Despicable Me

I am legitimately shocked and awed by how fucking awful this feels. I am living alone. I am alone and eating ramen. Depressed as hell. Be careful what you fucking wish for. It’s only Tuesday. I have only been alone since Sunday morning. Regardless, I have cried every day, starting that morning around 6:20am. I’m finally mourning. Doubly mourning. I know I have to go through this to get to the other side. Like the chicken I’ve been feeling like at work lately. The one without a head. There is so much I want to say. So much I feel I have to hide. I’m tired of hiding.  

Small details: I had planned on going to the gym after work. Instead, I made a conscious decision to allow myself to fall deeper into this sadness. I made a conscious decision to buy a bottle of Irish whiskey (it makes me feel connected to so many things). I made a conscious decision to not make real food. I say I don’t care but it’s because I do care so much that everything weighs on me so heavily. So heavily that bottle follows bottle in a futile effort to stop the pain and disappointment that I feel. Being aware of what I’m doing makes it that much more painful.

So many things are going through my head right now. Thoughts and feelings. Especially “STOP!” But not a positive stop. It’s “stop writing, stop thinking, go to the couch and turn on the tv, forget all this.” But that doesn’t stop it, only delays.

“I don’t know” and “I’m so sorry.” The two most common refrains I hear come out of my mouth or that run through my head. I wish I could say “Yes,” and “I love you” and “Help me.” “Please.” And that I could accept help. And love. It’s enough to make me turn to Jesus, I swear.

I wish I could be less stubborn. Open and gracious and forgiving instead of glancing sideways at everyone and everything offered. Yet still being taken advantage of. That I could work with instead of against. You and me.

There are so many truths about me that I find disturbing. Truths that I have trouble voicing. Truths that make me despicable. Using and abusing. I realized not long after I moved out that I am not necessarily a “good” person. I do what I need to do to survive. Yet people still call me a saint. People still want to help me. People think I am good. It’s not goodness, it’s self-preservation and idiocy. Being who I need to be to get by. Denying myself, hiding myself. Fronting.

That’s all bullshit, that last paragraph. I victimize myself and blame others for making me unhappy. Because I am unhappy and I’m too chicken-shit to do anything about it.

You don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone.

I don’t deserve all the chances people give me. Yet I do. Because I care so much. Because I’ve been hurt so much. By other people who were hurt before me. And it goes on and on. The legacy of hurt. 

Fuck. How did I end up here?

Fear. Fear that I’ve lost another friend. Because of my fear. Because of second-guesses and outside pressure. (Incompatibility and desperation? Insecurity?)

Why can’t I just sit with myself? Why am I so afraid of myself? Because I know how despicable I am? God, that’s depressing. Because I know how much I hurt. I know how much pain is inside of me. And how much rage and anger. And that does scare me. It makes me of absolutely no use to anyone.

So here I am. Finally alone. And scared to death of what I’ll discover. Yet I know I am searching for something in others that I can only find in myself and I’m no good to anyone until I find it.



But do not ask the price I paid,
I must live with my quiet rage,
Tame the ghosts in my head,
That run wild and wish me dead.
Should you shake my ash to the wind
Lord, forget all of my sins
Or let me die where I lie
Neath the curse of my lover's eyes.

And I'll walk slow, I'll walk slow
Take my hand, help me on my way.
And I'll walk slow, I'll walk slow
Take my hand, I'll be on my way.

Interpretation, or, Go Fuck Yourself

I had one of those dreams last night.

I often have dreams where I am trapped, unable to find my way out of a building or location and that's what was going on last night. All the windows were old and either wouldn't open or were too small but most importantly all of them were just too high to jump from. I was in Cecil County and Chris was with me and one other person who wasn't really identifiable. We all climbed this hill and got inside the building but for some reason it was just me who ended up being what I can only describe as an indentured servant to the people living there, this woman and her elderly mother. What I was doing isn't important. It involved making sure tour groups got up and down the hill safely, there was a railroad trestle and water... Anyway, I ended up alone and I didn't want to be there, I didn't want to be doing this job, but I couldn't escape. Inside the building where these two women lived it was like an episode of Hoarders but every once in a while I'd get a glimpse of this pristine bedroom and bathroom which were somehow off limits to me and I knew I'd get in trouble if I were caught in there. Eventually I escaped, but I don't remember how, and I found Chris and the mystery person again.

But here's the fucked up part: This all happened in one day. And the next day I went back to do it all over again.

Witness my insanity.

How fast can you run?

Shit is just fucked. Nothing has... I feel like I have no control over anything. I moved out because I needed space, because I wanted to be alone... But nothing has worked out like I'd hoped or planned. And I am so angry I can't stand it and I don't see a way out. And it's my own fucking fault. For being such an idiot, for believing in someone, for trusting someone. When I should have known. I should have known. I wasn't and am not in the right space for this to be happening. I feel used and taken advantage of. And so, so angry. I just want what I wanted: To be alone. To work through things. To have my own space. To fucking watch tv as loud as I want. Alone. 

The Great Divide

This fucking depression is killing me. And the stress. And the “OH MY GOD, WHAT HAVE I DONE?” aspect of it all.

That’s right, I’m going to talk about this.

