More ramblings from the insomniac....

I had an epiphany today... I actually am cleverer than most people. By that I mean, I can see the cycles people live in, the things they allow to trap themselves etc, and I know exactly what's going to happen in most social interactions, and yet, for some inane reason, I can't seem to use these powers for my own benefit. Why is that you ask?

Equal parts because I'm not a rabid douche and because I'm not interested in manipulating people into forming connections with me. Also, I can't be bothered to put in the effort to get to know people anymore, because I'm avidly and completely tired of trying to interact with people on an intellectual, sexual or emotional level and realizing that they're just not interested or incapable of reciprocating the connection. I feel so old all of a sudden, as though I've discovered some great secret about humanity and I've no one to share it with because I've only ever met my equal in one person, and he and I haven't spoken in three months.

I do miss my dear Ptolemy and the ridiculous conversations we used to get into. One of my favorite memories of him had to do with the time we stayed up all night talking ourselves into circles about time travel in a Bickfords, and he almost did a little murder because the people sitting nearby us were blatantly listening in and eavesdropping. He was amusingly overprotective, if not perhaps a trifling bit aggressive.

Considering his name, it's to be expected. Considering his nature, his aggression has always startled me. I was, I think, probably the only person who did not frustrate him, though I rather imagine that I had the capacity. I think he was just very patient with me and my inexperience. Now that I've finally come to terms with the lessons he taught me I miss him profoundly. He'd be awake right next to me, telling me to get my head out of my ass and to narrow the focus of my concern so that I'm not so exhausted by basic interactions.... or something like that. He was one of those people who was equally exhausted by the people around him, searching always for a kindred spirit or even someone he could mold into a kindred spirit, but he never actually understood the true fundamentals of intimacy.

That isn't to say that I was the person he was looking for, but more that in his search to mimic the kind of relationship he already had with me, he forgot to remember the limitations of everyone else.

... I'm all rambly... perhaps I ought to spend some time face down in a pillow. I'm tired in ways no one should be, and I'm worn out in ways that only the very old and the very cynical seem to understand.

Fail

So who's phone starts going off very loudly right next to her ear at 5ish this morning, exactly 2 hours after she's gone to sleep?

Mine.

...My response was to ninja-punch the thing and hide under my pillows....

And then I saw what time it was and began texting obscenities at the anal-probing son of a douche who would dare attempt to reach me at this ungodly hour....

And then I realized that it was Facebook Mobile...

Idiot.

Communication

Contrary to what most people believe, there are actually three types of communication. There are the two you already know, the verbal and the physical, and then there is the emotional. This kind of interaction is constantly being referred to as the non-verbal part of communication, like touching or making eye contact etc, but it actually has everything to do with tone of voice, actual topics of conversation being broached, and the inevitable syncing of the minds that comes from it. By no means is it not heavily dependent upon the verbal parts of communication (IE: Saying what you mean or not what you mean, blah blah) or the physical (IE: touching, holding hands, etc) but it is markedly different from either of those two things. Verbal communication has everything to do with what's being said, the actual words you're speaking. Emotional connection comes from the tones of voice used, and whether or not you're believable in what you're saying. Then, intimacy is established through body language. True intimacy (and Oxtocin, the bane of my existence) is established by creating warmth in your voice, openness in your body language, and love in your eyes. All of these are very easily faked if you know how.

My favorite show in the world is The Pickup Artist. Why, you ask? Why would an interesting-looking 20-something like a show that shows men how to pick up women that are sooooo out of their leagues, just to elevate their social status and make themselves feel better about their mediocre looks? Because it shows us how easily people can be manipulated into feeling something out of ONE social interaction. It also makes it easier to sort out who's after sex and who's after a relationship. If he touches your arm, holds your hand, and looks deeply into your eyes on the first or second date, with no previous relationship to back up these feelings (you didn't know each other and weren't friends first) then he's only after your sexy self. IF he does any of these things by the third or fourth date, then he's probably a keeper. This philosophy has never done me wrong, when I've listened to it.

When I haven't listened to it I've found myself in situations like the one mentioned in my previous post. Big be damned, love be damned, I'm tired of trying to connect with people that just aren't my intellectual, social or emotional equals. Maybe if I had more confidence and was less insecure I wouldn't let myself be taken for a ride by people who pretend to matter.

And he did matter.
More than even he knew.

Too bad for him.

Social Interaction fail...

So I officially fail at social interaction. Every time I try to establish a connection with another human being I either don't say enough and people get annoyed with my inability to articulate myself, or I say way too fucking much and just end up pushing people away.

Getting closer to another person is like trying to get closer to the stars: futile and inevitably foolish. Human beings have no clear understanding or conception about what love is, except that its a feeling and its intangible. I have known love in every possible facet, from the abusive to the reckless to the fruitless, and to this day I cannot explain coherently exactly why I felt that way about any one of the men that I have loved so deeply. What I can tell you for certain is that we're all so goddamn desperate to connect with each other that we convince ourselves that there is meaning where there is none, and that there is intimacy where there is only understanding.

