved, and my family calls me the crazy cat lady and I really don't have the time or money or...but awwww...her little stripey tail is hanging out from the soft blanket on my bed, and she's all curled up. If I so much as touch her bunny-soft little pure white belly, she rumbles louder than the train that goes by my house at 5am. She kisses my nose, for no reason, and moves on to my forehead like it's the most delicious thing ever. Of course, she licks her ass the same way. Maybe that's why I'm single; my forehead tastes like a cat's ass.

I'm not going to settle, goddamnit. I settled from the beginning, like a dumbass, and paid for it. I'm sure it could have been a lot worse, but it fucked me up nonetheless. Yeah, I'm going to hold out for someone that actually cares as much about my happiness as I care about his. I am NEVER going to give a guy more than one chance to ignore me when I snuggle up to his computer chair and whisper dirty promises in his ear. If he has dreams and a job he hates and no real prospects, well jeez Scooter, follow those dreams and give me a call after they pay off. I've supported two boyfriends through long term unemployment. What did I get out of it? Damaged self esteem, lighter burns, suicidal ideation and a World of Warcraft subscription. And several thousand dollars worth of credit card debt. Fuckers. I've never dated a guy who had any sort of relationship with his dad. The closest was the last, since they still spoke...but with a side of physical and emotional abuse and all that comes with it. I wish I could have something of a happy, supportive relationship. Someone I might lean on a little, and not worry that I might have to carry everything at any moment. Someone who would actually be happy to let me lean when I need to. Someone who didn't make me feel like I was only getting sex because it was expected. What a way to learn to love yourself...when no one else will.

My best friend from highschool has gone after and gotten a lot of the things I wanted, things I've given up on. She's married and in vet school. But then again, she has an anklebiter and couldn't be happier about it. I'll state it right here, in front of Kim who is the only person who reads this, that I will not ever curse a child with my genes and this world. I keep a coathanger at the ready, shaped into an inverted cross, fuckers. Stick that in your censer and smoke it.

Yeah, Christmas only comes once a year too.

2006-01-01T14:32:00.000-05:00

Snow is a lot like that really gorgeous girl you had a crush on in highschool. Stunningly beautiful, painfully cold, and really quite a bore once you get right down to it. But in the ten years between graduation and the reunion, or the six months (this is New England after all) between snows, you fantasize and blow the excitement and aesthetics waaaay out of proportion.
Even snow that falls into my boots and down the back of my pants is kinder than the boys I remember from highschool. I'd like to go to the next reunion and impale a few people on giant icicles. I can think of several candidates. Of course, if anyone who knew me saw this, I'd probably be banned from reunions, investigated by the homeland security jackholes and who knows what else. Probably get fired too, just because that is the great power of blogging.

Fuckin' Snowing

2005-12-31T17:55:00.000-05:00

It's snowing to beat the band right now (which I wish I could watch, since I never liked The Band much anyway). It'll be dangerous as hell out there, since there's a fair amount of ice, with nice slippery snow coating it. More dangerous for walking than driving, but I shudder to think of the drunks on the roads and sidewalks tonight contending with something more confounding than their own doubling vision.

But, it really doesn't matter. I'm not going anywhere, and since my superpowers haven't seen fit to come through yet, I can't save anyone I care about. I'm still lobbying for the laser vision thing, which wouldn't do much to save anyone; it'd just be so kickass.

It's been a long time since I really enjoyed the holidays. New Year's has never been that big of a deal, since I rarely hang around drinkers, and the beginning of yet another year of the same isn't much to celebrate if you're not a few sheets to the wind. There was the year we hung out with friends and ate junkfood and watched bad movies...now that I think about it, that might have been any one of the last decade of December 31sts. It's like any other night, really. Why do people have to make a big deal out of it? After living through twenty, thirty or more of them, what do they imagine is going to change? Every resolution gets broken. Every year brings more shit. I know, they want to think that things will be different, but I can only lie to myself so much.

New Years has always felt like a lonely holiday to me, and I'm not really sure why. Maybe because I've not been in a crowd of drinkers. Maybe because I'm always lonely. The friends I'm spending this holiday with don't know anything is special, and I imagine they don't care. I'm advancing daily into my crazy-cat-ladydom. If it weren't for the people I see through my job, I'd totally lose my ability to deal with people, become even more of a recluse than I already am, and start snarling at the mailman through the door. I wasn't invited anywhere for this holiday. No wonder I feel like snarling and biting. What friends I have left are either too far away, or can't get past my snarky shell.

