Saturday, April 23, 2011


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.

Saturday, April 16, 2011

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."


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.


Tuesday, April 12, 2011

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.

Monday, April 11, 2011

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.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

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.



Sunday, April 3, 2011

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.