I'm tired and impatient and I don't see the point in any of it anymore. It isn't love that I'm after, its truth, because I've recently come to the conclusion that without truth, blunt and absolute and tactless, there is absolutely no hope of love.

The ramblings of an idiot fool

4 AM again... and I'm still awake. I'm all adrenalin-y from the haunted houses and the lively conversation, and somehow, as always, I'm finding myself staring off into Infinity, seeing every possible outcome and every possible future and I can't bear it. There was more to this post, a discourse on the human condition and about how we're all greedy, insufferable bastards, but I deleted.... You know, in the interest of keeping things positive.

I found an old story I wrote waaay back when.... Back when I was "good" as my mind seems so inclined to think. It wasn't that it was a terribly bad story, just hideously underdeveloped and juvenile. Well... I was so young then, wasn't I? That's the point of art to a certain extent; it reflects the soul of the artist. I'm a huge believer in the idea that the artist and the art are so inescapibly bound that there is very little room for the spectator, the person who's enjoying the art, in the whole artistic experience. That is to say, when you look at a Jackson Pollock painting, what you're seeing is a reflection of himself. It's such a huge thing, to stand in the room with something so great and profound as a person's soul on canvas, and the experience itself is so profound that there's very little room for yourself in the experience. Suddenly, there's this moment of clarity and you realize that what you are experiencing is something so completely unlike anything you, yourself, are capable of conjuring, that you become what Jackson Pollock was when he painted it, and you catch glimpses of his madness and his genius and his beauty.

It's the same moment that comes over you when you're truly experiencing music in its most perfect, undiluted form, when you're standing among a sea of other people, entranced with the musicians on stage, wrapped up in something so beautiful and so intangible that you can't separate yourself from the person next to you, and you're all one breathing, sweating, weeping thing, overcome and overwhelmed and drenched completely in the auditory.

It's the same moment that comes over you when you read a verse that brings tears to your eyes and you don't even know why. You never went walking in the woods in winter as he did, you never saw the rain or the stars or the human spirit the way the author did, and yet you're there, with the author, weeping over a choice that was not your own and you could not make, and yet you were so heavily invested in that choice that you couldn't help but cry out when our hero made the wrong turn.

There is no such thing as bad art. There are bad artists; artists incapable of evoking the artistic experience. I blame Twilight on Stephanie Meyer, and I blame Piss Christ on Andres Serrano and I blame you for having not experienced the perfection of true genius.

Insomnia + MSN + One Cranky Independent

So I got into an interesting debate one time with an Australian. Basically, his whole shtick was that Americans are stupid because we don't have Universal Health Care and we're stupid if we don't put it into effect. You know, be more like Australia, New Zealand, Spain, England, Canada and Mexico....

His logic was flawed; it's based on the idea that America can afford Universal Health Care and doesn't want to pay for it. America is, first and foremost, in tremendous debt and can't afford to pay for Universal Health Care. Blame who you like, we can't afford it. I can't afford a new car, or to buy a house, or even a new winter coat, so I don't buy those things. Mr. President is not thinking this through even a little. Right now in the US if you go to the ER and and you're sick, you will be helped. End of discussion, we're not the animals the rest of the world seems to think we are. When the bill comes and you can't pay? Believe it or not, Hospitals can't refuse to care for you even if you're foodstamped and homeless. They just can't.

I told him that. I mentioned that I thought it would be nice to have the government regulate the healthcare industry a little more, instead of finding new and creative ways to tax us. He LOL'ed at me, and patted me on the head, saying "It's so cute when Americans try to think."

I then pointed out that... um... not for nothing, but Australia isn't the first country that the UN NATO and everyone else shouts for as soon as there's a tragedy or an attack. I also pointed out that Australia isn't supporting inordinate amounts of unemployed masses.... You know, like America is? Australia isn't in the debt we're in, nor are they expected to offer all manner of humanitarian and tragedy relief every time someone somewhere gets a booboo or can't handle their local dictator. Not to minimize the world's suffering, we're all a little broken.

Then I got really annoyed with myself because I only ever defend America when it's a non-American criticizing it. Most days I'm so frustrated with the idiotic way this country is being run and the ridiculous ideas being thrown around by people who obviously slept through Logic 101 Freshman year that social interaction becomes a chore rather than a pleasure.

Thing is, just because I can't wrap my head around the ideas doesn't mean I haven't tried. It doesn't mean I don't WANT to believe that the Big Man in the White House has our best interests at heart.

