Baby, We're Bent Not Broken

I'm almost thirty minutes into the New Year. 2012.

I didn't think I'd make it this far.

I'm sitting in my best friend's apartment, The Boondock Saints on the television. I've been crying for ten minutes, at least.

Croc is coming back. This is a horrible idea for everyone involved, me, She Who Must Be Kept, Croc. He started to drive up here two days ago. SWMBK didn't tell me because she didn't want to upset me.

Oops. That worked well, huh?

When this was originally mentioned, he was supposed to stay two weeks. Now it will be longer than two weeks, but "hopefully" not longer than a month.

I told SWMBK that I am leaving.I cannot take living with him. I cannot. I don't have this kind of energy. I don't have it in me. I... I don't know what to do anymore.

Bubby and his fiancee had said I can live with them and pay a small rent fee. It is temporary. SWMBK promised. And she's paying my rent because she didn't think it was fair that she's bringing someone into my home that makes me so miserable. Miserable enough for me to leave.

"You don't have to go. I don't want you to go. Please try. Please try to live with him."

"Mom, every word out of his mouth is something negative and I don't need that."

"No no, I made him promise this time he'd be still!" You have to get him to promise to shut up. Yeah, he should sooo move in.

"No, that's not good enough. He has sooo many ideas about what I should do around the house, you know, in my abundance of free time because I don't work and go to school. But he never does anything. I'm fucking tired of coming home from standing on my feet for five hours, or sometimes for ten hours, and having him lay around on our couch. Why the hell is he so tired? What did he do all day?"

That was, of course, really unfair for me to say. Anyone can sleep whenever they want, really. Maybe he was tired because he is chronically ill. I don't know.

"I know, but it won't be like that this time."

"Yes, it will. He has problems everywhere he lives and he's sure it isn't him. Well, he's the common denominator! And it's all waaaah, my life is sad. Well, fuck, he needs to fix it and I don't want to hear about it."

"I just want you to try!"

"I tried it for six months."

"I knew you'd leave. I knew you were going to leave."

"Then why are you so surprised?"

"I just feel like you're abandoning me."

I don't want to leave. I don't. I want to stay there. My cats are there. My beloved BED is there. My sewing machine. My books. My mother. Everything. I want to stay there.

(How can I be leaving my cats? I am the worst Mommy ever.)

"I'm sorry. I'll pay the rent. I'm sorry. I'm the reason you're leaving."

The thing is, she SHOULD be able to have people move in if she wants. I'm the one with the problem. I should leave, I shouldn't make her change her life to suit me. We're both adults.

It's just...

I wanted her to pick me.

Just this one time.

Things I Don't Understand

I've noticed a new trend recently amongst my friends.

Blowing things off/flaking out.

Three times in three weeks it has happened to me, with one particular friend. On two occasions he was too tired to go out. I wasn't angry that he was tired. I was angry that once he never called to let me know what was going on.

The other occasion I hadn't invited him along. I had a game group with some other friends and he asked if he could come. I told him he'd have to ask the host of the game group, though I would like for him to come. So after asking, he decided about two minutes before I picked him up that he was too tired to go.

And I had to call him to figure that out! I HAD TO CALL TO FIGURE THAT OUT. I. HAD. TO. CALL. If someone is too tired to go somewhere, I think they know before two minutes before pick up. Like say, a half hour before.

Look, I don't deny that things come up. If someone got sick, that's fine. Please don't come along, rest and relax! If an emergency comes up, go and take care of it! Let me know what I can do to help you!

I don't think say, staying up all night to play DnD when you knew you had plans is an emergency. (This didn't happen to me, another friend.) I don't think that staying up to watch My Little Pony is an emergency. See what I mean here?

Am I weird? Is it common courtesy? What?

Surprisingly...

I've never gotten along too well with my father's mother. I don't fit her ideal of what a woman my age should be. My cousin does beauty pageants and is a cheerleader and gets decent grades.

I never did any of that stuff. I wrestled. I went to a charter school. I write novels. I play Dungeons and Dragons. I'm dorky and get good grades. She doesn't get it. And in a way, that's okay.

I usually HATE writing my Christmas list to her. She never gets me what I want. So the past couple years, I started being super general. I want pajamas, slippers, my favorite perfume, gloves, a scarf, and earmuffs.

Sometimes I want a generic black hoodie. Sometimes I want boots, but usually she'll just give me a gift card because she's worried about the pin in my foot and what I can wear.

This year, she bought me a FABULOUS fuzzy jammie set. WITH MATCHING SOCKS.

"Oh, I know you like pajamas. I wanted to get you the warmest, most comfortable pair I could find." Wow. Thanks! I said as soon as I come home from work I get dressed in pajamas. "You should. You're relaxing."

Also I'm a cold sleeper so these are awesome! AND THEY'RE RED. SHE REMEMBERED RED IS MY FAVORITE COLOR!!!

I opened my perfume. "I am so sorry! I forgot what kind you liked. I just knew it was purple and had to do with the moon or something." It was Twilight Woods. I like Moonlight Path, but this stuff smells close and I'm not bothered. Hell, she got me two bottles and two bottles of perfume!

"It's okay! I like this, too!"

"Well, you're allergic to stuff and if you can't wear it--."

"It'll be okay. Thank you!"

Then she was worried because my gloves didn't PERFECTLY match my earmuffs. They were pretty close, and I wasn't bothered! I thought they looked cuter that way. And the scarf she picked is beautiful.

And there's a problem with my financial aid right now. My grandmother whipped out an insurance policy she got on me when I was small and figured out how much I can borrow, and if all else fails, get on the payment plan, and then borrow against the policy. So I can finish.

And *this* was the biggest surprise.

"I've been talking to your dad. It really isn't fair that you're working and going to school and he's not helping." Well, it kind of is. I mean, I am an adult? I should have to do these things.
"So I told him he has to give you graduation money, because you really do need it. And you know what, if you need help paying for school, he's helping. I'll talk to him, because that's not fair. You're so close."

Well! Thanks Grandma!

Organically Expensively GOOD FOR YOU

I'm wondering how I really feel about this whole ORGANIC EVARYTHIIIIIIING movement that's going on.

I buy organic all natural bull shit for my skin. Why? Because my skin is a delicate fucking princess and can't stand a lot of stuff. I hate doing it most of the time, because shit's expensive. A bottle of facial cleanser cost me ten dollars. TEN DOLLARS! It wasn't a big bottle! I know a dab'll do ya, but good Lord.

I can't believe some of the prices they charge for organic stuff. I don't buy say, organic dish washing liquid (Dawn for me! From the discount store because it's like, two dollars cheaper there!) or laundry detergent (because vinegar and baking soda is cheaper and better for your machine/clothes). Most of the green/organic things I don't do because I'm a snob, I do it because I'm cheap.

I know someone who buys all the organic all natural stuff she can, because it's better for her and her daughter. That's awesome. I can't afford that. Why are the organic bananas a billion dollars more the regular, chemical laden bananas?

I've heard it has to do with production. They don't make as many bananas, so they have to charge more to make the same profit as the regular banana people. (Heh, regular. Like organic is abnormal!)

You know what though? I don't feel like most of the organic stuff works that much better than the regular stuff. I don't feel like organic fruit leather tastes different than the regular kind. I don't feel like organic bananas taste different. Organic meat tastes slightly different. Maybe I'm just uncultured, though.

Ho Ho Fucking Ho

I went Black Friday shopping. There were TONS of good deals, I saved LOADS of money, and I got all my shopping done. Or rather, that which wasn't being done via Internet is done.

I shopped for about fourteen hours. Two hours of that was a nap in the parking lot of Menard's. I begged for the nap, because we had been going since eight pm and I was exhausted.

I got three nose bleeds (I've been having nose bleeds lately. They're not terrible, just gross and irritating, especially in dance class). I almost fainted in Wal Mart. When I was done, lugging my bags into my house, all I could think was; "Everyone better fucking love me this year."

It was nice to be able to buy people nice things that I thought they'd really like. And don't get me wrong, there are some things that I bought for myself. I found Jackass 3 for ten dollars, and I got that. I found a twenty dollar beanie hat for five dollars, and I bought it. Ten dollar blanket for six dollars became mine, along with an extra firm side sleeper pillow. I hate sleeping with pillows because I'm a picky bitch, but this one seems decent.

I also got a brush for dry brushing and some hoity toity hypo allergenic all natural facial cleanser. I almost had a heart attack, I usually get my cosmetics for less than five dollars. Yay chemicals!

Anyhow, here are things I thought about while doing my stint in Consumerism Hell.

1. I hate buying presents for couples. They usually get you ONE present, and you either have to get them one really nice present, or two presents. No! There are TWO of you and ONE of me! I think we all should all get one decent present if we're even doing presents!

2. Godfuckingdammit, why is that people over thirty forget to stand in line? Suddenly there are people cutting and line jumping and arguing and pinning me into a six inch space with their carts because they REALLY wanna check out. Hi, I know kindergartners that know how to stand in line. Maybe we can have them come and give the rest of us a lesson! Likewise, sighing and tossing your hair and whining won't make the line go faster. Yes, it's a two hour line. Yes, it sucks. Yes, you want to go home. I do too!

3. Little kids have way more stamina than me. They can go all night and still be bouncing off the walls! I wish I had that energy still.

4. When you're desperate, anything is suddenly a good present.

5. When you come home sleep deprived and come home, suddenly you will realize that you have to store all this crap in your home until Christmas. December first is suddenly an amazing time to give presents!

6. Also you'll forget what you bought who.

7. Also, when finished shopping, you'll want a taco. And Taco Bell won't be open, which is why you'll take a nap at Menard's.

No Meijer, Five Dollars Won't Buy My Silence.

I bought an external hard drive last month. I had to send in my laptop to Toshiba to get a new battery. I bought the hard drive to back things up. And luck of luck! Meijer had a 2 TB! FOR EIGHTY DOLLARS!