This past week has been hell. There was the monthly blood-letting, the oppressive humidity, then the spider bite, then the spider bite infection (thankfully the visit to the urgent care center and the antibiotics I had to get on Friday evening were both free), I slept til about 5pm Saturday, woke up, showered, then realized I had nowhere to go. So I went to get beer. Which was when I realized I had parked in a handicapped spot and gotten a $75 ticket. On the way out of the beer store, something in my back just, like, snapped and the pain was so intense I thought I was going to fall over right there on the sidewalk. I remember being really drunk last night, taking a bath, sending weird messages to strangers. Today I didn’t go to work, I don’t even know why. But I do have diarrhea and what I think are the beginnings of a yeast infection from the antibiotics. Sweet.

Throughout all of this there have been copious amounts of tears. It’s still three weeks until I can move out and mourn in peace. Three weeks until I find out if I can even manage to live on my own, a thing I’ve never done. Made all the more thrilling because of how alone I feel. When I feel like I have three friends in the whole world who I can talk to about this and none of them live in the same city as me. Philadelphia, Brunswick, MD, and Holland aren’t really within “Can you come over? I need company” distance.

God, I just want to sleep.

But this is what I want, right? Yes. I made this decision. It’s going to eventually be the best thing for both of us... But right now? Right now there is nothing I can do. Three weeks. It’s already been about 3 weeks since the decision was made and I’m just waiting. Feeling awkward and uncomfortable. My head hurts. My back hurts. I just want to feel comfortable somewhere. To not be scared out of my mind for an hour or two. To breathe and be able to think for a minute in a space of my own.

Three weeks.

I don't know what you might already know about what's going on, some of you know more than others, of course, and I know many of you have been through this, but I have no fucking idea what I'm doing. I am about to embark on something so positively terrifying that yesterday I couldn't even, I mean literally, get out of bed. Yet it's something that millions of people do all the time. I know, I just know, that for the sake of both our futures and our future happiness that this needs to happen no matter how much it hurts right now.

So I came across someone's life to-do list on XOJane and now I'm stealing a bunch of things from other peoples' lists and adding some items of my own. So many corny clichés have been running through my head this morning so why not just fucking go with it. The only way forward is through. Amiright?

Here's my part stolen/part original list:

Stop thinking about the ending when you're still at the beginning.
Never, ever, EVER fucking give up.
Stop being so fucking scared.
Take risks.
Don't look back.
Be selfish.
Save yourself.
Do not regret.
Do not be ashamed.
Never abandon yourself.
Be patient with yourself.
Be self-sufficient.
Stop hurting yourself.
Own a pair of Frye boots. (I totally forgot about this one! Any of these will do.)
Value experiences over things.
Find happiness within yourself.
Listen to your heart.
Be able to write that without starting to sing that vomitous Roxette song.
Listen to your body.
(Do more yoga.)
Consult your head but don't always let it win.
Do not take friendships for granted, especially when they're so scarce. 

There's no fucking point to this post except to let you know that I'm terrified, scared about what I'm about to lose yet sadly hopeful about the future. 

Changes: That Shit Cray

At about 3pm yesterday (Sunday) I smoked my *last* cigarette. Around 8pm today (Monday) I smoked what I guess was my *first* cigarette. The internal debate went on for hours and involved a lot of bargaining. With myself. I will not regret my decision. Allen has control of them now. This will end in tears. As it began. I cried, no, I sobbed, for almost a solid two hours, mourning my cigarettes as though my best friend in the world had just died. I also realized I was feeling homesick for the old apartment. "I want to go home!" I wailed. This has been a common exclamation throughout my life. I'm always looking to go "home", wherever that is. But I'm sure it exists somewhere and I will know it when I get there.

I wish I had the same interest in keeping up with this blog as I used to have. I just. Do. Not.

It's 8:40pm. I already want to smoke again.

I am too hard on myself. People actually say this to me. If I was so hard on myself I wouldn't be slowly destroying myself. I'd be cutting this shit out. If I actually believed in self-preservation as much as I think I do I wouldn't be drinking and smoking and sedentary-ing myself straight to dementia and death. I am a curious mix of my mother and father. Or listening to fucking Pitchfork's Top 100 Adult Contemporary Hits of 2011.

But do you want to know the main reason I'm trying to quit smoking -- right now, that is -- ??? Because I'm going to New York this weekend and I'm afraid I won't be able to smoke in Mayor Micro-manager's town. Swear to Jesus that's what's been going on in my head about this. A friend of mine is presenting at HOPE Number Nine. And I'm going because I want to stick out like a sore thumb or something.

Fuck. What have I done? I'm still exhausted from Sob-Fest 2012. I have no concentration, not enough time in the day for the things I want to do.

I have 4 projects I need to work on but have only ever so slightly started working on two of them. And so it goes.

There is just something in my head that blocks me. I already felt better (physically) after 26 hours of not smoking. I feel better, good, even, during the day when I haven't drank the night before. But something in me tells me that I don't deserve that feeling. I'd rather be fuzzy and cloudy and sluggish, just unclear, rather than feel "good". There's a lot of "I don't deserve _________" that goes on in my head.

Fucking therapy. It's wrecking me. I'm waiting until tomorrow to call my therapist to tell her I can't make my Thursday appointment in hopes that she won't be able to fit me in on Wednesday. Last week was brutal. I just... I don't even remember what exactly she asked me that made me start crying but it happened. And I was like, "I don't even have a reason to be crying right now." And she goes, "Obviously you do." Which of course made it worse. And she keeps asking about my parents like I don't tell her the same thing every god damn week. Does she not remember or is she fucking with me? Cos she remembers other things.

No, it wasn't my father. It was my mother. It was always my mother. And my sisters. They gave me these labels. The men in my family always loved me. This is complicated. It explains everything. It really does.