One of the worst things ever was when my Republican BFF called me a Freedom Moocher because I dared to criticize our predominately Republican government back in the day. I pointed out that if I hadn't traveled abroad then I'd just be an educated, frustrated citizen voicing my concern. Then I'd turn around and tell my British friends to please STFU because, yeah, Bush wasn't a superhero, but when 911 hit, he pulled it together and said "We're gonna get through this, it'll be okay." He insisted that we not let terror rule us. He was a reassuring presence during a black black period in our modern history.

And yeah, he kind of screwed the pooch in a lot of areas, but look at it this way: Mr. Obama's plan will send America into 9 Trillion dollars further into debt over the next... I think it was 10 years. I THINK. It's almost 4AM and I can't be bothered to look up the exact timeline. Do NOT blame that debt on the Republican's you Liberal B-tards. They're only responsible for 3 Trillion of it.

And you Republican Ijots, can we please just admit that this was a war over oil? Please?! It's OKAY that it was a war for oil. Wealth is just as good a reason to go to war as morality, at least the American people will have something tangible to think about while they're enduring price gouging at the gas pumps and laughably unnecessary inflation.

Right, my powerful brain is tired of this text window. Here endeth the rant.

Amusing when no one's looking

It always seems to happen that some of my best hair days and some of my most amusing stories come from days that had absolutely nothing going on. Today was a rehearsal before the recital thingy, which I'm only 76.34% embarrassed about, and that went pretty well. The highlight of the day was the super awesome service we got at the D'n'D in Tewksbury. It annoys me more than I can describe that it was refreshing to find a place where minimum wage people were actually nice and pleasant. I totally tipped way more than necessary just because.

Also picked up the neatest eyeshadow I've seen in ages -- looks just like crystal on the skin. So pretty, can't wait to rock it soon. (With photos!)

Have been nursing an unhealthy addiction to pop music of late, mostly because my own thoughts have been so dark (my brain is an unpleasant place to be sometimes) and I enjoy something that moves me in an up, happy way. It's hard to do that with metal or rock because I experience it viscerally and can't separate myself from the music. It's a pleasant little vacation from my brain, which is almost always working overtime, and I do so hate to work hard.

I turned my eyes inside out so I could see what it was that made me so different from everyone else

Because I've never seen what everyone else saw
Or felt what everyone else felt
And I thought that maybe I was the problem.

As it turns out, my brain is made of glitter
And my soul is made of sunshine

And then I couldn't get my eyes back to normal
So now my eyes are inside out and I don't know how to look at the world....

Because all I see is my own radiance and how easy it is for others to be out shined by it

And then I decided that it was all too self-indulgent

So I plucked my eyes out and gave them to you so that you could see how radiant I was and maybe you'd love me too.

But my eyes are still inside out, and you're blinder than I ever was.

And I'd rather be some waning false thing than anything that ever looked upon you with kindness.

The End

Final thoughts on the Gibraltar Matter...

The general rule of thumb is that for every 6 months you're in a relationship you get 3 months of wallowing/depression. That means that I should get a good a year in which I cannot be judged for my tears over the loss of "Doug". That's not good enough for me. My sadness only feels profound because its my own. It isn't any more or less important than that of anyone else and, frankly, I'm tired of luxuriating in it.

I'd rather be petty, shallow and pathetic than be bound to a man who'd rather lie to me and feel good about himself than accept that he's just as depthless and cruel as the people he despises.

The simple truth of the matter is, I would have moved the stars for him. I would have given up everything: My country, my ties here, my art, my whole life if only it meant that we had a future. It's the most tragic thing I've ever heard, because what does that say about me? It says that I'm so eager to find something spectacular that I see it in people who simply are not. He was like poetry... really bad poetry. The kind that makes you wince while you're reading it because it sounds so much like something you've read so many times before, and you can't connect to the words because it's all one big cliche.

I don't regret any of the time I spent with him; he was the instrument through which I learned a new melody. That does not, however, make our parting any less than what it is: something that was bound to happen one way or another.

I can't give so much of myself to people who do not and cannot appreciate it. Love, like death, is only best understood through hindsight, and nothing of beauty ever came from reactionary movements. Perhaps that's why my infamous "You Don't Know It" series has failed so many times over. I only ever write it when I'm reacting to the loss of one great love or another. It is only through quiet reflection and understanding that we can learn about ourselves and our loved ones... Even if our loved ones reside across an ocean and deep inside a Rock, without thought or feeling for what it was that they left behind.

I used to liken myself to an opal, something beautiful but fragile and easily cracked and crazed and made useless when exposed to too much wear and tear. That's still true, I think, but I'd also like to think that I'm not some pale, milky thing that must be kept hidden in darkness. I'd like to think that my beauty comes from some dazzling kaleidoscope, like the one I wear around my neck. My madness and my light and my quietness are all too easily misunderstood and too quickly misinterpreted for something else, so when it is time for us to part ways it is rarely with more than a nod and a smile.