You better believe I snatched the thing up. I got the last one! I bought the extended warranty because, well, why not, right? It can't hurt!

My hard drive, after a month of use, died. Would turn on, but not spin or actually do things a hard drive does. Gross, right?

Well thank God for that warranty! Because Western Digital, the company that made the product, couldn't replace it. They said Meijer could. Hooray!

Only Meijer said WD had to replace it. Well no, actually. You do. We were going to do an even exchange, only--my product doesn't exist anymore. Discontinued. Which was why it was on super sale to begin with, I suppose. If I'd known, I wouldn't have bought it, or I certainly wouldn't have bothered with a warranty. Strangely enough, there was still a sale tag and a place for it on the shelf...

A month later. We pointed out the tag was there. "Well sometimes they get busy." A month later? You're that busy?

The girl at the courtesy desk shrugged and said she'd refund us for the old HDD, but we'd have to cover the fifty three dollar increase in the new one. It's the same product, only with USB 3.0... But--my warranty? Oh well, that's actually not really theirs, you see. It's from a third party company. And well, they might send me a check or a gift card, but no, they wouldn't really replace my item.

So what was my warranty for? I mean, I was told when I purchased it, it would serve to replace my item. Only not? I guess? I'm confused.

I got the manager, who said he'd give the item at cost. Okay, cool? Oh but I'd have to REPURCHASE my warranty. Seriously. What? I did for reasons I can't understand, because it didn't help in the end. I had to pay forty dollars over my original price.

The manager scurried away after this while the girl at the counter haughtily told us they didn't HAVE to do this, so we should be happy. I'm happy I have to pay forty dollars more?

So, for whatever reason, I sought out more shopping. There were things on clearance that I thought might make good presents for several little kids I know. The items were on fifty five percent clearance, so of COURSE they were cheaper.

...And then they scanned incorrectly at the U-Scan. We went BACK to the service desk. We'd run into the manager again, and my mother made a comment to him about how old this was, and how we really didn't have much incentive to come back to the store. We were also told by the girl at the counter that we had run the U-Scan incorrectly. Oh, okay. Actually, one of the items refused to scan at all, so we had to get someone. The tags were bad. We mentioned that, and the girl goes; "Oh yeah, that happens. But you have to remember to scan the new tags." "...We did?" "Oh, then I don't know how that would happen."

Well, I don't either. I don't work here. But don't blame your tags being strange on me.

The manager sent a five dollar gift card to us via another employee who had nothing to do with it. I felt bad for the poor girl, because I was actually enraged. What are you doing, buying my silence? It didn't work, Meijer!

I sent in a complaint. Ugh. I know where I won't be doing any more of my shopping. I'd rather drive out to Wal-Mart across town than go there again. At least Wal-Mart tries to be helpful.

Hands Off My 'Za

My college is doing some renovations. Because the dining room is in the same building as the bookstore, which is being renovated, there's a lot of noise in the dining room, and it makes it hard to do our Between Class activities.

Some people play that game Magic, or watch something on a laptop, or wonder of wonders, study. Our college has break out rooms, small rooms (with dry erase boards for walls!) with table, chairs, and a television. They're for studying.

Since the renovations, my group of misfits has been checking out a break out room for a chunk of the day.

I want to pull my hair out.

I'm not proud of this next part of the story...

One kid that hangs out went to high school with me. He has Asperger's Syndrome. The real kind, not the Internet jerk kind. He is difficult to be around. I'm more used to it and have learned to ignore a bunch of stuff. And, I don't play Magic. He does, and according to the kids that do, he is almost impossible to play with and drives them crazy.

I can't attest to that part of the story.

One day, we had a breakout room, and the kid came knocking. I didn't have the room in my name, so I couldn't say who could not come in. Rosie had the room in her name and decided that he couldn't come in. But she didn't open the door to tell him that. Instead, we all ignored him until he left.

I feel like shit that I did that. There's no reason I couldn't have opened the door and said; "Look dude, we're full (which was true, there were already five of us in the room, and these are small rooms) we're not playing Magic (there was no room to, apparently. Again, don't play so I don't know), and there isn't room for you to set up your laptop." (That was true, too. He wants to use a table, and the table space was taken. The general rule in our group is first come, first claim. No one is going to move--unless they're in class--for you to set up camp.)

I didn't do any of those things. I let him feel like a fool. And I feel terrible about it. Ugh. I understand that it's hard for people to deal with people like that. I need to figure out something else to do.

But also, one day, I decided to order some pizza. I wanted some, and getting lunch made is now a pain in the ass, so why not, right? Mistah Jay decided he'd order two pizzas too. So now there are four pizzas being ordered.

One kid's friend and girlfriend (note: this girl? She sat NEAR us all semester and never spoke to us. We have tried speaking to her, but she steadfastly ignored us. I don't know if she's shy or what, but it was really off putting) asked if they could "Wait for Reptar--someone we actually know-- in here".

Before I could say anything, they were allowed in. So now I'd have to have three extra people eating the food I'd bought. Two of these kids I didn't even know. That irked me, because you can't just eat in front of other people, especially when there's an abundance of food!

And this chick was pretty rude, too. She got snippy because Mistah Jay lent me fifty cents, and snapped that he bought pizza, so he shouldn't give me ANYTHING. I said that I had also bought pizza, and Mistah Jay blinked and said he always gave me quarters.

And it's true, throughout the day he usually gives me a dollar or two for a drink or to get some fries or candy or whatever. I rarely ask, he usually just gives it to me and tells me to get whatever I'd like. It's lovely of him, and I always say thank you.

so this chick rolled her eyes and said she wished she had someone to give HER money. I wondered where Reptar was to give her some money, but kept mum.

Anyway, the pizza arrived, and I put down my two and said those were the only two we were opening. She glared at me.

"Mistah Jay said we could eat his."
"He asked me to save his when he was on his way to the comic book store."
"No! He said two pieces! So we can eat it."
"We are NOT eating his food unless HE is here."

So she sulked. Reptar arrived and began to dig into the food. Without saying thank you. Or hello, actually. He just started shoveling food in his mouth. And his girl who KNEW I bought the pizza refused to thank me, and waited until my back was turned to take some.

I'm pretty irritated about it. I shouldn't be. I told everyone flatly that was the last time I bought food for other people. I did get plenty of thank yous, but I don't like being treated rudely when I spend a lot of money on food for people I don't even know. Who then think they're above thanking me.

Also, I am mad at Rosie for telling everyone who walked in that I bought lunch and they could help themselves. Thanks for giving away my food!

Things I've Learned At Work

I work at a fast food joint now. Although I suppose "fast" is sort of stretching it. We're not as fast as McDonald's. I don't know if this is because we're less streamlined or what.

Anyway, my place of employment is a "Southern" style place. Let's say--Virginia Prepared Poultry? VPP?

I've been working there for--mmm, about twoish months. Here are the things I have learned.

-The moment you run out of something, everyone will come in and want it.

-You WILL run out of the most ordered item on the busiest night of the week. For us, it's usually biscuits. I don't know how we run out of them, we're constantly putting them in the poorly cleaned, too hot ovens that spew black smoke the moment they open. But we're always out of them.

-People will come in and stare blankly at the menu for five minutes. We have one thing; poultry. And only one kind at that! True, we have three different recipes, but you had to have some idea of what you wanted.

-The church crowd comes in, and they are blood thirsty and will trash the spotless lobby in thirteen seconds. And I guess because they're all holy and Jesus-y they don't believe they should have to do things like--bus their trays. I've found trays on the floor, under tables, still on tables, and on the ledges we have with the random cutouts/pillar things in our restaurant. If you can't carry a tray, that's cool, one of us will help you.

-The day that two people call off will be the day that it is busy. Especially a Monday afternoon in the middle of the month that's never busy. But it will be now!

-Elderly people are very upset we don't put things on plates anymore. They use their coupons and give me a dirty look when their food comes in a box and not on a plate.
"I need a plate."
"Sure!"
"Why don't you give me a plate to begin with?"
"We don't put things on plates anymore, you have to ask, I'm sorry."
"Why?!?"
"I don't know, that's the way we're told to do things."
"Well that is foolish!"
"I'm sorry, here's your plate."
"I shouldn't have to ask! No one can eat out of a box!"
Strips, legs, and wings can be eaten out of a box. Breasts and thighs cannot, I agree. But I can't give everyone a plate because I'll get in trouble. You have to ask, and then you can have it. Okay?

-People who try to clean up their messes are sweethearts. People who just leave the place looking like a tornado vomited up mac and cheese are awful. If I see someone trying to scrub their table, I will stop them and say not to worry about it. I have better tools. I have seen people come in with seven kids, and leave the place an astounding mess. Like, their kids just threw chunks of chicken everywhere, and they left like it was okay. I couldn't believe it. I have zero problem cleaning the crumbs on the floor or wiping down tables (again, that's my job), that doesn't mean go bananas. And if you spill something, don't be afraid to tell me! I'll get a mop and clean it, no harm done. No one's mad, no one here is Joan Crawford.

-The stuff on the top shelf is always the stuff my manager wants me to get down. And then she acts surprised when she sees me getting down a step stool. Well hey, I have the tools to get the items so I'm totally cool doing it, I just need a moment to do it. I'm five foot three. That box full of chicken buckets is a foot above my head, at least. I can touch the corner on tip toe. I'm not going to bounce up and get it, that would be bad for me, because the box would land on my head.

-Everyone is afraid of the walk in freezer. I like it, it is WAY cooler and quiet and no one bothers you. You can't get locked in, and even if you did, someone would come looking for you in a few minutes. Maybe they think it's haunted and no one wants to tell me?

-People are gross in bathrooms. The toilets do flush! You can flush them! No one will be mad!

-The first of the month is always super busy. I guess this is because people have money to spend then, or something. But we all go in knowing we're going to be slammed. It's so weird, because one second it'll be a ghost town, and then the next second you've got a line twelve deep and a bunch of orders on the screen and are going nuts packing/calling back.