Yet she's strangely been affecting my self-esteem. By telling me that my drinking (her main focus) is greatly reducing my self-esteem she's somehow increasing it. I don't know. She's crafty.

This one's dedicated to Schulze. Damn her.

XO... Jen

It's cold out here. Cold, okay? I'm thinking about my Mellow Yellow fingernails and my Air blue toenails while sitting on the deck with the tiki torches lit and drinking Golden Monkey and chain smoking.

Babies, I've seen a new therapist for two sessions. Babies, I've been reading xoJane like it's my new Jezebel because it is. Cat's back. No, I'm not going to start one of my "I don't understand the ladies" rants... as easy as that might be.

What was I going to start? (Are you my lady doctor, "my lady"?) I had the horrible realization today, while talking with her, that I've been here before. I think she likes me, for the usual reasons: I'm smart, I get it... But I don't. That's why I'm there. I know. But I don't. It's the same old song and dance. Me me me me me. The same me from 2005. The same me from 1999. The same me who knows what to do but is too afraid to do it.

I was sitting there today thinking, "HELP ME", knowing the whole time that only I can help myself. So I listed off my 4 main reasons for being there and she said something like, "well, you're here to make yourself stronger, so you can make these changes." We've talked about all 4 of my issues in two 50-minute sessions. Now what?

Stare off into space.

That's how I talk about important things. Staring off into space.

"Does [this happen]?"
"... No ..."
"Does [that happen]?"
"... No ... Eh. No. Not really."

Hmm. I get the feeling she wants drama. I tend to downplay things. Yet dream the drama.

"Yes."
"No."
"Yes!"
"No!"

It's not that.

Two nights a week. "Two."

"Do you think you could commit to only [doing this thing] twice a week?"
"I could..."
"Will you?"
"I will."

Knowing I was lying the whole time.

"We should keep you broke."
"Ha, ha... ha."

"You should write about it." Journaling she said. Fuck me. I do. And it's always the same thing, over and over again.
"Bring it," she said.

She just found the key to my heart.

Oh, I will. I will bring it, sister.

Reek. It Rhymes with Seek.

I keep telling myself I'm going to come up with something. Something as great as the three-part brilliance that was the story of my father's funeral. Something as absurd as the history of "Tainted Love" trilogy. I've been mildly perturbed at (or with, you choose) myself for not having more to say about my mother's funeral but it was a very different situation. And I was drunk the entire fucking time. Like literally. There was a lot of drinking that week. I was sitting in the front row during the eulogy drinking straight vodka out of a water bottle. When it was time for the after-party I was wasted and didn't even notice that my 18 year old nephew was also drunk and just randomly yelling nigger and faggot from the corner of the kitchen.

We can't have nice things.

I guess I'm kinda telling a story about it now so let me add that after B. scared everyone away and K. came back with his room mate and co., I got blazed and remember D.'s brother telling us a story about how his baby had died recently. I also remember asking said brother where he was from because he was very New Jersey. He's from Elkton. He took me saying he seemed Jersey as a compliment. Kids.

Something happened to my original image so here's a photo of the outside of "BG Books"
(My sisters have a used bookstore here. In Elkton. BG stands for Big Girls.)

But I don't know. I'm here. Here. My stomach has been trying to kill me the last few days. In retaliation, I assume, for my hedonistic behavior that started with PMS and ended(?) with my birthday weekend. Turns out you can gain 5 pounds in two weeks. You just have to work at it.

Yeah, that's whatever. She said, as she ate another piece of chocolate.

I'm going on a solo adventure this weekend. The crazy part is that I'll be driving. All the way to Philly. By myself. In the White Knight of Texas. If something deeply upsetting doesn't happen during my travels I'll be fucking surprised.

I need more anger. I think that's what's been missing. Or a decent celebrity crush. (Mind your business.) I've been stagnant and bored with just everything. I hate admitting that I'm bored. The whole "if you're bored then you're boring" thing. I don't want to be boring.

I want to be adored. I want everyone to love me. Which is total bullshit because the actual stress from that isn't any fun, either. Even a little bit of attention does my head in.

I never know what I want. Except the total eradication of all insects.

Indomitable spirit. That's what I have. Am I right?


I'm reposting this, from August 2010. Because I can and because I listened to it tonight and it's not half bad. And I didn't cry while listening to track 7. I think that's a first.

I've been thinking a lot of uncomfortable "thinks" lately. To commemorate this I've made another mixtape for you. It's called "Sad Sack" (that's the link) and I am not providing artists or titles in an attempt to avoid prejudice.  Although, I did provide some sample lyrics so you could figure out the songs from that. JFGI.

1. How it feels to hate yourself because of your appearance.
     "I wish you'd see yourself as beautiful as I see you."

2. How it feels to have to fake being ok every day.
    "Do you want me to smile? Well, I'll try."

3. How it feels to not have any control.
    "C'mon, mood, shift, shift back to good again. C'mon, be a friend."

4. How it feels to interact with other people.
    "I wish you the best, you snake."

5. How it feels to know your dreams, and the dreams of those you love the most, will never come true.  See song 6.
    "May all of your dreams come true."

6. How it feels to grow up poor.
    "Tell 'em all they can kiss our asses goodbye."

7. How it feels to know too much about your parents' relationship and how it has affected every aspect of your life. I am being dead serious when I tell you that I can't listen to this song without crying like a baby.

    "Because of you I find it hard to trust not only me but everyone around me."