I cannot be angry with him. I can't even think about him because thinking about him reminds me of that terrible weekend in which my grief overwhelmed my good sense and I prayed (for the first time since my father's hospitalization) that maybe he'd see something in me worth holding on to. My grief is what embarrasses me, not any lingering feelings of tenderness or even bitterness. It is my grief that makes me want to turn myself to stone and forget that there was ever any connection to us. It is my grief that makes me hate myself for believing him when he told me that he wanted to spend his whole life with me.

I can tell you with perfect clarity the moment at which I knew that I loved him above all others and with my whole heart. I wonder if he could tell you the same -- about anyone. I wonder if there's a single person living who can tell you what that moment was like for them. Some people go their whole lives without ever knowing it, I think. If you want to know, it's like a storm has settled, and whatever lightning or thunder you carried around before that point is suddenly dissipated, and you're seeing the sun for the first time. Its a swelling of the heart and spirit that makes your cheeks hurt from smiling too much.

That's what it was like for me the moment I knew that I wanted to spend my life with him. It was like tasting really good chocolate for the first time and knowing that I'd never forget that sudden sharp, almost bitter sweetness. And even though a huge part of me wants to forget that perfect moment that (I realize now) I was alone in, I don't think I ever will and I have to content myself with that.

These will be my last words on the subject. I will not trouble any of my faithful readers any longer with my horrific musings of a love that should have been forgotten the moment it was ended. Perhaps I am just sad because I found those old photos. Maybe I'm sad because I know he's got someone new. I'd like to think it's none of those, and that I'm sad because I can feel the grief ebbing away and if I don't even grieve what we used to have then there's really nothing left to say on the matter.

If two people break up and neither one even thinks about the other, and neither is even affected by the others absence, then does that mean the whole relationship never happened? And if that's true, then does that mean that the perfect moment I only just spoke of never happened? That it didn't mean anything? Not even to me?

Does it matter either way?

Thoughts from an insomniac

In many ways he was like poetry.
He was full of contradictions,
Beauty and shallowness
Elegance and crass indifference
Something else too...
His depth was unmeasurable
It depended almost entirely upon the mood he was in

And yet there was something fundamentally false about him.

It isn't that he lied to me...
I rather expect that from the men I love.
I feel like he lies to many women,
He tells them that he loves them completely
And wants to be with them forever,
All the while waiting for something more spectacular than what's before him

And even though there is still some basic part of me that craves him
I'd rather be alone than lied to.
I don't particularly feel like someone who is pining away
Weeping over something lost and best forgotten
But I don't feel overly "over it" either.
Maybe that's what happens when the person for whom you would have moved the stars
Throws you away like so much trash.

I don't want to be with him.
Not now, after so much time passed in silence
Not after seeing how easy it was for him replace me
But sometimes I think about him with a certain tenderness
The reasons for which I can't completely name.

It isn't that I want him back
It's that I want to know that somewhere,
In the furthest recesses of his inconstant heart
That my presence in his life
And my absence now
Has affected him.

I need a freaking road map

So "John" liked "Brandy" who likes both "Darrel" and "Phil" but Phil decided to ask Brandy out. Except Phil is John's BFF 4EVAR, and now apparently Phil is dead to John for ever asking Brandy out in the first place, and Brandy is -- apparently -- a HORRIBLE TERRIBLE EVIL PERSON for ever accepting the date in the first place.... And now they're not friends and I'm trapped in the middle...for some inane reason.

So, yeah, I need a freaking road map. Excuse me while I go purchase one.

Dear Verizon

I hate you.

I hate you so much.

I hate you so fucking much that I almost ripped the fucking receiver box thingy out of the wall, drove up to Crane Beach and threw the fucking thing in the ocean. I hate you so much, in fact, that if I ever have the opportunity to come into contact with ANY of your higher ups, I will rip his throat out and feed it to him, with a side of shit.

The shit is a metaphor for your fucking horrible service.

Fuck you, Verizon. FUCK YOU.

I can see the whole of infinity... but I can't see you.

She's ballsy, I like that. Though, I can't say I wouldn't do the same in her position. She wants to make sure that I know that it's completely over and she gets to fuck him now.

I'm upset.

I'm upset because I know he doesn't care about me. Not as a friend, not with any kind of respect for what we had, and he certainly doesn't hold any of that basic human respect he claims to be so full of.

My feelings are completely selfish. I want him to be more upset about losing me. I want him to languish in his own pain, not trotting off to Cadiz with that pig-faced slag.

And what's worse is that I know that if he loves her, no woman will ever be as beautiful as she is in his eyes.

I'm not upset or hurt because I don't want him to have happily ever after....

I'm upset and hurt because he was MY happily ever after. Everyone goes on and on about perfect love and that love you'd move the stars for, and love that spans oceans and time, and I FUCKING HAD THAT.