The Whore

2005-12-26T00:30:00.000-05:00

My muse is a whore, and I have no coin. Blood, sweat and tears make her cry with laughter, at my expense, at my ham-fisted butchering of cliche.
I feel the tickle of inspiration at the end of my nose when I am up to my elbows in soapy dishwater. The whore teases me and takes pleasure in my frustration and discomfort.
Behind inspiration, and a little beneath, is something darker and frightening, a cold that will turn your insides to dust and leave you hollow. It always comes in her wake and pulls me down, under and away from myself. It beats me about the head and neck until inspiration is the furthest thing from my mind.
One might think inspiration and depression would be something like opposite states of mind. They almost seem polar, with inspiration not infrequently inciting the possessed to mania. For me, they are the bait and switch. I reach for it, stretch, until I can't hang on any longer, and fall straight into the pit.

from puppy...

2005-12-26T00:00:00.000-05:00

It's cold in the kennel. Oh, the air is warm enough, so mom and the little ones who poke and pinch won't complain and leave before they've had a chance to see us all. But the concrete below sucks out all the heat right through your feet and leave your poor toes curling to keep flesh from touching the ice cold floor. And it's nice enough in summer, but I might be the only one here who knows that. If they're lucky, they'll be lounging on shag carpeting in a week. Me? I'm bound to be here still. Not that it's so bad. I could be in one of the bags I see the big guys hefting, those men with the dark eyes and the hard voices.
I shouldn't complain. Food here comes without a fight, without searching and scraping and running with my cheeks tented over the discarded treasure, drool flying behind me and fouling my ears. God help the fellow that comes between me and food, even this discount kibble. In here, cars signal a ticket out, the ride to freedom. They were always a ticket out, just not necessarily a ticket you wanted punched. When I was younger I thought they were animals too, big and mean and uncaring, so cold that they wouldn't even stop to feed on the bodies they stalked and bowled down.
No, I wasn't born here, though many were. They never seem to grow up here either. They're dragged off by simpering humans before the milk moustaches dry.

Rescue

2005-11-23T17:52:00.000-05:00

(copyright someone else)
Unlike most days at Rainbow Bridge, this day dawned cold and gray, damp as a swamp and as dismal as could be imagined. All of the recent arrivals had no idea what to think, as they had never experienced a day like this before. But the animals who had been waiting for their beloved people knew exactly what was going on and started to gather at the pathway leading to The Bridge to watch.

It wasn't long before an elderly animal came into view, head hung low and tail dragging. The other animals, the ones who had been there for a while, knew what his story was right away, for they had seen this happen far too often.

He approached slowly, obviously in great emotional pain, but with no sign of injury or illness. Unlike all of the other animals waiting at The Bridge, this animal had not been restored to youth and made healthy and vigorous again. As he walked toward The Bridge, he watched all of the other animals watching him. He knew he was out of place here and the sooner he could cross over, the happier he would be.

But, alas, as he approached The Bridge, his way was barred by the appearance of an Angel who apologized, but told him that he would not be able to pass. Only those animals who were with their people could pass over Rainbow Bridge. With no place else to turn to, the elderly animal turned towards the fields before The Bridge and saw a group of other animals like himself, also elderly and infirm.

They weren't playing, but rather simply lying on the green grass, forlornly staring out at the pathway leading to The Bridge. And so, he took his place among them, watching the pathway and waiting.

One of the newest arrivals at The Bridge didn't understand what he had just witnessed and asked one of the animals that had been there for a while to explain it to him.

"You see, that poor animal was a rescue. He was turned in to rescue just as you see him now, an older animal with his fur graying and his eyes clouding. He never made it out of rescue and passed on with only the love of his rescuer to comfort him as he left his earthly existence. Because he had no family to give his love to, he has no one to escort him across The Bridge."

The first animal thought about this for a minute and then asked, "So what will happen now?" As he was about to receive his answer, the clouds suddenly parted and the gloom lifted. Approaching The Bridge could be seen a single person and among the older animals, a whole group was suddenly bathed in a golden light and they were all young and healthy again, just as they were in the prime of life.

"Watch, and see.", said the second animal. A second group of animals from those waiting came to the pathway and bowed low as the person neared. At each bowed head, the person offered a pat on the head or a scratch behind the ears. The newly restored animals fell into line and followed him towards The Bridge. They all crossed The Bridge together.