8. How it feels to be constantly fucked over. See songs 5 and 6.
    "Must I weep and mourn?"

9. How it feels to fuck up when you're young.
    "She's feeling more alone than she ever has before."

10. How it feels to love someone who's just as fucked up as you are.
       "You're not free now; you're not innocent; you're transparent; and you're right."

11. How it feels when a friend dies and you know he was a better person than you'll ever be.
      "Goodbye my friend."

12. How it feels to feel ok sometimes. Even if it's artificial.
       "For all the shit, for all the dear departed, for all the war, we've still got beer."

13. How it feels to get older.
       "I'd rather stay here in my room; nothin' out there but sad and gloom."  

14. How it feels to keep on livin.'
       "Don't let them bring you down and don't let them fuck you around cuz those are your arms, that is your heart and no, no, they can't tear you apart."

Panic Button

I'm having one of my "going quiet" episodes brought on by an impending job search. Or at least I think that's what it is.

I've been trying to write everyday on my lunch break and it feels like each day I have less and less to say. Or I'm just repeating the same things over and over again. Yesterday there was this: "I know. I'm totally blank. Because I should be doing at this point. Not thinking."

But it's the idea of "doing" that triggers the panic. (We could get into some deep psychological shit if I were to start unpacking that sentence.) And then I mentally (and physically) shut down and I'm just "no, no, no, no, no. I'm going to stay here where it's safe. Here inside myself, inside my head, here inside this apartment, inside this windowless office at work. It's okay here. It's not so bad." When really I want to scream and break things. And escape.

Forgive me for what I'm about to do here, I know he can be hard to take. I may have mentioned... no, actually I don't think I ever finished writing that, about how much I identify with Kanye West. I think it's still a draft. Anyway. It probably won't be clear to you but I have a special affinity for this song. We're both assholes.

Last night I just sat on the couch, watching TV, not even looking for anyone to talk to online. "No, no, no, no, no." The Killing, Mad Men, Drag Race. All the while eating the candy and drinking the sweet, sweet Coca-Cola I bought at Target after work. Thinking, fuck it. All the while wishing I was fucking drunk. Then I went to bed.

It's always the same. I know I just have to give it time. I'll come out of it. When it has to be done I'll do it. Sometimes it's just nice to succumb to the desire to hide and eat like an asshole, even knowing the whole time that you're only hurting yourself. Because you feel like you deserve it. And I know how to hurt myself best.

God. Even writing this is making me anxious. I've got that weak, shaky feeling you get. Do you know that one? Just from writing. And my hands are all sweaty. I'm a god damn mess.

But I'll come out of it. 

I Demand a Recount.

Guys, guys, guys! My birthday is coming up. It's a big one and, as usual, I haven't made any plans. Story of my life. No plans.

I mean, there are a couple of big ones I'm working on. Moving back to Philly being the main plan right now. Yeah, yeah, yeah. We've been here before. 2 years ago. I think it's all about Wawa. But I've updated my resume (last week), made an application on Penn's website (this week), maybe next week I'll actually start applying for jobs. Five months isn't a long time. You get used to living in PGH and it's hard to get out... you get lazy and used to paying your bills.

But I'm getting old. And I know it's overly dramatic but the other day I literally wrote that if I don't get out of here soon it's going to be a death sentence. I can't die here. I have better things to do.

I'm in a panic about bringing it up to my boss, though, because he's an old man who has told me and everyone else repeatedly that I can't leave him because his dead wife sent me to him and if I leave her ghost will haunt me. He says this. I think he's only half joking. But the thing is, I could really use his help with finding a job. GRR!

And I know I'm kind of PMS-y right now. And I have to pay taxes, another reason Pittsburgh has been fucked up. We've never owed money until we came here. Trying to find a job stresses me the fuck out. Our clothes dryer stopped working. I'm blaming Heather and all the weird shit she puts in there like boots and stuffed animals. No one's called about it being broken, though. Why would we? My birthday, needing a haircut, grocery shopping, driving to Philly at the end of the month, all these things are stressing me out. And I'm tired, very, very tired. Don't even get me started on the drinking, or rather the trying not to drink and the cake and the McDonald's, potato chips...

Yet I'm feeling strangely optimistic right now.

I know. 

Status Retort

28 March

Every night this week I've been like, I'm going to write and work on my resume and look for a job and watch this movie. It hasn't happened.

Did I ever tell you about the time I started crying (!) while listening to "Firework" by Katy Perry? That was a shitty night.

I ate two double cheeseburgers from McDonald's yesterday (because I wanted to) and still weighed a pound less this morning than I did yesterday. That was a neat trick. Food issues.

The best shiz evar.

I need more time.

Wow. WOW. That's some fucknasty shit The Sir just had. Jesus. I have to switch rooms.

Btw, I would totally snort coke off a dick. Just for reference. Know that I would do that. You're welcome.

I need to look at photos. Take photos. I wanted to tell stories, like I said in the last entry. But I haven't gotten around to that either. Addiction issues.

I have trouble writing honestly. Even in my personal writing. I can't let go. I haven't even been able to think well the last few days.

Ugh. Anyway. Day the next.

29 March.

Allen's birthday. We went to Salt tonight and it was ah-mezin'. Tim Robes ended up being our server, until he decided to buy us a round of drinks and disappear. That was very kind of him. I had oysters and lamb and bourbon. Allen had beef cheeks/tongue and sweet potato gnocchi, scallops and some oak-aged beer (i.e. high alcohol). Would go back. We talked about horror movies and moving and how "it's my birthday".