I had that and he decided he'd rather be with that pigfaced creature, whose only crime is being with the man that I loved.

And I really have nothing to say because within two weeks of coming back from Spain I was fucking someone else. To be fair, this someone else is my ex, my "Mister Big" if such a thing exists, and with "Clark" and I it's never just fucking, and I know that completely destroys my entire argument and I don't care.

I don't care because even though I'm sleeping with someone else, he's going on holiday with someone else, and he's spending all his extra time with someone else, and while I'm terrified of letting myself have feelings for anyone because of what he did to me, he gets to move on and not care and for that I kind of hate him.

Thinking about this makes me want to do things to myself I gave up a long time ago.
Thinking about this makes me want to break a promise I made to someone who means more to me than he ever did.
Thinking about how much pain he's still causing me without even doing anything but moving on makes me want...

Train of thought inspired by the Three of Swords...

Today I had a panic attack because I knew that I was never going to talk with you ever again.
And then I had another panic attack because I had to pretend to be okay.

I knew that everything I wanted and everything I ever hoped for
Was as futile and foolish as the curls I attempted to put in my hair
And knowing this made me want to die but instead of dying I cried
Just as I cried when you left me.
And its not your fault but it is my own
Because I should have known better than to put my hopes and dreams into someone so mediocre...

And yet... I'm not sure what hurts more:
Knowing that I was better than you and you didn't want me
Or knowing that I was better than you and I let you break my heart.
I know every inch of you
I know when you're lying, when you're lost, and when you just don't care.
I know you well enough to know that there's nothing in you left for me,
And that you've given whatever it was that used to belong to me to someone else.
I looked into your soul and saw the man I wanted to live forever with
And you looked into mine and saw someone you couldn't wait to leave.
You saw someone who could not and would never be that cliched all consuming One.

I want you to know that I'd turn her to ash and stone if I could;
...That girl you left me for...
You don't really think I didn't know about your blue-clad indiscretion?
I hate that you left me for some pig-faced idiota who has no idea who you are or what you want.
Even when we didn't want the same thing, I still understood you without you needing to say so.

But that matters less than the freckles on your nose,
Than every shade of blue in your eyes,
And every tear I've ever cried over you
Because the Three of Swords said so
And I'm tired of fighting it.

I've waited way too long to grieve, too busy hiding behind false pretenses and the illusion of being okay...
And now that I am grieving I've come to the conclusion that there's something fundamentally broken inside me
And neither you or He can fix it, despite both of your best intentions.
And while you get to live the rest of your life across the Atlantic, happily ignoring the impact you've made on me
And He gets to try to remind me that I'm a woman and that I deserve to be loved
Neither of you have the capacity to understand that I'm broken inside,
And I'd rather hollow myself out and turn myself to stone than think of either of you with tenderness.
Because He hurt me first,
And you hurt me last,
And neither of you have the right to look me in the eye.

I am better than you, if you want to know.
I am better than some fool who only ever pretends to know what he wants
And would rather throw away his life on a Rock and an idea and a memory
Than write and think about anything worth having.
You'll never write the way you want to
You'll never live beyond gambling, cigarettes and beer,
And you'll die fat and balding and useless, just like a million other Englishmen who all had the same delusions you have.
You'll marry someone like that blue-clad pig-faced Eurotrash who will tell you everything you want to hear and who will spit out 2.5 pig-faced Eurotrash uberliberal children, just like you.

Personally, I'd rather be sterile.

I never told you that....

It seems really fucking irrelevant now. I'm kind of glad I never told you.
I'm especially glad that you don't care enough about me to read this.

Singing in public and other interesting news

So on Monday I went to Dorchester District Court with Ashe and spent the better part the middle day watching her try to talk her way out of a speeding ticket. It wasn't one of those "I was speeding but I hope they'll let it slide" moments, there was this whole back story that I wont get into. Dorchester District Court is full of interest for someone who just doesn't go to Dorchester if she can avoid it. We spied all manner of strangeness, and were both equally felt up by the security guard at the door. Overall the entire experience made me want to throw myself in traffic.

Then, on Tuesday, I auditioned a new stylist. I felt like I was cheating on my current stylist Stu, but he and I have two very different aesthetics and I just don't think he understands me anymore. It's a shame, really, because he did exquisite color, but the last several cuts I've had from him have made me want to go all Britney Spears. New Stylist Bill is interesting. Unlike Stylist Stu, who is 40-something, gay, and more eccentric than I originally thought, Billy-Buddy is 30-something, strait (shock!) and kind of a Joe-Guy. At the very least he seemed to understand my bone structure, because the re-shaping he did is really quite nice. The previous cut was so hideous that I really wasn't expecting miracles, so Billy-Buddy gets 5 stars.