-We got rid of lettuce for our sandwiches. Mmm, carbs.

-The average customer only comes in to VPP once every four months. According to my manager, this is because 1. we're pretty pricey fast food. 2. we have one thing. Really. One thing. 3. we don't have a lot of lunchy stuff. We have our popcorn meals and four types of sandwiches. But that's about it, and I'm not sure two of our sandwiches are really--lunchy.

-It's surprisingly easy to tell if a customer is fibbing to get free stuff, and it makes me sad. :(

When You're Done With Being Beautiful And Young

I always told myself I'd never be one of "those" adults.

You know. The ones who are all "You're too young to understand." and "You'll see when you're older." and "You're not supposed to get it, because you haven't lived enough."

I always hated that.

Know why?

I know seventeen year olds that have lived more than twenty five year olds, and I know twenty five year olds that are less ignorant than fifty year olds. I guess what I'm really trying to say is that age is a number, and you cannot (or should not) decide what a person does and does not know based solely on their age.

You COULD make sweeping generalizations, it is only that they are so often flawed that makes them bad.

There is a certain coworker of mine. She's a lovely girl, truly. It is only when things get busy that she just gets nasty towards the rest of us, particularly whoever is packing orders for her. And she turns on attitude towards the customers.

I can't say I blame her. When we're busy, we're busy, and it makes everyone on edge.

For the longest time, I wondered what her deal was. Then I realized that she just turned seventeen. Like, literally yesterday. It hit me "OH! OF COURSE! BECAUSE SHE'S SO YOUNG!"

And then I wanted to kick myself in the damn teeth.

Maybe it is because she's young. Maybe that's just the way she is and always will be. My point is, I don't like that I jumped to her age to say that. I don't like when people say I think or feel or act a certain way because I'm twenty one. Why should I do it anyone else?

Never Fail Like Common People

Today in my English class, we were talking about Bakhtin and how he saw writing. There's one level of a story which was for the "common people". Then there was another level, a level of the story that was full of symbolism all the real meaning of the story.

My instructor was telling us about this because she wanted to discuss what literacy is. Sylvia Scribner wrote an essay and said that literacy is three things; literacy is adaptation, literacy is power, and literacy is a state of grace.

My instructor was really hung up on this whole literacy as power thing. Now, of course, I can agree with that to a point. When you are literate (and I don't just mean reading here, I mean communicating with your society as a whole) you do get power. But I don't think that's all literacy is.

We discussed how, in the past, literacy was held away from certain people. Women, African Americans, Irish, the poor, anyone who wasn't deemed fit somehow. It goes back to that Descarte line "I think, therefore I am." From what my instructor said, illiterate people did not think like the literate, and therefore they were not human.

I've never really linked literacy to humanity. You don't have to be literate in the strictest sense of the word to be human. Of course not! That's obtuse. But apparently people thought this way. Probably because of the time period I'm from, I can't really imagine anyone REALLY being illiterate.

In this day in age, it seems to me that most people have some base of education. Naturally, there are a shit ton of people who don't go to college, but that doesn't make them uneducated, I don't think. Likewise, I know people who go to college and they still aren't educated.

I'm rambling.

By stripping people of their humanity, we are denying them the world. I can agree with that. However, my instructor talked about oral tradition. They seem to hold the statement that "I am because WE are." There is no denial of humanity there.

Perhaps because I am from an individualistic society/culture, I don't understand holding my whole existence on other people acknowledging that I am here. Perhaps because I'm so used to finding my voice and screaming out loud to get noticed, I don't think I could hang my existence on that acknowledgement. I don't know if I could find that fulfilling.

Also, my instructor was talking about how everyone has the right to literacy. Naturally, of they do. Books are not written for a special elite, to educate a group that is already educated.

...Are they?

I write. (Hurr durr.) When I write, I have an audience in mind, I suppose. I don't try and make sure everyone who picks up my "novel" (read: heap of word soup) will understand it. I don't know why I do that. Maybe I always felt like it was patronizing when authors did that?


Is it my responsibility as a writer, to write books that any and all can understand? Or is it the responsibility of the reader to research and figure out what they can't understand?

Toni Morrison wrote Beloved, a prize winning novel. It's very, very post modern and hard to follow if you don't really understand post modernism. And yet, she won all those awards.

I don't know.

Every Time You Point Your Finger, Three More Point Right Back At You

When I was young, She Who Must Be Kept had a best friend with two step kids and two children she had birthed. Her daughter was significantly older than me (and particularly bossy, so I didn't care for her at all), and her son was right around Big Brother's age, so they were about two years older than me.

As you can imagine, I really hated going over to this friend's house, because there was never anything for me to do. Big Brother and the son would run off to do secret boy things that I wasn't allowed to participate in, and the daughter would never let me color with markers--even when I was allowed to according to She Who Must Be Kept, or wouldn't let me drink my juice box, or pick a tape for the VCR or anything. She was pretty much a bitch, actually. I never did get around to liking her.

So, usually, I ended up hanging around in the kitchen where SWMBK and her friend would park themselves at Carrie's table. They'd sip on cups of coffee while I hid against the counter and tried to be inconspicuous. If I was found out, I was always told to "go play", which meant whining after my brother until he got screamed at to let me play.

Carrie and SWMBK typically complained. About their jobs, husbands, and most of all--their children.

It seemed like they saved up every naughty thing we had ever done and complained about it.

"And THEN he got an F! Can you believe that?"
"He got detention for throwing a spit ball."
"She broke curfew by thirty minutes. I was worried sick!"
"She wandered away from me in the store *again*. I'm so tired of it!"

I hated it. Hated hated hated it. Because Carrie hadn't been there, and Carrie didn't get my side of the story. Even at seven, I knew this wasn't fair. Once I burst out in tears as my mother started in.

"Do you know what Tai did earlier this week? It's terrible, she---."

"Stop it!" I cried. SWMBK turned to stare at me. "Don't tell that story! It's about me."

"I can tell whatever story about you I'd like. I'm your mother and you just have to deal with it. If you don't want me to repeat things that you've done, you'd better not do them."

I sobbed like I had a broken heart. I did, and still do, thing SWMBK was cruel to word it that way. Carrie told her off and said I was right, and if a story upset me, it shouldn't be repeated.

But it's led me to thinking, ten or so years later. What if I'm repeating stories that SWMBK wouldn't like? Do I have to ask her permission to have a blog on the Internetz? Does it even matter? All these strangers read it, but *they don't know who I am*. Does that make it better or worse?

The One I Can't Replace-Ode to a Big Brother

"Taima is headstrong, and loyal to a fault."

These were the words spoken about me at my high school graduation. The instructor giving the speech about all ten of us made it seem like a good quality. Something everyone should aspire to.

I barely heard the words that were said that night. I barely remember the words that I spoke myself when I gave my own speech a few minutes later. I have told everyone since that this is because I was hopped up on codeine for the sprained ankle that just wouldn't heal.

It's true that I was high that night.

I was high on my own adrenaline of accomplishment. I, for one in our lives, had something that you didn't. I had gotten to something *first*.

But more importantly, you were there. Getting you to see me walk the stage had been a fight. She Who Must Be Kept wasn't going to make you do it. You had claimed that all I was doing was rubbing in your face that I had graduated and you didn't. And she, like always, bought it hook line and sinker. I raised complaint to the therapist, and you were made to go.

For once in my life, you weren't allowed to ruin my day.

"Taima is headstrong, and loyal to a fault."

The day you left was the only time in my whole life that I can remember you telling me you loved me.

I don't know if you love me always, or in that moment you loved me. Loved me because I sounded so lost and pitiful, telling you that you didn't have to go, and I would talk to our mother, and I would make it okay, you could stay!

"Take care of Mom for me. I love you."

Perhaps that day you loved me because when Croc tried to pull his shit, like he always does, I ripped into him. I had Had Enough, and when I have Enough, things start happening. You might have loved me because I was defending you, and you've never felt that anyone in the world has done that before. But there's a lot that you were so blind and deaf to. Everyone was fighting for you... You were just fighting yourself.

I've always been more patient than you. This is probably because I grew up as your little sister. While I sat and waited for people to love me, for people to be able to give me what I needed, you demanded it. I fell into relationships, holding my arms out and trusting that someone or something would be there to catch me when I hit the bottom.

You launched into relationships, clawing and ripping the other person, desperate to hurt them before they hurt you. Eager to establish that status quo, because you knew what it meant to be hurt and you were tired of me.

I... I knew what it was to be hurt too, but I managed to climb up from the dirt when no one caught me. You sought revenge, while I sought to protect people from all the things that had happened to me. I didn't know that this made me more vulnerable, in the end. I've learned my lesson now, learned it through hands on my throat and the way that I cried in the shower, alone and empty, because no one wanted to hear it.

But in the end, I was able to protect and save myself when there was no one to do it.

There should have been someone there to do it. But you demanded everything our mother had. You sucked her dry. She and I have had discussions... Discussions about why she focused so much on you, chose to save you in all the ways that she couldn't save me.

There was only so much to her. And you took everything, while I survived on guilt and empty promises.

We've discussed why she let you beat the shit out of me. For years. Why she let you degrade, belitte, and ABUSE me. For years. You were, and still are, an abusive person. I can't say that I blame you. I can say that I didn't deserve what happened to me.

Nothing you did was okay. There is about a decade of my life that is just Not Okay. And never will be. It's taken me a lot of therapy to come to that conclusion. I am not a bad person.

I am not ugly. I am not worthless. I am not unlovable.I am not stupid. I am not any of the things that you said I was. I suspect you said these things to me because you felt them about yourself, and if it was true about me, it couldn't be true about you, because we were just so opposite.

You struggled to survive the most basic things in life, for reasons I will never understand. You had the tools. You knew what you had to do. I guess you were just waiting for someone to come and save you from yourself.

And more painful than that, you watched me soar. You watched me graduate, get friends, relationships. You watched me have a very strong relationship with our mother, based on trust and honesty and forgiveness. You watched me get into college and soar there, too. You watched me be such a loved person, even though you tried to pull me down, and make me miserable with you.