I still have dead roses in my bathroom from the anniversary. I like having dead flowers around. It's like living in a crypt. Or so I like to pretend. Dead, dry roses are the best.

Sneezing like a ma-chine over here. All god damn day. The allergy meds aren't working today. "This is my face," I just said to A., with my sad mouth-breathing self.

Sometimes your mom dies.

I don't like being a mouth breather.

Do you love me? Do you hate me?

Oh, then we went to Giant Eagle and tried to buy a cake in the self-checkout and of course we couldn't, and we were like, "we just want to buy this cake..." Nah, it wasn't *that* dramatic.

You're welcome.

Short Stories

I remembered this for some reason this morning: When I was probably 6 or 7 I was down the road from my house, I know I was alone but I don't remember if I had my bike. It was a Sunday afternoon. Our neighbors hadn't picked up their Sunday paper from the end of their driveway but I thought that I had found it so I just picked it up and took it home. I liked to look at the ads and the comics. So I took it home, all proud of what I had found and showed my mom. She was livid and demanded to know where I had gotten the paper from. We didn't return it, though.

For some reason that memory reminds me of falling off the picnic table. Mark (my childhood bff) and I used to put folding lawnchairs on top of the table and just sit there, facing each other. I assume we were talking about stuff, not just staring at each other but who knows. This sort of lawnchair, aluminum and plastic arm rests, and that "fabric" that would fray and rot:

So anyway, I don't know if it was part of the game or not but somehow we'd keep pushing the chairs back towards the edge of the picnic table and one of us would usually fall off, backwards, in the chair, and onto the grass. It was fun.

Which reminds me of another memory. I really need to go through my photos and scan some of them so I can tell more stories, I think there might be a photo of this.

For some reason that is unclear to me now, Diane and Janet took me and Chris (but not Jessica) on a trip to visit my brother Ken in Boston. I was probably like 8 or 9 so Chris would have been 5 or 6 and his sister Jessica would have been 3 or 4. Jessica was left with my mom. I really don't know why she wasn't allowed to come with us... strange. So the afternoon or evening that we left my house (Chris and I in the back of a pickup truck with a mattress for us to sit on for the 8 or so hour drive) Jessica was understandably upset. She jumped on the... what would you call that thing...

I don't know who that kid is, not my photo.

The thing next to the slide, in between the slide and the swings in the above photo... Anyway, Jessica gets on this thing and just starts going, back and forth with all her little might. And she's wailing! Just crying and crying like she would never stop as we pull out of the driveway. Chris and I were laughing in the back of the truck. We were totally evil. Then later, in Massachusetts somewhere, we both bought giant gummy rats and ate them on the trip home.

Hey Boy

"Gender is futile"  -AMH III

So. This has been in my head a lot lately:

I don't know why. It's just there. Probably because I feel like I've been fucking up a lot lately. Like a boy. And I'm emotionally like a boy. My head is like a boy. Without getting into too much detail... let's just say that I'm more a boy. In some situations.

I wrote that last night when I was a little drunk. I realize now that this is not going to make any sense since I don't really relate to this (or any) Beyoncé song. It's not about the song. Though it is true that that song is in my head a lot, it comes up on my iPod a lot. And it is true that I think I behave more like a man in some situations than a woman. I'm talking about stereotypes, obviously.

...

I can't recapture what I was thinking last night.

I can tell you that around 2am, while watching The Lost Boys in bed, I suddenly decided I wanted a pickle. But I wanted more than just a pickle. I wanted a pickle wrapped in ham. So that's what I got. I wrapped a pickle in ham and ate it in bed. While watching The Lost Boys.

So anyway, I've always hated gender stereotypes being applied to me but I'm more than happy to apply them to others. Girls, specifically. Because girls are stupid and mean and constantly judging you and absolutely-under-no-circumstances are they to be trusted. Am I right? Yes, that was a joke. Sort of. I've always hated it when groups break up into boys and girls, I think I hate sex segregation even more than I hate gender stereotypes. I freak the fuck out when I'm left alone with women. All though I'm getting better at dealing with this, I still feel more comfortable around guys.

I think I'm getting worse at writing. I don't really do much of it anymore. I don't really do much of anything anymore except look at porn and pictures of dead bodies on Tumblr. It's gotten to the point where it's almost like I don't even see it anymore, I certainly don't feel anything when I do. Totally desensitized. But what I was saying, about writing:

I pulled the tub that has all my old gurnels up two flights of stairs the other day, after falling on my ass while trying to lift it, because I was looking for copies of this zine I did back in 2000-2001. There were only three issues before I lost interest. Of course. They should make losing interest in things an occupation, I would be sooo good at that. Like, here, be intensely interested in this thing for a couple months and then you can move onto something else. It was called, unsurprisingly, Ghola. And they are terrible! The writing is atrocious. Worse than this blog, if you can believe that. The sad thing is that it's that way on purpose. I write like an idiot on purpose. Because I think it's cool.      

All right, I should get to work. If you read all of this guess what? I think you're cool.

Dear Mama

Annie Ruth Doyle Gray, June 5, 1935 - January 12, 2012.

My mother died yesterday, Thursday, January 12th. She was relatively young, 76, she would have been 77 in June. This is almost 2 years exactly from the time my father died. A little over 3 years since I'd last seen her.