Much later the sibs and I went to see the new Harry Potter. I didn't love it. It was kind of like an episode of Family Guy: A series of amusing scenes filling the space between the scenes that move the plot along. I'm probably going to get mauled by rabid Harry Potter fans, (the only thing being more vicious is a Twilight Fan...) but it just wasn't my cup of tea.

Today I'm meant to be singing at a baseball game tonight. I get to sing the national anthem in the key of D. I'm not excited, really, as much as I'm annoyed that my throat hasn't completely recovered from the gastrointestinal tragedy that was my Saturday night. Throwing up stomach acid hurts, goddamn it. I'm trying to garner some kind of excitement about tomorrow, though, because tomorrow is going to be the crown jewel of my week. I'm going to go be an extra in The Fighter. Christian Bale and Mark Wahlberg will be in my eye line tomorrow, and I get free sandwiches. Seriously! I'm really kind of glad that my hair turned out so good, actually, because the last thing any girl wants is to be on camera with FUGS hair.

Stay tuned, kids. I'll let you know if Bale is a big a dick as they say. :D

Date Rape? Not quite...

So I got dosed with something (GHB or something else that turns you to a loopy violently ill mess) last night while I was out with Ashe. I'm pretty much ready to rip the throat out of whoever did it. I spent today recuperating... Knowing that not only did someone put something in my drink, but that if Ashe hadn't been there I would have been in serious trouble has made me more cranky than usual. Parts of the night do not exist in my memory. Not good.

In other news Lucy is still looking for some higher meaning in human connection. Given my enormous failure at last attempt at real relationship I think it would do me some good to create a connection with someone who very thought doesn't make me want to slit my wrists with a spork. Being over dramatic runs in my genetics, I think. That's okay, I'm creative and clever so I can get away with saying things like that about the people who've hurt me.

Tomorrow I get to be Ashe's body guard at court. It will suck in part because I'll be expected to wake up before noon, and doubly because I'm going to go with her to make sure that she doesn't get attacked and killed by goons. *lesigh* Everything is so boring in my life... obviously.

So I have this friend...

With whom I cannot share my thoughts. It's very strange, really, because I think he's probably the only person I've ever continued to have a relationship with who doesn't know how I work. I am, of course, overestimating my aloofness, but by this I mean that when he looks at me I know for certain he has no idea what I'm thinking.

When we first met I didn't dare tell him what I was thinking because I was afraid he'd think me too foolish and naive and all those undesirable things that men think when they know too much about how a woman works. I was desperate to impress him so I kept quiet and didn't tell him much of anything, and so somehow that translated into a very complicated relationship that has spanned several years.

A typical conversation between he and I usually progresses thusly,

Him: "You look like you're thinking thoughts."

Me: "I am, it's kinda nice in here." (Point to head, smirking.)

Him: "Why don't you tell me?"

Me: "It's not important." (Change subject to avoid discussing anything meaningful.)

The problem is, I'm usually thinking all sorts of things that he might actually be interested in hearing about, but there's something about his manner and his attitude that tell me that any confidence I share with him will only be used against me. Which is absolutely stupid because he's the most laid-back person in the world and has made enough mistakes not to judge someone for their stupid thoughts. Except that I still feel like a foolish little girl whenever I'm confronted with an opportunity to share something real with him and that bugs me. I'm not sure if its because he's a bit older than me, or if its because he's one of the most noteworthy Houdinis in my phone, but I know for sure that we've been friends for 5(ish) years and in all that time I think we've had maybe one real honest conversation a year about something fundamental in ourselves. I must have talked to him about this before, but I think that we're both happy keeping my internal monologue to myself.

Interesting point of fact, though, is that he reads my work unflinchingly, even when its about him. That always makes me smile, just a bit. It makes me feel like I don't need to tell him anything because he already knows because he's done his research.

Bwahaha I'm narcissistic

Insomnia does funny things to me. I'm of the opinion that one can get the best writing done while wakeful at silly times at night, but most people find this compulsion I have rather... frustrating. It isn't that I like to sleep during the day, but more that I can't sleep at night. Sleeping at night is like wasted time. I can't stand the thought of wasting time. Night is when good things happen. We dance, we drink, we fuck, and we hope for something better at night. Daytime is for work and truth and all the things that we're trying to hide from. Daytime is when we have to attempt to communicate on a meaningful level with people in order to be considered social and pleasant. At night no one cares if you're inarticulate or aloof.

I've often found that despite all the foolish pretensions we live by, there are few basic connections upon which we build our relationships. Usually it comes down to whether or not you speak the same language, if you're of similar social background, and whether or not you have the same goals. Maybe you can find some wiggle room on one of those factors, but there are very few relationships built without these foundations. I'm told it's called compatibility. I call it bullshit.