I don't apologize for that.

I have every reason to hate you. And yet, I don't.

"Taima is headstrong, and loyal to a fault."

In this month or so since you've run off, I've spoken to you more than in the past two years of living with you. You and I have our own language, our own inside jokes. We have the things that strike us and no one else has funny. We have Queen and Iron Maiden.

We have a love of World War Two. Although while you are scouring maps and battle plans, I am reading the accounts of the death camps, and the ways that this changed humanity. We love brown soda, although you like Pepsi and I adore Coke.

We lived through the same bullshit. We lived with the same alcoholic father, the same neglectful, unstable mother. You were the only one who validates me. I could always look at you and know that the screaming fights and broken glass were real. I didn't make them up in my head.

We survived. We both bare the scars, although in very different ways. You are cruel and callous to all but a very--VERY few. I am kind and loving, neurotic about those that I care about, desperate for approval and adoration.

"Taima is headstrong, and loyal to a fault."

You still call me "baby sister".

I still call you "big brother".

When you left that day, when you told me you loved me... Who were you seeing in your head? Were you seeing the six year old, trailing after you with skinned knees and tangled hair, clutching her Pooh Bear?

Were you seeing the thirteen year old, in long black skirts and too much lipstick, scowling at you and pretending she knew better?

Were you seeing the the twenty one year old woman, in high heels and tight dresses, with short hair and clear eyes, carrying her textbooks?

In your head, just who am I?

I know for me... You're the one I can't replace.

"Taima is headstrong, and loyal to a fault."

I know where my loyalties lie.

A Letter to Nintendo

Dear Nintendo,

Recently, I acquired a Nintendo Wii, the system I have been coveting for more than a year. I am a casual gamer at best, and this system seemed to be marketed specifically to my group.

I was elated when I got a copy of Mario Kart Wii as well. Surely this game--THIS GAME would be well and good for me to play. After all, I had played on a friend's Gamecube and had not suffered an aneurysm, nor had I thrown a controller through a window or anything of the sort.

Last night devolved into screaming hysterics from me. After half a dose of my mother's Valium and repeated watchings of The Boondock Saints to settle my nerves, I find myself here on my laptop, writing you this letter. I thought you would like to know about my concerns as a loyal consumer.

1. Why are there blue shells? Why? These are redundant given every other obstacle from hell you put in those magical question boxes.

2. Why are the aforementioned blue shells used more than once in a race? Why is a squid used more than once in a race? I find myself frustrated when I get slammed with a Pow, a shell, and a squid all at once. This is insanity. As a gamer, I anticipate and appreciate a certain level of insanity, but this is on par with Hannibal Lecter. (I do suspect you enjoy Chianti.)

3. I strongly dislike the steering wheel attachment/headache/device from Hell. You cannot properly twist and turn, and instead end up writhing in your seat, much like an epileptic seal.

4. Rainbow Road is the rectum of Satan himself. I know you have painted it so it looks lovely--but no. I am not okay with the fact that if you sneeze, run over an ant, or slightly turn, you fall off the edge. And the fact that you see your character bursting into flames will forever haunt my dreams.

In short, this game could turn me off gaming forever. I find myself thinking day and night of Mario Kart and how I might possibly beat it. I know this is your intent, but it is becoming a sick obsession. My therapist's child is now able to go to Harvard because of me and this game.

Yours Truly,

Taima

My Lack Of Posting

School let out on April 29th.

I was on the bus to Ohio on May 2nd.

I was on the bus back to Michigan on June 1st.

So that's where I've been for about a month now. My best friend needed help packing up and moving, and my trip to see her was *so* short over Christmas, we were due for a long visit. It was so nice to see her. I miss her so much when I don't get to see her.

We're getting older now. I used to go down twice a summer. This summer I *have* to get a job since She Who Must Be Kept has made it clear she wants to shut up our house and move down to New Orleans with Croc. I think it's a terrible idea, and I told her why. She agreed, but stated she was going to do it anyway. I'm getting ready to move out this winter anyway.

I'm not a little kid anymore, and I just can't just shirk my responsibilities to go do something more fun, as much as I'd like to. I have to be a grown up and do grown up things. I don't always like it.

Writing Prompt 25: A Time When You Felt Alone

The year I was sixteen was tumultuous, to say the least.

Perhaps the worst part of that year was the summertime. I was getting ready to start my senior year in high school. I remember going out every Friday night to a cafe that is no longer open, going with my friends and sitting outside in the parking lot, in various circles talking about things I didn't know much about.

I remember She Who Must Be Kept crossing the brink into some place of madness. Her mother had just passed away. SWMBK kept it together for about two months. Then one day she sat in work and began to cry until they sent her home.

I don't know how she made it home from work. Anyway she came home and laid on the couch and didn't get up for days. She was sleeping, I think. But she'd cry and vomit in her sleep. For three days, I didn't sleep because I was watching her.

My Bubby said I needed to call an adult. I don't think he realized I didn't have any other adults. My only adult looked like she was dying. When she was finally able to sit up, I handed her the keys and said we were going to the hospital.

I sat in the room with her while they put the yellow wristband around her. I was there when she began crying when the emergency therapist came in and told me quietly I could leave. She knew that I was tired, new I was close to becoming neurotic myself.

I was sitting in the waiting room of my town's hospital. We had just gotten this new fancy ER in, I remember. In the midsummer heat, my thighs stuck to the chair. I tried to call my Bubby and another friend of mine, but there was no answer.

I sat alone, in the ER.

I sat alone.

Quote

Whatever they grow up to be, they are still our children, and one of the most unconditional things we can give them is unconditional love. Not a love that depends on anything at all except that they are our children.

-Rosaleen Dickson

Pretty much this.

I Know That I've Let You Down

Dear She Who Must Be Kept,

I have, to the best of my ability, tried to keep the peace around here. After our last discussion about how I hurt you and make you feel like a failure, I have done my best to be better. I wasn't sure how, as you can never give me a clear answer about what I do wrong, but I tried.

Which is more than I can say for you.

For four years I begged for help to get a room. You resisted and refused and threw a fit. For about three days my bed sat in my room untouched because you refused to ask Croc to put it together, even though he was the only one who could. Because for you, it was better for me to lay sleepless on the couch while you and Croc caroused on school nights until four in the morning.

But I am the one who hurts you.

After this last fight where you couldn't give me a clear answer about what I do wrong... After you couldn't even give me a clear answer about what I could do DIFFERENTLY to make you happy...

I'm more or less done.

I cried a lot. I cried for probably three straight hours. I woke up twice in the middle of the night and cried. I cried for my own confusion, my pain, my sense of abandonment; which is nothing new coming from you. You've always been obsessed with making sure that when I was gone, you had someone else to catch you when you fell.

But I'm done crying. I am. Know why?

You. Are not. Worth it.

You have shown me numerous times that I'm not worth your time--your love--you are, by that token, not worth my tears.

And it kills me to say things like that. I'm sure if you knew you'd fly into another rage that you're so famous for anymore. Good job icing me out, by the way! I love that you only do that when Croc is around, too.

You must think I'm stupid. Please. You raised me better than that.

Also, clinginess will drive your friends away faster than the supposed crimes your 21 year old has committed. Just--just saying.

I get that the way you treat me is nothing personal. OlderBrother refuses to listen to a word you say. You can't change your job. You've got yourself in a pit you can't get yourself out of. I get that screaming at me is all you think you can do. I'm the only one that listens.

Just remember I'm the only fucking thing you've got. And you're driving me away. I don't see how you think this is going to make you a winner in the end.

And to say I don't appreciate you? That I've never told you that? You can just piss right off, you martyr. That is such bullshit and we both know it. I'll just remind you of that damn diamond ring I got you. Oh and the notes I leave you for on the TV telling you how sorry I am you work so hard and how glad I am to have you? That's... What?

I can't wait to leave. And you're going to cry when I'm gone because you already do. I don't know what you're mad about, but I just can't fix it. YOU fix it, YOU fix YOU. That's what you've always told me.

And that mysterious thing you claim has been making me depressed since October? You're the only one who sees it. The quotes I've gotten; "You're only depressed when your Mom gets after you."


...Yeah.

I think you're projecting.

So, just remember that I love you. I love you so much. You just can't seem to appreciate it.

-Taima

I Never Want To Stop Screaming

It's been about a year now.

A year since the life that was inside of me failed to blossom, and left me empty. It's been about a year since I sat with my head in Mistah Jay's lap, his fingers in my hair, feeling her slipping out of me.

It's been about a year since I failed at the one thing I was built to do.

Does it look up from here? Do I stop missing her so badly now? Now that I've crossed this line and I realized that I'm bent not broken... Do I stop feeling like I've done so very many things wrong? Do I stop thinking that my life would be better without her?

A part of me never wants to stop missing her. A part of me never wants to stop the scream I started when I realized how badly it hurt. A part of me never wants to stop the scream I started when I knew that I had lost something so precious... Something I could never even hope to replace.

I should let her rest in peace. I should let go of these things, let go of my own misery and then begin to understand that I can still carry on. I am still a human, and I am still worthy.

I'm still worth---.

It hit me like a ton of bricks today, what exactly this meant. It hit me, and left me breathless. This sense of loss has been haunting me. I can't believe how much I miss someone that I never even laid eyes on.

Mistah Jay smiled at me today. Jokes around with me. Lets me sit next to him and presses his body against mine. I don't think either of us are at a place where we can twine our fingers together and find peace.

Someday we will. I have hope. We'll be there soon.

This all has to go one step at a time. I've never been patient. I always want to take off at a run and get wherever it is I'm going. Only right now, I don't know where that is.

Mommy loves you, Vivian.

I'll never stop screaming.

I Won't Say Anything At All

I am flawed in the sense that I have learned very early on when to keep my mouth shut. Alco-Pop always taught me that if I didn't want to get hit, I shouldn't say anything at all.