The story of her last day is a cute one. My mother had Alzheimer's, had had it for a number of years and had also spent the last, I don't know, 4+ years in a nursing facility on a floor specifically for patients with the disease. My sister said she had a regular morning, woke up, was given/fed breakfast - she was on a special puréed diet - and told the woman who was feeding her that the oatmeal was terrible and that she should learn to cook. Later that morning, she went to take a nap and when the nursing staff went to wake her for lunch, she was gone. Janet, who saw her body, said she looked peaceful.

I don't know what she's going to look like, her body, I mean. Janet says she'd lost a lot of weight. She was always short, maybe 5'2" at the tallest, and when I saw her 3 years ago she seemed even tinier. So tiny. She was practically cute. Much different than the formidable woman in my memory who would slap me across the face when I said something she didn't like.

A couple photos from the last time I saw her, December 2009, I think.

And I don't feel like mourning, I don't feel especially sad, because I've already done it, to be honest. I did it 3 years ago after I saw her, when I realized, sitting next to her, that she wasn't there any more. It was strange, she still knew me, knew who I was, she would turn and look at me every once in a while and smile, but she was also very child-like. I knew that the person who had been my mother was gone, and so, not long after that visit, I let her go. And I have not regretted that decision to let her go when I did, even knowing she was still alive.

She was a tough lady, but a sad one, an angry one, and she had every right to be. She had been hurt often by men in her life, passing from her father's violence into the hands of her husband's when she was still a girl. She was tough and would put up a fight, but still, she wasn't strong. She should've gotten out of there but I realize how hard that would have been in the 1950s with small children to take care of. So she did the best she could, I think. Which is why I always forgave her no matter how much I thought I hated her or how often I thought she was weak for staying. I wish she could have experienced more happiness in her life, done more of the things she wanted to do, but it's been too late to think about that for years now.

Annie and cat, probably mid-1940s.

Annie, late 1940s or early 50s?

Annie, early 1950s?

I'm probably 2 or 3 here, 1979-80, Tony's Road.

Must have been 1984-ish or early 1985, Tony's Road.

Kitchen, Tony's Road, probably 1985-86. I love the look she's giving me.

Hideous Easter outfit, 1990 or 91, probably, Janet's on Blue Ball Road.

 

So nervous! Before the wedding, September 2002, Philadelphia

There's so much more to her story that I could relate and I only knew her for less than half of it, I'm sure there were more secrets than the ones that I knew, secrets that have died with her. Secrets that are probably best left unknown.

I love you, mommy. I really do.

NYE 2011/2012

Days later I finally get around to this. Here is what I played (or intended to play) on New Year's Eve. It was haphazardly put together at the last minute with one major outside influence (Allen, looking at you). Not my best work but it went over okay. The links are to Mediafire if you feel inclined to download.

Part 1 (played second and not in its entirety)

1. My standard "Jenifa" opening courtesy of De la Soul
2. "American Trash" (Porter Robinson Remix) - Innerpartysystem
3. "Call Your Girlfriend" - Robyn
4. "We No Speak Americano" (Original Mix) - Yolanda Be Cool & DCUP
5. "Hard in da Paint" - Waka Flocka Flame
6. "Fok Julle Naaiers" - Die Antwoord
7. "Alors on Dance" (PULS Remix) - Stromae
8. "She's My Man" - Scissor Sisters
9. "Turn Me On" (feat. Nicki Minaj) - David Guetta
10. "Till I Get There" - Lupe Fiasco
11. "Drunk on Love" - Rihanna
12. "Endless Slut" - Midnight*
13. "Get Some" - Lykke Li
14. "Make Me Proud" (feat. Nicki Minaj) - Drake
15. "Super Bass" - Nicki Minaj
16. "Internet Friends" (Original Mix) - Knife Party
17. "E.T." (feat. Kanye West) - Katy Perry
18. "Enter Sandman" - Herve vs. Metallica
19. "Fixin' to Thrill" - Dragonette
20. "Fight Club is Closed" (Original Mix) - Dada Life
21. "Hold it Against Me" (Jump Smokers Extended Mix) - Britney Spears
22. "Pumped Up Kicks" - Foster the People
23. "We Found Love" - Rihanna
24. "The Motto" (feat. Lil Wayne) - Drake
25. "Party Rock Anthem" - LMFAO
26. My standard "Jenifa" closing (same as the opening) 

Part 2 (played first and in its entirety)

1. My standard "Jenifa" opening courtesy of De la Soul
2. "Shame on a Nigga" - Wu-Tang Clan
3. "None of Your Business" - Salt N Pepa
4. "Teenage Dirtbag" - Wheatus
5. "Alex Chilton" - The Replacements
6. "Cherry Bomb" - The Runaways
7. "Roots Radicals" - Rancid
8. "Mathilde" - Scott Walker
9. "The Bad Touch" - Bloodhound Gang
10. "Let Me Clear My Throat" - DJ Kool
11. "Rock DJ" - Robbie Williams**
12. "Suspicious Minds" - Elvis Presley
13. "American Girl" - Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers
14. "New Radio" - Bikini Kill
15. "Hoodie" - Lady Sovereign
16. "Gimme Some Lovin'" - The Spencer Davis Group
17. "Vodka" - Korpiklaani
18. "Intergalactic" - Beastie Boys
19. "25 or 6 to 4" - Chicago
20. "Cut Your Hair" - Pavement
21. "Big Poppa" - Notorious B.I.G.
22. "More Than a Feeling" - Boston
23. "Beer Drinkers & Hell Raisers" - ZZ Top*
24. "Living After Midnight" - Judas Priest*
25. "Rip This Hell" - Midnight*
26. "Raining Blood" - Slayer*
27. "Breaking the Law" - Judas Priest*
28. "Halloween" - Misfits
29. My standard "Jenifa" closing (same as the opening) 

* Allen's additions
** Weirdest request ever from someone I don't know on Facebook

New Year?