I have this friend, one of my very best in the world as it happens, and he's convinced himself that he'll never be in another romantic relationship because he can't find someone who thinks the way he does. He's convinced himself that there's something completely different about his brain that makes him stand apart from his fellow man, and that makes it impossible for him to find someone with whom he can devote himself. I don't know how much of that is just his overly high opinion of himself or how much of it comes from a desire to isolate himself for fear of being hurt. His psychological profile, if such a thing exists, speaks of a highly logical mind that is easily frustrated and bored. (I really must go on and finish reading the DSM IV, it makes me feel much cleverer than the psych majors who used to scorn me.)

Anyway, I'm pretty sure his whole mentality toward relationships is completely wrong. I'm absolutely positive my whole mentality on relationships is completely wrong, but knowing that has only made me more certain that he's fairly wrong too. I don't really want to spend my time with someone who thinks like me... that sounds terrible. Why would I want to spend my whole life in my own head and then, when I'm not working through my own internal monologue, dealing with someone else with the same perspective? Of course, at our core we all have the same perspective: "I'm different! No one but me is as special as I am."

It's that whole Western world-conqueror thing... What can you do?

Dear First Initial, Middle Initial, and Last Initial,

You are not the person you think you are. You're as vain and shallow as the people you try to stand against, and you're even more foolish. Would you like to know why? Because you've never had a thought in your head that wasn't put there by someone else, and you're too stupid to even know it. Every person you've ever met has told you that you're special, that you know things that no one else does, that you've got such a unique take on the world and all the things that make it work, and when we come right down to it you're the same brand of mediocre everyone else is, you just don't know it.

I think it might be good that you don't know this. There's so much about this world that you have no idea about, but you think you do because you read books and travel around. This world that drives you so mad, this world that makes you shout and twitch and shake with frustration is made up of billions of people just like you, and everything you hate about them lives and breathes and thrives in you. I can see right down into the depths of your soul, and I can see where its rotting. There might still be time to cut out the things about you that are failing, but I think you're too lazy and too stupid to even try.

I hope your next salvation is clever enough to turn a blind eye to your shortcomings, because being able to see them as I do makes you even more repellent than you were from the outset. You are not more than your circumstance. You are exactly as you are perceived. You are as boring and mediocre as the people you turn away from, and the layers you wrap yourself in, pretending to have depth and interest, are just different shades of the same boring color.

~L



"He's a really good-looking guy, and I thought he was really cheesy at first-"
"Trust your instincts."
"Sometimes people are layered like that...There's something totally different underneath than what's on the surface."
"And sometimes there's a third even deeper layer that's the same as whats on the top surface... like a pie!"

I'm just too damn pretty...

Today I'm craving something more than Slim Jims and Sunflower Seeds. I want to be nourished in the soul, not the body, and unfortunately there are very few things in the world that can do that. The soul requires something more fundamental than sports and beer and cigarettes... it needs more than the same meaningless conversation about whether or not my team won or lost (we lost by the way) or the latest celebrity gossip.

I don't know if I'm simply bored with everything and everyone around me or if I require something deeper and more meaningful than the usual daily drivel. We shall have to see, though. Watch me make this pencil disappear.

I have a PHD in Horribleness!

Today's piece of wisdom: It's funny when friends get hurt. Also, there is never a bad time to watch Dexter.

Today was Father's Day, and with predictable morbidity, my father turned to me with all the love and pride in the world reflecting in his eyes, and said: "There might not be many of these left for me." My father is not allowed to say these kinds of things. They make me want to hurt dolphins. My father will never die. Ever. It's not allowed.

Oh, what else isn't allowed? Apparently I'm not allowed to maintain a bad-ass pedicure for longer than three days. FUBAR (A hideously antiquated term that I will bring back.) Lucy does not like having to continuously reapply her electric blue nail polish. It makes her cranky.

Went and saw My Cast (shadowcast what usually does Rocky Horror Picture Show) do something unRocky-related. Doctor Horrible's Sing Along Blog...isn't really a shadowcast-type musical, but I was beaming like somebody's mum. I'm always surprised when I go there and I'm still treated like the sparkly little snowdrop of 6 years ago. Still can't believe it even was 6 years ago that I met all of them, that's a trip in and of itself. I don't know how comfortable I am with the idea that there is a group of people out there that I still maintain contact with that remembers me from the Goth phase. (A phase I can't quite shake but don't subscribe to as strictly as before.)

Ongoing project to retcon the old Beauty Blog into something approaching a real blog is not going well. I'm working tirelessly to deliver up-to-the-minute information about the latest tips and trends, which of course means that I'm doing absolutely nothing. Well, not doing absolutely nothing, really, because I have given myself a lovely manicure (yay, my nails are growing back!) and I have redone my makeup pallet to give me more of a "I'm too gorgeous to wear makeup" kind of vibe, rather than the electric blue of the past few weeks. I've also cut way down on the shimmer/glitter, if you want to know.