There are some people, my Bubby's fiancee, Belinda, that I just don't say things to anymore. She consistently says things that are cruel and hurtful, disguising them as jokes.

In the past, I have called her out on nasty things she has said to me. Like in high school, when I once told her that if she didn't like the way I ran my life, feel free to take yourself out of it. Like the whole Halloween incident I previously blogged about. In the end, I don't really bring things up to her, because she doesn't listen.

Instead of taking what you say as something like you trying to help her, or just make her aware of something she does hurting you, she tries to pick your feelings apart. She tries to make you "aware" that she was "making a joke" so you don't need to feel "hurt".

And I can't take it anymore. So when she says something to hurt me, and she isn't ignorant, she knows when jokes she makes are going to hurt you, I ignore it. I shut my mouth. I don't say anything at all. I don't see the point in wasting my breath.

It all comes down to wasted breath. She exhausts me. She emotionally drains me. The only reason I still come around is that Bubby is so very dear to me. Bubby is one of maybe three people in the world (the other two being Mistah Jay and my Charliam) that know how to settle me down. And know when to let me cry. I have held my tongue about their relationship, even though I don't think it is right for either one of them.

I won't waste my breath.

So tonight, she started in on me again. Being hurtful. Calling me hurtful names. And I was upset, visibly, and then she instantly said I was IMing about her or blogging about her. And I wasn't, I was role playing (a guilty pleasure of mine) with my friend Daisy.

Belinda started in demanding to know what I was RPing about, and I refused to tell her. Because every time she finds out about something I like, she goes out of her way to make fun of it if she doesn't understand it. And there are few things I really like that she does, mainly because I have some out there tastes. Just like she hates on my love interests, Mistah Jay included. Just like she hates on She Who Must Be Kept. Or even my other friends.

Tonight she tried to deny nasty things she had said to me. About the things I like... About crocheting... She got defensive. In her mind, Belinda is never wrong. And that's why I don't bother to try and talk about it. I ended the conversation because I have better things to do than bang my head against a brick wall.

She later came to me crying, Belinda did. Crying about how I'm one of her best friends and she loves me and and and and and. I just looked at her coldly. I'm not--not up for that anymore It felt like hot air. We've had this conversation before. We've done this all many times. She always says she won't do it anymore; and she does. I know why she makes these jokes. She makes them to feel better about herself. Putting other people down makes her feel better.

Awesome. Good for her!

I just don't want to deal with it anymore.

She makes me tired.

I Hope You Enjoy The Six Bucks

Dear Person Who Has My Wallet,

Perhaps you were very hungry and thought that there was something of value in my wallet, like a credit or debit card. There was not. Perhaps you thought there was an abundance of cash. There was not. Perhaps you thought there was something that you enable you to tap into my identity. There was not.

I am not sure the means to which you acquired my beloved wallet. It was brand new, you know, just purchased this weekend. I am a Batman fangirl and I have never before seen a wallet with the Batman symbol on it that was intended for girls. Anyway, I am pretty certain my wallet was in my purse or otherwise on my person. I am not sure how you got it.

I could have dropped. I do drop things. I doubt I did. Even if I did, the point is that you are now in possession of my wallet and have not given it back. Why? Why have you not given it back? Are you GoogleMap searching my home? Are you planning to sacrifice my wallet to some dark god?

I hope not, because that's mojo that I don't need.

There was nothing in my wallet that was of value. There was six dollars for my dinner, and you can keep that if you return the wallet. There were two cards; one from Magic the Gathering and the other was a Pokemon card. You may not keep these. They are not worth money. They only have worth to me. Give them back.

As for my IDs, well, you are clearly not me. So why would you be able to use them? Yes, I am twenty one, so you could try to buy liquor, but--well, you're not me and I doubt you look like a short white girl with dirty glasses and frizzy hair and a smirk too smug for her own good.

Then there is my insurance card. I suppose you could use them in conjunction with my ID to get some kind of medical care. But you do not know my social security number, date of birth, known allergies... You're going to have a hard time pulling that one off.

In conclusion, please return my wallet. I miss it.

-love

Taima

Bubbles Pop

Her best feature was her giggle.

I don't mean her laugh. When she laughed, it was beautiful for sure. I did love it when she laughed. I loved the way it rose from the bottom of her throat, the way her head fell back, the way her laugh seemed to echo inside of her mouth before emerging like the first sip of hot chocolate.

But it was nothing compared to her giggle.

When she giggled, it bubbled up from her chest, right where her heart is. Her cheeks turned pink, and the corners of her lips tugged up gently. The bubbles popped like champagne, and they tasted bittersweet on my tongue.

I loved to watch her clamp her hand to her mouth, trying to hold in her bubbles. She bent over, trying to keep them buried deep inside her chest. I always wanted to pull her hand away, to pull her standing up straight.

Let it out! I wanted to cry. Let it out, let me hear! Let me taste the way you giggle, It could make me drunk, intoxicated on her mirth. But of course, I never touched her. I let her hold it in the way she wanted to.

She couldn't keep them all in. She couldn't hide forever. The bubbles always popped.

I was reminded of those bubbles as I watched her blood dripping down her face where the glass was embedded. The blood fell onto the dashboard with a little *pop*.

I wasn't drunk this time.

Imagination Prompt: High School Memory

I found this thing with StumbleUpon. It's a writing prompt generator. You click and it brings up something to write about. Well, I suppose you could just ponder the question or use it as a discussion topic. I use it as a writing prompt. I might do these at least once a week!

Today's Prompt: What was a good High School memory?

My third year of high school (we didn't have grades but yes, at an ordinary high school it would have been my junior year) I took a literature class. It must have been American literature. I took world literature my first year of high school.

Halloween rolled around, as it always does. The teacher, Jean who also taught my advisory, writing, senior seminar prep and Spanish class decided that we would have a contest to write the scariest Halloween story.

I wrote about a group of children going to play hide and seek in an abandoned factory. One of the girls had brought along her baby sister. For some reason, the Devil was meandering about and decided to have some fun. So he gives the baby sister an apple to eat, and says since she has eaten of the underworld, she has to stay in the underworld. Yes, I took some inspiration from the tale of Persephone.

Anyway, I wrote this story about these kids hiding and Satan finding and killing all of them but one. It didn't matter though, because the police came and the winner of the game was arrested for murder. The little girl just kept eating her apple.

I won but a handful of votes. My prize? Lunch at BK paid for by Jean. She let me have anything I wanted, including a slice of pie. I remember keeping the cup from my meal that day and looking at it thinking; It's like I got paid for writing. It's like I'm a REAL writer!

For one whole afternoon, I felt glamorous and talented.

Under the Bridge

There's this one bridge by the hospital that She Who Must Be Kept works for. When she was still on site, I used to have to cross this bridge to get to a specific bus stop to catch a certain bus to go to the mall when I went to work with her.

I hated crossing over this bridge. I would always get distracted and look over the edge at the water running below. There was this seaweed that grew on the rocks. The water would push on it, and it gave the illusion of flowing hair from a swimmer.

I hated it.

I hated those rocks, and I hated that seaweed.

I have nightmares about these women in the water. Like harpies, maybe? These women would swim in a river, and sometimes their green, scaly faces would break the surface, slowly rising like some sort of glorious goddess.

And then they would open their yellow eyes, their black serpentine tongues slithering out in a warning hiss. And they all had flowing green hair.

I know, of course, that the seaweed covered rocks are just seaweed covered rocks. There are no murderous harpy women to pull me under.

I just don't want to take my changes.

Nice Things And Why I Don't Do Them

Sometimes I really want to stop being nice to people. I like being nice. I like doing things for people and being generous and being giving and just being a Nice Person. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy on the inside.

So I suppose you could argue I do nice things for selfish reasons.

I've talked about this before. I've mentioned that sometimes it really bothers me.

For instance, it really bothers me when I offer to help someone make something on my sewing machine, even though I'm in the middle of a project. I really hate it when the person then latches onto the fact that I'm going to help and harps on me for a week about it, EVEN WHEN MY MACHINE BREAKS AND I AM BUSY TRYING TO GET IT FIXED.

I guess the worst part about that story is I'm finally all prepared to work on that project and the person is all; "Oh... Well I don't know when I can go shopping. Why can't you go with me in the middle of the week (when I have classes and other things to do)?"

If I'm doing you a favor, I will accommodate you, but there is a limit. You need to meet me halfway here!

I bought someone a doll off eBay. I have an eBay and a PayPal account, most of my friends don't. I have zero problems ordering something and having it sent to my house. I did it for Something Mysterious, and that went beautifully. I gave her the item, she gave me the money owed to go back into my PayPal, I gave the seller positive feedback. Perfect.

This person with the doll hasn't paid me. I have a custom made hoodie I want to order that I can't because I'm waiting on her to pay me. I stayed with her on Friday and she said; "Oh, I'll take dinner (which she VERY kindly paid for) out of what I owe you!"

After we've already gone to get it. After she already got mad that I didn't have money. Well maybe I would have had money if she had paid me on time! I should have said something but I didn't, because I wasn't opposed to the arrangement, I was opposed to the way she brought it up.

Just like I don't mind helping people with projects. I mind when they get pissy when I can't jump right to it, and then when I say I'm ready are not ready and want me to make sure I can still do it "soon".

This is all very passive aggressive. And I will continue to do nice things.

Sometimes I wish I didn't let these things get to me. There are some things I don't do for people anymore. There are certain people I won't plan surprise parties for. There are certain people I won't buy presents for. I just refuse to listen to people be jerks about the things that I do for them.

And it sucks because not everyone I do stuff for is like that! I made my friend Aero a stuffed Batarang to celebrate his new job and he was *thrilled*. I made my other friend a crocheted Heartless doll and he was overjoyed. I know it's that for every one person that an asshole, there are two more that are not.

It's just that the assholes stick out more. Maybe that's just a me thing.

An Eye For An Eye Part 2

We're still on the death penalty in Sociology.