Why? The existential "why?" Why does there have to be another year?

I'm sure I won't want you to read this tomorrow.

I'm not sure what I want to say. As usual. I'm letting this... thing... wash over me right now. And it's always the little things that trigger it.

And I always feel stress. When I know, when I step back and look at my life... when I know everything's okay. But I'm permanently clenching my jaw, waiting for whatever it is to happen. KNOWING it's going to happen. But not knowing what it is. This heightened sense of awareness. Like permanently waiting for your drunk father to come home and never knowing what's going to happen when he does...

I hope this isn't too personal but the concept of feeling "safe" and feeling like you have a place to call home came up tonight and I can be very sarcastic about these things, but really, isn't that all any of us really want?  Safety, security? A place where we can be ourselves? So what is this insecurity that we all feel? Assuming that everyone hates us because they're also avoiding feelings that make them uncomfortable.

Unless we're really that annoying?

I can't tell.

And the thing I'm thinking about, while two of us are watching this together right now, is that maybe we don't change that much. Maybe all of us who wanted to kill ourselves when we're 16... and 17, 18, etc., the thoughts seem to be more sporadic as you grow older... will always still feel that, even though they do tend to become more sporadic. They still creep in every once and a while.

And I think what makes it worse are those sporadic relationships I tend to have where I *think* I've found someone who could matter to me... Yet no matter what, I end up feeling like the weirdo and things just fizzle out.

Which reinforces the feelings that I am wrong and bad and just not right in some way.

And talking doesn't do a damn thing. Maybe in the short term but in the long term, no. I don't think it works for me.

Because it's never enough. It doesn't change me fundamentally, which is, I guess, what I need to have happen. Yet some days it's okay. When I can just realize I'm an asshole and be okay with that. But some days it's not enough and the abandonment issues kick in. Or maybe it's just selfishness...

I don't know.

Fok Julle Naaiers

Monday: I feel like I need to write but I don't know what about. This is how I start. If I start from "I don't know" I can usually find a destination. I'm tired. I'm always tired. I will sleep 14 hours in a row if given the opportunity. And still be tired. It's my rock-n-roll lifestyle. Guh.

There's a tree in my living room. A god damn christmas tree. If I weren't so lazy I'd show you a picture of it. It's white. Sunday. I made a pot roast. POT ROAST. Goat cheese & sage mashed potatoes. And polenta. Allen made cookies.

I think we're going Kindle for xmas. Why not? Maybe it's the tv commercials that are pushing us that direction. Whatever, white people.

I've got stuff to think about. A lot of stuff. I tend not to think about anything and that could be dangerous for my future health. I already have a bad memory. Alzheimer's, here I come! The problem is, the stuff I need to think about isn't stuff I can write about here. It's "personal", it's "private". But it's the usual stuff: life, love, friendship.

I spend a shitastic amount of time on Tumblr these days, dodging the porn tumblrs I follow (ack! giant cock! ack! women showing off their assholes!), looking for images that inspire me. Maybe it's helping me develop... something. Interest in things? An artistic vision? No. It's mostly reminding me of what it felt like to be a teenager. But they are strangely fond feelings. Maybe because it was the last time I had my own personality. Or something.

I do love being overly dramatic.

Tuesday: Still tired. Twitter's giving me the whale and I've got something VERY IMPORTANT TO SAY!

Ok. I seem to have drowned myself in some gross Michael Kors parfum this morning. Free samps - you never know what you'll get.

This song is taking over my life! And the funny thing is, I find it kind of offensive (really, dropping "faggot" and repeating "I'll fuck you til you love me?" C'mon!) but I can't stop listening to it!


FOK JULLE NAAIERS from Die Antwoord on Vimeo.

Ohmygod! I was just making coffee in el jefe's office and nearly broke all the cups! That would have seriously made me feel like an asshole! Nothing broke. I may have chipped one of the cups, though. Shhh! Don't tell!

Folks are already posting their top 10 songs of 2011 on this blog. It was started at the end of last year by Justin so some sweet dudes could share some sweet music. I'm not even sure I've listened to anything new this year. I've totally fallen off when it comes to music. I think the "old" is setting in! Except for that monstrous song above... Naw, I've got something, enough to come up with 10 songs, anyway, but I think it may be a lot different than last year's mix. 

I've got some tumblring to catch up on!

It's After 2am on Monday, er, Tuesday

Thank god it's a holiday week, huh? Praise him with great praise. I tried to sleep but I was too cold and couldn't concentrate enough to fall asleep.

Ed (aka "El Jefe") has a one way ticket to Dallas tomorrow and Beth said she "might" be in late afternoon so I's gots nothin' to worry about workwise. Other than waking up in the morning.

I'm f'in tired but I just can't sleep. There's a lot going wrong right now. Things were going ok, even heading in the "right" direction a little while ago but now I'm slippin' slippin' into the same old patterns. Drinking too much. Smoking way too much. Getting fat again. I'm really starting to hate the holidays.

I feel like the happy pills aren't working as well as they were when I first started taking them. That's bumming me out. Really, I can't be expected to talk about things! Dear god.

Ok, that's twice that I've mentioned the big man and I don't mean Clarence Clemons. RIP.

