Thursday, March 31, 2011

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.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

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.

Monday, March 21, 2011

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?

Saturday, March 19, 2011

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...


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.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

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?

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

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.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

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.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

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."
"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?"

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.

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

"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.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

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.

Thursday, March 3, 2011

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.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011


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.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

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.


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.