Today, we watched a piece on what happens to the men sentenced to life in prison/Death Row and are then released. Because it turns out that, you know, they were innocent and all that.

So what happens to these men? Well, for most of them, they were released with a handshake and an "Aw, shucks!" and not much else. Of course, there was a media frenzy about them, and legislative representatives who swore they would see to it that they were compensated for their many years (years of their lives that they will never get back) in prison.

And for most of them, that money never comes. There's only a handful of states that will pay you for that sort of thing. There's only a handful of them that seem to give a damn if you've been wronged by the justice system. There's only a handful of them that even want to apologize.

Although, I feel like any sort of apology would be hollow. Most of those men (all, I guess, actually) screamed out their innocence. They begged and pleaded for the DNA tests, because a good portion of them are in for rape. Unfortunately, it took like, ten years TEN YEARS for some of those DNA tests to be performed.

How does this happen? How does it happen that innocent men not only go to prison, but they stay there? And not for like, a few months. I mean years. Half of lifetimes. Time is so precious, and it isn't like you'll ever get that back. And I'm starting to see that even if they do get some kind of compensation for their time spent to repay a debt to society that did not exist... That money won't erase that.

That money will not make it better.

Nothing is going to make it better.

How broken is our justice system? How broken are we that we cry out for someone to pay instead of trying to be rational and find the correct answers? Since when is any answer the right answer? Since when is any body rotting away the best way for us to get things done?

And then when the men get out... There's nothing for them. Sure, there's a family, maybe. But how do you go from being told what to do day in and day out to freedom? How do you learn to integrate yourself back into society?

There's also the matter of record expunging. Guess what? Doesn't always happen. You can be exonerated, and you can explain this, but that crime could still be on your record. HAVE FUN FINDING A JOB!

How does this happen? Why hasn't this been fixed?

Confessions from a Fat Girl

I believe I've mentioned before that I am over weight. I've struggled with my weight my whole life. I've been losing weight since I got off my crutches, recovered from minor surgery, and my health issues concerning my vitamin D were worked out.

My specialist and PCP (primary care physician, not, you know, the drug)are very pleased with the progress I've made. But we all three know that I still have some more to lose.

Although, I want to make it known here and now that my blood sugar is great. My sodium is amazing. My cholesterol is fantastic. My joint pain is unrelated to my weight. I have no health problems that are contributed to my weight...

...Yet.

That's why I want to get some kind of place with my weight that everyone can agree is good. I know that I will never be "skinny". I'm just fine with that.

I'm on Tumblr. There are several blogs on there that are for the acceptance of body types. Or rather, that's what they're masquerading as. What they honestly are is WE ARE FAT AND THAT'S OKAY AND ANYONE WHO SAYS THAT BEING FAT MAKES YOU UNHEALTHY IS WRONG!!!!

There's one that's for chubby fashion. It has now decided that anyone size twelve is not chubby and therefore cannot be featured on the blog. There is one blog that took down a girl's picture because she dared to mention losing weight and saying that she felt being too overweight is unhealthy.

I am NOT opposed to loving yourself at any weight. I'm really not. I think that it's hard to learn to love yourself fat or thin, and I do think that today's society and media is putting a lot of pressure on women my age that they need to be "perfect". And "perfect" is Photoshopped and fake and unobtainable.

That doesn't mean I feel like being fat is good for you.

I do feel like you can overweight and still be healthy. You for sure can. I don't feel like that should mean you never have to try to do anything about your weight ever again. I think being overweight makes it SO much harder for you to be healthy and STAY healthy.

I don't think that everyone needs to go on a starvation diet. I don't think that everyone would look SO MUCH BETTER AS A SIZE 000000000000!!!!! I don't think that having a little chub is going to kill you in the slightest.

That doesn't mean I think being two hundred pounds over weight is a good idea.

Why can't I feel that both are true? Why can't I feel that you can be a over weight and still healthy, and that being extremely overweight is a bad idea? I'm not passing judgement on anyone who is fat, Lord knows that's someone living in a glass house throwing stones.

I used to really like the idea of the body acceptance blogs. I used to think it was for anyone who felt like they were down trod and beaten because their bodies didn't look they way they "should". Now I feel like it's a bunch of fatties who want to feel elitist and make other people feel bad because NOW THEY HAVE THAT POWER AND HOLY SHIIIIIIT DOES IT FEEL GOOD.

And it breaks my heart.

Blood: A Love Story

It was my fault.

But I didn't mean to do it.

Intention doesn't erase the final result. I know this. Intention does not soothe the injuries. My intentions have never justified my actions.

I know this. I knew this before I began to act. And yet, I did so.

Her blood was the sweetest smell I had ever encountered. I wanted to lift her limp body to my face and inhale, to take in that smell. To bury it deep inside of me. I wanted to bury her deep inside of me, to carry her with me at all times.

She lay, limp and pale, still and silent on my floor. Her blood was making the slow journey from the pool beneath her body to my shoes. The red fingers were reaching out for me, to travel up my pants legs and cling to my ankles, to pull me down into wherever it was she ended up.

Slowly, I leaned over and touched that blood.

The warmth surprised me. The feeling ran like electricity up my body, stopping my heart for a moment. I felt the stumble in the steady pounding, caught my breath as the rhythm began again.

I brought my fingers to my lips and tasted the coppery sweetness.

Even as I turned to walk away, I felt the stickiness on my lips.

It had never been my intention. And yet it was the culmination of all my actions. So did my intention ever matter?

An Eye For An Eye

In Sociology we watched a piece on Sister Helen Perjean, a nun who is a spiritual advisor to convicts on death row in Louisiana. The movie Dead Man Walking was based on her book of the same name, detailing her first two experiences with gentlemen on death row.

It turns out that spiritual advisor is the only person allowed to be with the inmate up through their death. There are (or were at the time of the piece, 1996) witnesses to the execution, however, they are not friends or family members of the inmate.

It led me to thinking;

Should we have the death penalty?

Yesterday, my Charliam and I were speaking about it. I said in theory I don't agree with it. We don't ever have the right to say that you can kill another person. We're not God. In practice, I'd love to light up every rapist, every child molester, every mass murderer.

Or, I did yesterday.

What really makes me sick is that the families of these victims tend to get so blood thirsty. Years ago, I was watching the news and the grown children of a murdered woman witnessed the execution of her murderer. Their reaction after the man had died of lethal injection was; "He didn't suffer enough."

Didn't suffer enough? A man died. He gave you his blood. What do you want, to rip out his arteries and sacrifice his blood to your grief? Jesus. I don't know exactly what they were expecting.

The sheriff in piece I watched in regards to the case of Robert Willie was angry that he didn't fall on his knees and beg and plead for forgiveness. Instead he said; "If you guys think murder is wrong, I'd like to know what you think you're doing to me." And then he looked at the parents of his victim and said; "I hope you've got some satisfaction."

And the thing is, they didn't. They continue to be miserable and grieve and mourn. They continue to attend every execution that takes place at Angola, sitting outside. They say they're there for the victims, so that they have a voice. I don't think that's why they go. I think they're hoping that if they see enough people die, if they see enough of the people they have deemed to be evil have their lives ended, maybe it will ease the pain of losing their child.

I don't think they quite realize that she's dead. Nothing is going to bring her back. Not an execution, not beating the shit out of the murderer, not watching and listening to the sobs of the family of the murderer as he is put to death.

There is nothing that is going to ease that pain. The sooner they come to grips with that, the happier they are going to be. The mother said she didn't like people getting life in prison because they still got to talk to their families, and she didn't get to see her daughter anymore.

So everyone should suffer the way she suffered? When the murderer is put to death, a mother lost her child, too. A family was torn apart. There are other people who feel pain, and she is not the first person to lose someone and quite sadly, she won't be the last.

I don't think there's any satisfaction to be gained from watching others go through pain. I don't think that's going to save you.

On the other hand, what do we do with these criminals? Can we rehabilitate them? There is a shamefully terrible rehabilitation rate here in America. Something like fifty to sixty percent of people return to prison.

That's frankly pretty disgusting.

And there's the cost of keeping people, even on death row, alive. It costs the taxpayers a lot of money. Maybe we wouldn't have so much debt if we could kill some more of these people. Maybe we wouldn't have them going back if we could just off the ones that seem to be too obstinate, too broken, too insane to be allowed out into the world.

Or maybe we should find better counselors, better programs, better places for those that are mentally ill and end up in prison.

Or maybe we should stop giving them A/C and television and radio. Maybe we shouldn't make it so cushy. Maybe we should cut them off from their families. Maybe we should make them do more labor.

There are a lot of people who (of course) use the Bible to support their side, no matter which it is. There are plenty of murders in the Bible! Whoever sheds human blood let humans by his blood be sheeeeed!

But Jesus said turn the other cheek! Forgive seventy times seven!

All I can think is...

If we an did an eye for an eye, the whole world would be blind.

The Church Crowd

I'm a Christian. I'm proud to be a Christian. I have a personal relationship with God, and Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior.

I hate going to church.

It wasn't always that way. My parents didn't go to church. Alco-Pop was (at the time, I believe) an atheist, and She Who Must Be Kept didn't believe that church was the right place for her. To this day, I know she thinks that Jesus was a neat dude, but I don't know if she believes He was the son of God or whatever. She believes in a Higher Power, but that's about it.

I, on the other hand, from the age of eight onward have gone to church off and on. I've never found a good fit. I went tho this neat Come As You Are church for awhile with my baby sitter. It was great, and the Sunday school teacher was fabulous. I remember all the children coming to the front of the church to dance and sing. There were people with mohawks there and no one blinked.

I didn't care for the politics. The pastor's daughter was automatically the Queen of Everything. She got the lead roles in all the plays and everyone doted on her. She wasn't even especially talented, to be honest. And it was kind of unfortunate, because she had to have special lessons in the Bible because she was the pastor's daughter and I think they were grooming her to be clergy.