I'm losing it.

OK. I admit it. I've been thinking about my dead father a lot recently and wondering about how I'm going to deal with my mother dying. It's a holiday thing. I always get like this at this time of year. Death. Yeah, I feel guilty about not seeing my mother but I don't know what the point is. I saw her, what?, 2 or was it 3 years ago? and she was so childlike and strange. She was like a "patient" and not like "my mother"... She's not there any more.

And I'm scared to death that I'll end up like her. Though I expect I'll be more like my father. Even though I know I'm a curious blend of the two. A creature made up of the weakest parts of both of them: a senile drunk.

It's that kind of cold, that wet cold, that gets deep into your bones. Because it's 44° (aka 7°) which isn't that cold, but it's that kind of cold.

And it's all about the holidays that I'm feeling blue. It's every year. Thanksgiving used to be my favourite holiday, now I can barely stand the thought of that 5-6 hour drive across the state, into Maryland and Delaware, where the "family" is. The family that isn't what it used to be. I look forward to seeing people in Philly, my real family, whether they know it or not, not the blood relatives or in-laws.

She was... and it's always her, never him, though he was always the "elephant in the room" so to speak... she was so... she persevered. She did what she thought was best. But what she thought was best was always way off the mark. Sadly, I think I respect my father more. I think I understood him more. And I talk about her as if she were already gone. But she is. She's this tiny creature with strangely beady eyes, like an animal. I think she always was. Always living like an animal... How can I say that? Because I observed it.

And my brother, saying "she stayed with him"?!?! Does he even have any idea? Yes, she did stay. But what she went through...

What she put us through...

She didn't know any better.

That's what hurts. SHE DIDN'T KNOW BETTER.

Yet she deserved better.

Always with the Tumblr!

I'm spending the morning following and reblogging 20 year-olds on Tumblr. Love it. I wish Tumblr had been around when I was 13 - 22. I guess it's fine since I still feel/act like I'm somewhere in that age category. Can you say emotionally stunted?

I still need to finish watching Paranormal Activity part deuce which I started watching yesterday but unfortunately I have to go out to lunch with my co-workers because one of them is having a 60th birthday. I can barely contain my joy. Two to three hours of hell awaits! (I love everyone.)

There's a baby in this one.

And it's not like I was asked if I wanted to go to this lunch, it was just like, "this is what we're doing" and how the hell do you get out of that? And of course I wouldn't do it if given a choice. Oh, and here's my favorite sentence from a review of the place we'll be eating at shortly: "The interior is as uninspired as the decor: imagine gynecological office with doilies." Yay! And clearly a man wrote that, "gynecological office"?

Ugh. Getting back into this is harder than I thought it would be... I made beef stew Sunday. With actual beef in it, first time ever. Needs more salt.

Ohmahgod. Students in teh hallway are talking about having an ugly sweater holiday party. What has the world come to? When that is an actual thing now that people actually do? Fie.

I am going through something rough, which I hinted at in the last post, which is kinda shutting me down and sending me into some weird survival, fight-or-flight, head space. Never get out of the boat, that's all I'm saying. Allen wants me to talk about it but I can't, I'm too distraught and ashamed. "You've been acting like this for days," he said last night. Oh, well. I've just got a lot on my mind. And the cramps aren't helping.

I should get back to tumblring...

Oh, Little Girl, Pick Up the Pieces...

You learn to live without...

I have only just begun to drink so this is going to get much more pathetic as the night goes on. This song is destroying me right now:

I always think, "this time it will be different". It's never different and it always hurts. I wouldn't let myself cry yesterday but things are different tonight. I didn't think there would be much to mourn considering the circumstances but that's exactly what I'm doing. I've reached the second stage of grief. Anger. Actually, I went there first because there's never any reason to deny what's happening when it happens and I'm always so quick to walk away. And it's not like anyone ever regrets that I do.

This wasn't supposed to be a pity party but I think that's what I need right now. He said, "don't take it all on yourself," but how can I not? I know how I am. But he's right and you can't control what other people think about you. You do your best and that's all you can do. So no matter how much you want something maybe the other person doesn't want it as much. And no one's to blame for that.

Thanksgiving

I'm in a fucking snit about Thanksgiving. I'm completely uninterested in participating because participating means cringing at very questionable beliefs about various races and sexual identities while all the time keeping my mouth shut and trying not to laugh outloud about my relatives love of the sweet baby Jesus. And last year, at my brother's house, Allen overheard something that at the time I blew off but which has since been really bothering me. It doesn't matter what it was, it was just completely outrageous.

And that's just my family. Without going into too much detail this is Allen's: Tension, Television, Abusive outbursts, Multiple poorly-trained large dogs, Depression. But things are probably different now since "Hoppy" had his stroke. But different how? It's the fear of the unknown that makes me want to cry at the very thought of going there.

I want to see Kenny and Chris so hopefully that will happen. Which reminds me, I need to see if we can get a room at the lovely Best Western across the street from the College. That was the best part of the trip last time, apart from going to Perkins in Newark for breakfast and seeing friends in Philly.

It's just a depressing fucking holiday. Almost as bad as Xmas. :-)

Jeez, I totally hit the Publish button when I meant to hit Preview.

Doesn't matter. But I had something else to say but I forgot what it was...

Oh. I'm going to get fucking whiskey drunk tonight. Cos I've had a rough week. :-( We'll see how that goes.

Check this out: http://www.well.com/~art/suicidenotes.html It's a pretty cool page of delicious suicide notes.