"What happened?"

"That was a rescuer. The animals you saw bowing in respect were those who found new homes because of his work. They will cross when their new families arrive. Those you saw restored were those who never found homes. When a rescuer arrives, they are allowed to perform one, final act of rescue. They are allowed to escort those poor animals that they couldn't place on earth across The Rainbow Bridge."
(/copyright)

As much as I dislike the trite little godly things people email to each other, this one makes me cry.

Mishmash

2005-11-20T07:46:00.000-05:00

I am so full of conflicting sensations and emotions right now. Maybe I just need more sleep. Maybe I just need Sunday to be over with, though I'm really in no big hurry for it to be Monday. I'm stressed because in eight days, I either pass or fail. On the other hand, I was reminded of how beautiful and calm winter in New England is. And I'm stressed because someone who hurt me is happy. I wish I could get rid of grudges.

Could It Be I'm Haunted?

2005-11-12T09:46:00.000-05:00

I hate my mind. I don't know if it's something missing or something extra that makes me feel the way I do, but it hurts, it burns, it twists like a spiny serpent inside of me and makes me want to dig it out with scissors or a chisel. It's a parasite or a splinter, a foreign body that my traitorous immune system recognizes as part of me. Doctors don't understand. They ply me with sedatives for the beast, so it doesn't wriggle and rip me apart, but it is still there. I feel its weight and mass and still it breathes within me. No one understands the pain of just knowing that it will turn over again, cut me where no one can see the blood, draw pain from somewhere that doesn't exist. A hundred years ago, maybe someone would have called out a priest to exorcise this demonic creature. It wouldn't have worked, since my demons don't come from hell but from my head.

Listening to "Best I Ever Had" by Vertical Horizon...I've listened to the lyrics before, but they never made so much sense as today. "I don't want you back, you're just the best I ever had." I want to tell him that, but I can't. I can't tell him that I wish I hadn't left. I know I couldn't have made things work, but I still miss him so much it hurts. It's one of my demons, a little imp that second guesses me and tells me that everything I did was a mistake. It tells me that there was love there, which there was, but neglects to mention all the things that were wrong. I know this demon well, and still his tricks give me pause. He even makes me question the one before, the one who lied and cheated and hurt me more than everyone else put together.

According to the book jacket I just read, Robert A. Heinlein was 32 when he began writing science fiction. I am 28 and a half as of yesterday. Does this mean there is still hope for me to accomplish something meaningful before I die? Back, demon!

Lonliness [sic]

2005-11-11T20:48:00.000-05:00

FOR SALE: Loneliness. All offers considered.
Though you might find that your inquiry will make it hard to locate the item in question. Or so I hope.

Stream of Unconsciousness

2005-11-09T12:18:00.000-05:00

More and more, I find myself taking the trek through the woods to the shores of the River Lethe and wondering what the water tastes like. Only the fractured reflections of those who rely on me keep me from cupping my hands and finding out. Sometimes I really don't understand why I bother. Today, driving by the streams and ponds so recently flooded, I felt the urge to go swimming and see if hypothermia really is a reasonably painless way to go. Better than burning, I imagine, or living a long, long life.

It gets dark too early, out here in the woods, especially when it's drizzling steadily as it is right now. It really isn't the right prescription for a moody depressive. Everything closes in on me, the branches reaching down to brush cold, wet leaves against my face. There's no way to make my house bright enough, no matter how many lights I turn on. It makes me want to start a fire, right in the center of my living room. Think those floorboards would burn? That'd teach my downstairs neighbor to hang pictures at 4am. Have some flaming timbers, motherfucker!