So then there was the Baptist church I went to with my friend in middle school. It was full of old people. I mean, you walked in there on a Sunday morning and you could SMELL the old. Like talcum powder and the faint hints of deaths fingers on all their shoulders, it was that bad. I was baptized there.

I didn't care for the way the youth was treated. Or, honestly, the fact that girls were basically told we were going to be good wives and mothers and--nothing else. That was all God wanted for us. Dude, for real? God gave me a brain and all He wants me to do is spit out babies? I think not.

Also, we had our little teen group. The pastor for that was about sixty. It's really hard to listen to a sixty year old tell me he knows all about being a teenager. We don't ride dinosaurs anymore. Also, he referred to us collectively as 'teenagers'. Gah. Shut up now, please.

We used to get promised we could do "REALLY COOL THINGS!" like go to fun places to eat--if WE could raise the money for it. Well, sorry, but I don't have a bunch of money to put in the offering every week.

Then there was the other Baptist church where they found out I like the pole and the hole and told me that I didn't belong there. That's pretty much all I want to say about that place.

Then there was my last foray into church going. The pastor THERE flat out told me that God wouldn't speak to me and I was going to Hell. Oh. Okay. First time you've ever met me and that's what you're going to tell me?

I was maybe seventeen, probably sixteen. I was sitting there, sobbing because this cunt muffin (whom I am supposed to be trusting to put my on a path closer to God, who himself is supposed to be close to God!) and he's telling me that everything I believe is WRONG. And then he goes; "Do you want a hug?"

Fuuuuck no. For all I know God is going to strike you down for being such a nasty person! I don't want your nastiness rubbing up on me.

It was then that I decided this whole organized religion thing isn't for me. I can see why other people like it. Some people like getting up early once a week, dressing up in expensive clothes, driving to church, sitting around for an hour, and walking out feeling like they're a good person and closer to Heaven, while the rest of us are on the path straight to Hell.

...For some reason. Because we didn't get up early, I guess. Because even if they spit in the face of a hobo on the street, or cheat on their wife or beat their kids or steal from work or WHATEVER, they're still in the clear. Because they go to church once a week.

Yes, I know people who legitimately feel this way.

Yes, I hate it too.

No, I don't believe that's what being a Christian is all about.

Don't get me wrong, I do think there are redeeming qualities about churches. I think it's neat to be able to sit with people and talk about Jesus and read the Bible together and do good things for the community and help one another out. I do think it's really neat to meet other people in that group and support one another and lift one another up in prayer. I have no problems doing any of these things.

I just don't see it happen enough. When I did see people being "lifted in prayer" at the churches I went to, it wasn't for a real reason, you know? It was so the people doing the praying could feel smug and holier than the people they were lifting. When those people tried to "support" other's and keep them on the straight and narrow, it wasn't because they were worried about anyone else's immortal soul. It was so THEY could feel holier than someone else. It was so THEY could think they were a better Christian.

I'm just not into that.

I do believe there are good churches out there. I just don't believe any of them work for me. I don't think that's where God wants me to be.

I think I'm better off leading by example, maybe? I don't run around and go; "I DON'T DO BAD THINGS BECAUSE I'M A CHRISTIAN!!!" I'm not doing good things and going; "SEE?!?! SEE WHAT I DID THER?!?!? GOD WILL BLESS ME NOW!"

I try to be a good person and do good things because well, I should. Because I know that's what I need to do. And I WANT to be a good person. I LIKE being a good person. God will show me what needs to be done, I will do it quietly, and I will carry on with my life. It's between the two of us.

Nothing to do with the rest of the world.

Well, All This is News to Me...

She Who Must Be Kept and I had a huge fight today.

Her friend Croc stayed the night the other night. And he then proceeded to keep me up all night long. Granted he was taking SWMBK to work because her car broke (and had to stay because he "didn't think he could wake up". Uh hi, guess what? My days and nights are switched because of my sun allergy. I still get my ass up and go to school and get good grades. If I had a job, I'd get up and go to that, too! He's FORTY TWO YEARS OLD. What kind of grown ass man can't get up on time?!!? ), but I was told too late to call Bubby and see if I could crash there for the night. I suppose him being there didn't really bother me. What really bothered me was the fact that he took SWMBK to work forty five minutes away, turned around, and came back here to go to sleep.

The last time SWMBK left me alone while I was sleeping, I was ten years old. That man then enticed me into bed and was very inappropriate with me. I have a strong dislike for sleeping in rooms with men of a certain age. Frankly, I hate sleeping in rooms with people that I'm a) not friends with or b) not dating unless there's someone there to guard me.

And anyway, Croc has his own house. He has his own place to live (well, he rents a room from people, but still). Why come back here and make it difficult for me to start getting around to go to class? To make matters worse, he muted the television which I use to gauge what time it is, and he broke the kitchen light. And now he can't fix it. Awesome. I love making Hamburger Helper in the dark. Thanks, douche!

I complained to SWMBK. Her response? "But he couldn't sleep at (place he's staying)! There's too much noise."
"So what? So I should not get any sleep after a night of not getting sleep? I don't care that he couldn't sleep at his own house. He's forty two. Suck it the fuck up."

This launched some sort of strange argument wherein SWMBK said that I a) hold the nine hundred and fifty dollars out of my loan money I lent her over her head b)think she's a monster and c) make her feel like a fuck up. Oh, also, there's been tension between us for months, and I've been an emotional wreck.

This is all news to me.

In the first place, no I don't hold the money I lent her over her head. I don't care. What I care about is that essentially, I pay bills here, and I don't get to have a say.

"Well you just want things to be run your way!"
"No, Mom, I don't. I want to have a say."
"See? You want power!"
"Power? Who said anything about POWER? I want to have a SAY!"
"How is say and power any different?"
"Because having a say is having input and power is demanding. I just want a say."
"A say in what?"
"In where I sleep!"
"Well, you didn't say that! You just said you wanted a say." What does it matter what I want a say in? The point is, I pay bills, so I should get a say. It's like paying rent to an apartment building and then having them decide when you should turn your lights off anyway.

And then it turned into how I make her feel like a monster.
"Nothing I do is good enough for you."
"In what way?"
"In that you get upset and I apologize and you're still mad."
"Because something happens, I get upset, and you apologize. That isn't my issue. I appreciate it. My issue is when you then add; "But it's my house." It's like you erased everything you just said."
"How?"
"Because it's like saying you don't care about the way I feel. It's like saying you could give a shit less. It's like kicking me in the teeth, basically."
"So because I have empathy, I'm kicking you in the teeth?"
"It doesn't feel like empathy when you turn around and say it's your house."
"I'm just stating a fact."

Like hell. When she adds on "It's my house." she means I should shut up and deal with it. She's always said that. It means, when used on me; "I know I'm wrong, but I can do that because I pay the bills." Ah HA, but I pay bills too, right? Apparently that doesn't mean anything to her.

She then said; "What can I do to make you happy!??!"
"Buy me a mattress....? But I'm not even mad!"

As for the tension and being an emotional wreck... I'm not even mad! What the fuck? This has been going on all winter, according to her. What? How? I haven't even been home that much! She cited an incident when she called me while I was at my friend's house so I could *help her fix the remote*.

It was eleven thirty at night. I was across town. I was drinking. I was with friends. And she called, not to see how my day had gone, if I was okay, or to tell me good night. Instead it was; "I broke the remote. Can you remember how to set it."
"No, Mom."
"Well, you wrote down the code."
"I think it's in my school notebook in my bag on the red chair."
"Where in the red chair?"
"RIGHT ON TOP! If you can't find it, I can't help you. I'm not right there."

Tonight, SWMBK told me that had hurt her feelings.
"I feel like I was just inconveniencing you."
"You were. It was eleven thirty, I was drinking, I was with friends, and you wanted me to tell you about the stupid remote. OlderBrother was home. He could have Googled it for you. You have two kids."
"I know that."
"And it REALLY bothered me that you didn't call to say good night. You never do. You call when you WANT something. Something I can't even give you because I'm not even home!"

When I stayed with Mistah Jay at the dorms, I used to call her every night to see how her day was and tell her I loved her and good night. But she never does that for me.

She said that I've done things all winter to make her thing I'm mad at her. But she never brought them up at the time. I can't fix things unless she can tell me what I'm doing wrong. And I don't even think I'm doing things wrong! She DID admit to me that she obsesses over things and makes them into bigger issues.

I told her that when she has issues like this, she has tunnel vision (and right now it's Croc vision. She said she thought our issues went before him, I disagreed. My only issues with her have revolved around him!) so she doesn't see the whole picture. So when people say things, she takes it completely wrong, because she can't see EVERYTHING.

She agreed.

I also told her that a lot of my drama has been with Mistah Jay, and if I seem bothered, it really isn't her.

"And it breaks my heart. You're so upset without him, and I don't feel like you see what a beautiful, wonderful person you are." (But I thought I made you feel like a monster?)
"I know that. I'm just really unhappy without him. And I had a miscarriage in April."
"...You did?"
"Yeah."

Pretty much she took back every nasty thing she'd said in that fight when she saw me sobbing about Vivian, whom she referred to as 'It' and not 'your baby', which was bothersome. But she still took it better than what I thought she would.


She then asked why I wasn't currently on birth control. I said not sleeping with anyone was my current method of choice. 100% and all that. Then, this came out of her mouth;
"But what if you're out with your friends and you see someone and they're... You know... Cooking with gas!"

And that, my friends, ended the fight.

"I don't wanna color!"

This week is Pottery Boot Camp in my ceramics class. This means that the instructor is giving us all a crash course on how to use the wheel. For the past two months, I have been staring in quiet awe and fear of the wheel. Honestly, it looked like it could take my fingers off if it wanted to. I didn't want to give it the chance.

But tomorrow afternoon, I will be throwing clay. I will be staring, bewildered, at the lump of Earth that is spinning out of control and wonder what it would be like to take an accounting class. Then I'll realize I hate numbers, and losing a finger to the wheel will inhibit my ability to count to ten, so I better figure it out.