My Own Best Friend

2005-11-04T07:53:00.000-05:00

I'm always honest with people when starting a relationship. Painfully honest, really. It's so much harder to respect someone in the morning when, going for a quick glass of OJ, you notice antipsychotics on the fridge. It'd be kind of a shock, no? So anyone I'm dating gets the whole "I'm crazy, watch the fuck out. No really" lecture. While I'm not on antipsychotics (yet), I am on more than one antidepressant. That's a pretty big bag of crazy to most people. And no, those don't keep me from being a moody bitch. God help you all if I'm dieting or Aunt Flo is visiting. This one is pretty serious, and people all think they can handle it. Boyfriend #1 couldn't handle it, though in all fairness, we weren't aware of the crazy at the beginning, so I couldn't really warn him. Boyfriend #2 really couldn't handle it, and ran away screaming before too long. He came back, after the advent of pharmaceutical intervention, but then the antisocial part came along.
Yup. Antisocial. Hard to believe of a mostly-anonymous internet writer, huh? I do ok from time to time, but without my own space with locking doors and much insulation from the outer world, I can freak out pretty hardcore. Sometimes I even have to kick the dogs out of the room. This is a tendency that gives relationships a pretty grim prognosis. "I love you, really I do, but I hate your fucking guts right now and if you don't get out of my sight I'm going to vomit and kick you in the nads." Why doesn't Hallmark make cards like that? I'd spring for a $2.99 piece of paper if it would say that for me. Better yet would be a clown-o-gram with a twenty-pound sledgehammer, but I value my freedom. Getting sent down the river for conspiracy to commit murder is a pretty pussy way to go. If I'm gonna pay the price, you'd better bet I'll have the blood spatter evidence to show for it.
Blind dates also get the "I'm fat and ugly and have a horrible self-image" lecture as well. People pay about as much attention to that warning as they do to the copyright protection warning at the beginning of a dvd. They never understand how crippling low self esteem can be. Most either don't know the pain of being endlessly teased in school, or have long since forgotten all about it.
After all of that, you'd think they'd feel comfortable with me, comfortable enough to give me the fine print. Like "I'm still technically married" or "I will hug you and squeeze you and call you George...and leave your broken body in the haystack." People should come with a surgeon general's cautionary statement. WARNING: Dating this person can result in rash, loss of personal property, and the distinct desire to claw one's own eyes out. Yeah, that'd do it for me.

Sit, Ubu, Sit

2005-11-02T18:34:00.000-05:00

I am having a hard time believing that it's possible to find a well-behaved Basenji without the help of a taxidermist. Now, before anyone crawls up my butt about animal rights or whatever...look up the word "hyperbole" and leave me alone. Bella is a Basenji. This alone would have been enough to scare off a smarter woman. I did the research before I went to meet her. I decided before I met her that a Basenji wasn't for me. I was responsible enough to know that I couldn't handle such a high energy breed of dog. But when I saw her frantic little face, her sad life tied up all alone out in the cold, all reason left my head. She went right in my car and changed my life. And not all for the better, obviously.
I'm no hero (duh). I rescued her for selfish reasons. She's cute, the right size, and the right price. Her 16 year old owner was a walking stereotype of inner-city poverty and ignorance. The dog was outside because she "couldn't" be housetrained and wouldn't get along with their old cocker spaniel. So, why didn't they just take her back to the pound where they got her? Good question, and I imagine the answer is money. They wouldn't have gotten their money back, so they tried to get it out of me. I ended up paying them a hundred bucks, since they would take no less, then spent over $500 on her for the veterinary care they should have paid for long before I came along. Bella wasn't spayed, vaccinated, or on heartworm preventative. This amount of neglect is criminal.
So, yeah, the dog couldn't be housebroken. After a year of not being taught, it took a full year of trying and pleading and crying and threatening before we found success. She comes to work with me every day, with her big brother Frodo, and all of a sudden had no more accidents. Then again, the end of accidents also coincided with the end of my last relationship, as it was. Seeing as a lot of her accidents happened when I was paying more attention to a boyfriend than to her, maybe it was motivated by jealousy. She certainly peed on the bed a lot. Bella has decreed that I must be single. S'ok by me for now.
But still, she comes to work with me. Not such a big deal to begin with. She'd stand on the front seat and watch the world go by. As time went on, though, she decided she had to stand on my lap, then she had to bounce back and forth from front seat to back seat until her leash was so tangled she could barely move. When I had had enough of that and macguyvered a seatbelt for her, she cried and whined and scratched at me until I could barely stand it. Just yesterday, I cleaned out the cargo area of my hatchback and they rode in there. She is no longer free to move about the cabin, but her seat is not quite in the upright and locked position. Just this afternoon, she figured out she could still jump over the back seat, nevermind that it leaves her strangling against the leash. I can't EVER leave her unleashed in the car, since she plays racehorse out of the gates as soon as I open a door. There is something even worse than the jumping. It started with a little whine, then ramped up to a yodel, then a frantic howl, then an ear-splitting, chattering, persistent scream. By the end of a 7 mile drive, my jaw was killing me from clenching my teeth all the way home. My throat was raw from screaming when I had had enough.
Bella is capable of making me feel like a failure in any situation. She pulls the leash out of my hand and runs into traffic. She pees on my bed. She howls and screams and jumps up on people and scratches. Why do I keep this dog? Only Basenji people and rescue people would understand.