Anyway, Tuesday the instructor walked us through the steps of throwing on the wheel. Then he said; "AND NOW WE'RE GOING TO MAKE POSTERS TO HANG UP SO YOU'LL KNOW WHAT TO DO!"

Well, how about no? In the first place, you're the instructor. I don't want to read a poster if I get stuck, I want to ask you. If I don't understand I'm not going to magically know from looking at a poster made by a gaggle of other people who spent your demo looking at you like you were a wizard because we had no idea how to throw. They can't teach me!

In the second place, I don't want to color posters. I'm in college, not kindergarten. That is a very expensive poster. Rant over.

Where Do You Go?

I'm here, but I'm not always present.

This is most obvious when I'm plugged in and turned up and tuned out to the real world in ceramics class or during National Novel Writing Month. For me, I've found that I can't be creative when I'm so distracted by all the people and things around me.

This probably means that I'm not as creative as I should be.

I'm here, but I'm not always present.

Like when I'm sitting in class, staring at the wall. Or when I'm sitting on the bus, looking out the window. Or when I'm writing something disturbing, dredging up words and phrases and images that are better left buried in the basement of my psyche and not shared with the rest of the world.

Just because I can't sleep doesn't mean that no one should.

So these places that I go, and the things I hear...

I don't always keep them to myself.

They're just not as obvious as they could be.

If I Could Burn This All to the Ground

I wish I could burn my mother's house to the ground.

She Who Must Be Kept has a problem with hoarding. It isn't like that show on TLC or whatever. She just cannot for the life of her throw away a single piece of paper. In our bathroom, in the cupboard under the towels, there are boxes and boxes of papers. Old light bills from 1989 when we were living in the trailer. Papers of my father's from when he was on unemployment in 1988.

These are things that do not matter. And yet she cannot throw them away. I do not have this problem, and I will throw away old papers by the handful. I like to do what I call purges, where I go through the house and just--throw stuff away, arrange for things that are good (like books or clothes) to be given to the used bookstore or Goodwill or Saint Vinny's.

She Who Must Be Kept can't do this. I don't know why.

On television there's some crime drama starring a hoarder. We're nowhere near that bad. You can see our floor. You can walk through the house. We're healthy. The house itself is falling apart, but that's unrelated.

SWMBK whines and cries and talks about how she wants to change. She wants to be better. She wants to be different. Sometimes I wish I could slap her and tell her to put up or shut up. That she's the only one who can help herself.

But she never does.

I wish I could burn all this to the ground so we could all start from square one. So I could be aware this time around and not let her get that bad.

I guess though, she isn't my responsibility.

Sober

It's two in the morning.

I don't feel like sleeping.

I can't sleep, more to the point.

I've realized how fragile sobriety is. I am the adult child of an alcoholic. I am the baby sister of another addict. While I have imbibed myself more than a time or two, I can safely say I am not an addict. I can never drink again and I won't miss it.

I won't pretend that quitting the codeine I was prescribed for my pain wasn't hard, especially after months of being pumped full of other pain killers... Especially when, to a point, I needed it. I needed help to manage my pain.

But I was never an addict.

Statistically, I am incredibly likely to become addicted at some point in my life. I've been warned by professionals. It was never a warning I needed.

I remember screaming fights. I remember my father hitting my mother. I remember breaking glass. I remember most--being afraid.

I'm twenty one years old. I haven't spoken to my father in eight years. I'm really afraid of him. He could and would lift his hand to me. He did when I was a child. I remember him being drunk and slapping me for laughing at the table.

The booze makes him a very unpleasant person.

OlderBrother is the same way. Booze makes him a not so nice person. He and I have had screaming fights. I have reduced him to tears. He has reduced me to tears. He has, more importantly, reduced She Who Must Be Kept to tears.

He's an addict. He has admitted that alcohol and marijuana are the only ways that he can feel okay. He has bought/begged/and I suspect stolen prescription drugs from my mother and myself. He is headed to a very bad place very quickly.

I get frightened when I drink, sometimes. I snap. I yell. I get angry.

It's not a place I like being.

And yet....

I still drink sometimes.

Cracking Joints

This Spring Break has already shaped up to be more productive than my past ones in college. Today I started clearing my brother's crap out of my bedroom. Tomorrow I'm getting the huge Box O' Soda Bottles (seriously, this box is as tall as my thighs and like, two feet wide and three feet long) out. Then I'm sweeping the floor.

I still have to buy;
-My futon. I decided to get just a futon and not bother with the frame because I'm trying to move in a year and I don't want to deal with storing the frame. My future roommate, Aero, said he didn't want to put it in the living room because it wouldn't match the furniture he and his girl want to buy.

-Black out curtains. I will not have the sun pouring in on me anytime it feels like. And it feels like doing this often! So I'm going to hang some black out curtains so I won't have that issue.

-A Bigass Extension cord and power strip.

-Bedding.

Argh, sometimes I hate making lists and seeing how much I still have to do. I have to get someone to drive me to even GET the futon. I hate that I have to ask someone to do that for me but... I don't see what choice I really have.

I've also got to get Mistah Jay's quilt done to give to him. He's going to hate it. I don't care though. I'll at least have that done.

Unsung Lullabies

Dearest Vivian,

You're haunting me again. It's a thought that makes me laugh and cry. Perhaps if I had kept you inside of me, perhaps if I had been strong enough, you would doing the same thing. You'd be about two months old now, I think. You would just be getting the hang of living, and I--I would still be so amazed at the fact that you existed.

Do you haunt your father? He haunts me top, although perhaps in a more tangible way than you. He has a hard time admitting out loud that you were ever here at all. You mustn't blame him, my darling one. I've ceased doing so. I think the thought of what we almost had and almost were hurts him so deeply he can't face it. He can't be strong enough, so you and I must do that for him.

Or perhaps I will do that for the both of you. I'm just fine doing that.

I would have been such a wonderful mother. I would never have let you see the things that we went without. I would never have put anyone or anything else before you. You would have been the most brilliant thing that had ever been mine.

Although, of course, that ownership would have been so bittersweetly temporary. Before I was ready, I would have had to surrender you to the universe. I would have only been caretaker and guardian to the most wonderful girl in the whole world.

It happened before you were born anyway, the surrendering. Although there was less surrendering and more of you being ripped away from me.

It's three thirty in the morning. It's nights like these, weeks like these, that I miss you the most. I'm listening to Ray LaMontagne, one of those gravelly voices with the guitar that I listen to when I hurt so badly. These are the lullabies I would have loved to sing to you. These are the things I would have whispered to you in the stillness of the night.

I think everyone thinks I need to let you go. But letting you go, turning my back on you... That's just something I cannot bring myself to do. I am not so naive as to think there wouldn't have been moments I would have resented you. There would have been minutes, hours, days, weeks perhaps, that I would have looked at you and felt something akin to misery.

But darling, I loved you. I love you. I fell in love with you the moment I knew that you were there. And then you were gone, but my love didn't seep away during all those hours when I was hurting. My love for you didn't melt away as I took the painkillers and laid my head, wincing in your father's lap. Your father's love for me, your father's gentle fingers in my hair, his tender words of reassurance--even these things which usually could calm me, did not quell the ache inside of me.

Nothing can.

Will you ever come back to me, I wonder? Will you come back and let me hold you, will you look up at me with wide eyes full of wonderment and trust? Mother is the word for God on the lips of all children. You are still my child, even if you are not here.

Your father left me too. Don't be angry with him, dear one. He does the best he can. We're both tormented. It's such a sweet hell, and perhaps the most gloriously tragic thing to watch. You would be the one to know.

I have such a hard time sleeping. I would if you were alive too. You'd be awake right now, I think, wanting to be fed. You would be in my arms, latched onto me, taking from me the most that I could give you, metaphorically and literally. I see you in my dreams, I reach out to you, but you--much like your father--are just out of my reach.

This can't last forever. I suspect that in time, I will learn to lift myself and carry on. I will always feel that missing part of me, that sense that I've lost something I just cannot find or replace... But I will carry on.

I do love you so.

-Mommy

If You Can't Act Like An Adult.

She Who Must Be Kept's friend Croc keeps coming over. I don't really care that he comes over. I'm sitting over on my couch by myself doing my own thing. Croc seems to forget I'm not made of stone and I *can* hear their conversations (as they are a grand total of four feet away from me).

Also, I am super protective of SWMBK. I might be twenty one, but I have no issues giving a grown ass man a tongue lashing if it calls for it, and what calls for it is when I see someone being mean to my mother.

Croc has a nasty habit of several things. 1. He's a martyr. 2. He rides a VERY high horse named Self Righteous. 3. HE NEVER LETS ANYONE FINISH A MOTHER FUCKING SENTENCE!!!

So tonight, he was riding S.R. and saying that my mother was being "abusive" to him, because she asked several times very nicely; "Hey, if you don't hear me, please don't look at me and say "Hunh?!?". I really hate it. If you misunderstood me or I didn't speak clearly, can you ask me to repeat myself?"

It's one of her pet peeves. I've been trained from a very early age to not do that. She also hates the word 'whatever' out of context.

So SWMBK finally told Croc in a joking way if he went 'hunh' again, she was gonna pop him one. He was on S.R and said he'd leeeeave. He didn't want to be abuuuuused. My Mom is abuuuuusive. God, grow the fuck up, dude.

I gently corrected him as to her issue. He said he was FORTY TWO and he couldn't be retrained, and if SWMBK didn't like it, he'd LEAVE.

Okey dokey... Moving on with our evening. He went back to calling SWMBK abusive. I had had enough. I jumped in his shit. I couldn't even finish a thought because he steam rolled over my sentences. Finally, frustrated and joking I said; "Mom, I think it's time for your friend to go home."

Sure enough, he gathered his ice tea and crucified himself. "Oooh, I'm causing conflict. Ooooh, I never bother ANYONE. FIIIIINE TAI WANTS ME TO GO!"

God. Whatever.