Rainbow Fuckin' Connection

2005-10-31T09:03:00.000-05:00

How do adults find friends? And I'm not talking about adultfriendfinder.com. I'm not even talking about sex, for once. I feel like I haven't made a real friend since college (in person, dammit. Don't go getting all huffy with me, Mack), and those relationships sure as hell didn't last. Plus, I don't miss the lesbian who regularly told me she wasn't attracted to me. Ah, does the ego good. I guess I made friends at the vet clinics where I worked, though those didn't last either. I've tried emailing, but no one has time...or no one wants to bother with me now that they aren't forced to be around me in order to collect a paycheck.

So, my friends are two dogs and four cats. I'm frighteningly well on my way to being the crazy cat lady. I mean, I had a long conversation with the dogs yesterday about their behavior in the kitchen when I'm cooking food for myself. They haven't started answering yet, so I think I'm still ok. But I'm kind of looking forward to that day. It seems like it'd be much less lonely if I could be schitzophrenic and imagine all sorts of people. Then I could just take my antipsychotics if I got sick of them.

I do get sick of people, even my friends. I don't put up with peoples' shit as well as others do. One boyfriend or another gave me hell about it, saying that I never forgave people after they did one thing that I took offense to. So? I mean, if they apologized for being assholes and stopped being assholes, it's over and done with. I can get over that. But if they're an asshole and never stop, why should I forgive and forget? Frankly, most people are born assholes, or learn it on the way. They see no reason not to be assholes, and they turn the sensitive people around them into assholes. In this world, you're either an asshole or getting shit on.

Is it wrong to want to get into a fight so I might get my jaw broken, have to have it wired shut, and then lose weight by virtue of having to eat every meal through a straw? Plus, painkillers would be a damn nice change. It's either that or learn to drink. It certainly doesn't feel like the antidepressants are keeping the ship afloat lately. Every time the leaves fall, so does my mood, and with it my view of the world. It keeps getting dark earlier, inside and out.

Ideation

2005-10-30T20:01:00.000-05:00

Ever been driving along close to a body of water, preferably a raging river or other violent source, and find yourself drawn to turn the wheel? If you died shortly thereafter, would the pain really be anything, since the worst part is reliving it in your head? Or would you be unlucky like I imagine I would be, find yourself crashed into a tree, spine mangled but still with a very firm grasp on life? Or slowly sinking into the cold, cold water and realizing that things aren't so bad after all, let me out! but the doors are stuck shut from the water pressure, and no one can see your car from this angle? And you remember the dogs and cats in your apartment, and you're on vacation so no one's expecting to hear from you for a week, so your pets will be smelly corpses by the time the cops are on the scene. Good job, shithead. If suicide wouldn't get you sent to hell, making sure a bunch of innocent animals died painfully certainly would seal the deal. Yeah, the day I find new homes for all my pets, or put them into a kennel, is the day someone should take away my shoelaces.

Now that I think about it, I have several reasons to live. First, I no longer have a geek boyfriend, and will never again have to see a Star Wars movie. Or host a role-playing game part, or a LAN. What the hell's the point of the internet if you're still going to bring people into your house, particularly the smelly, mouth-breathing sort that is the FPS's main audience? Though it might have been fun to put laxatives into the salsa one day, if I wasn't the one to have to clean the bathroom. Or maybe just arsenic. Illegal? Yes. Fun? You bet your ass. And I'd be doing the world a favor. But then who would support Match.com?

I feel like dumping a bag of rock salt in a cornfield. Putting birth control in the town water supply. Razors in apples, dammit! I really AM getting into the spirit of the holiday!

Warning and Disclaimer

2005-10-29T23:06:00.000-04:00

While I really don't give a crap what people think, please keep in mind that these are my thoughts and rants, unedited for public consumption. If you know me in "real life" (whatever that shit is), please don't read any further. You'd probably find things out that you'd rather not know, and I'd lose my job or be cut out of the will or whatever other tortures you could think to make my miserable life a little colder. So, fuck off. Plus, if you're offended by harsh language, FUCK OFF! It's not going to get any better down the line. If you don't like animals, you're not going to like anything I write, so please don't comment and make me berate you in front of all of The Internets, as if anyone out there will ever read it.