Also, repairs to pretty white dress that was broken several weeks ago have been a huge success. Black trim was added without incident, and now dress may be worn with black leggings and black boots without mixing too many metaphors. Current project: Makeup Tutorial ala youtube, to be posted on my Examiner page to be posted when I can figure out how to make image capture work on sister's webcam. If I receive even one email asking me to show off my parts there will be consequences of the most brutal and Karmic kind.

Stay tuned, you crazy cats. The boys from Quadrant 44 with their vicious metal hounds don't come around here no more... but you still should.

A brief discourse on alien psychology...

So I was having a conversation with a girl at a party (it happens sometimes) and she was telling me with complete authority that all about Europeans don't bathe or brush their teeth or shave parts as much as Americans do. I smiled and told her, "I'm pretty sure you're mistaken... for the most part. I've never met a single European who fit that description." She shook her head and told me that one time she met a girl who was from Switzerland (or Sweden or Germany, she couldn't remember and now neither can I) who bathed once a week and rarely washed her hair AND had nasty long armpit hair. My response was "Are you really basing your entire opinion of Europeans on that one encounter?" She nodded. Either she was incredibly stupid or incredibly drunk, but in either case I'm beginning to think that my brain must be transplanted from some other higher life form.

I say this because not ten minutes later another woman, who was middling-aged and quite intoxicated, insisted that there's cocaine in Red Bull... I asked her if she was thinking of the energy drink called COCAINE, which is no longer available in stores, but still available online and (as far as I know) narcotic free... but Drunk Cougar was absolutely insistent that there's cocaine in Red Bull and that if you drink it you will ABSOLUTELY get addicted to it. I sipped my Vodka/Red Bull with increasing disdain but indulgence. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I'm not always the cleverest person in the room, I just use my brain more than some.

I should find some other uses for my amazing brain. Maybe I'll work on my book some more.

Today's insult to injury....

So I got an email today from a betting company in Gibraltar asking me to come in to interview for a Customer Service position. I applied for the position in February. Funny old world, isn't it?

Beauty Blog updates

Hello, all! I hope you're all doing well. So, I'm taking a small time out from my moping and depressing thoughts to let you all know that this blog is going to be converted from a beauty blog to a personal blog. All of my beauty reviews and advice will be viewable here

I'll also be including this link in my profile here, in case you need to update bookmarks etc. For those of you who wish to continue checking this blog, it will be updated with various things, from journal-type entries to poetry, to short stories... pretty much anything I come up with at the time. Anyway, please enjoy my new blog, and my hideously self-indulgent entries to follow.

He doesn't want me here....

I'm here in Other Country, a little trapped, as my original exit strategy has failed, and I know for sure he doesn't want me. Not that it matters, not that it changes anything, not that it means anything to anyone but me, but he doesn't want me. He doesn't want to be with me, and he doesn't want me here and I just want to die a bit.

It might sound ridiculous or cliché or pathetic, (probably and most likely all of them) but knowing that the person with whom I not only saw a future with, but the person I loved above all others not only doesn't want me, but he doesn't want to see me or look at me... none of it... I feel like there’s an enormous hole inside me and nothing will fill it and nothing will make it better, and all I want to do is curl into a little ball and forget there was ever anything about me worth loving... because there isn't.

Thing is, I know exactly how horrible and stupid I sound. I can't stand the words I'm typing -- they make me physically ill. I don't want to languish in my own foolishness, but I am. I am because I loved this man with all my heart. At times I fancied I could see a future with him. I might not have been ready for the actuality of it, but the idea of getting married and settling down and growing old with someone didn't seem so terrible when I thought I was going to be doing it with him. And he didn't see any of that, and he doesn't want any of that with me and there's nothing for it except tears and goodbyes and I can't stop crying and I can't bear to say goodbye. There is not one part of me that is okay with this, not one part of me that doesn't hurt.

Ladies, an announcement

Stop checking your cell phones to see if they're still working. Just because he isn't calling doesn't mean your phone is broken.

That was mainly directed at myself, but its pretty sound advice overall, I think.

An Ununique Sorrow; Musings of a woman who did not have a choice

You don’t know it but I’m sorry.
I’m not sorry for the things I did wrong,
I’m sorry for that which I must do.
I don’t know if you have any idea how difficult it is,
How very hard it is, for me to say this to you.
I don’t know if you’ll ever fully appreciate
How profoundly our parting has affected me.
Mine is not such a unique pain,
But ours was a unique paring,
So in that I feel gratified.
I don’t regret a single moment we spent together
You were exactly what I wanted.
I had never considered the consequences of forever
Until the day I decided I wanted to spend forever with you.
I wish you had been taken from me
That you had not been given the choice
Because nothing is more damning
Than knowing that the person with whom I saw a future...
A lifetime of…something...
Saw nothing in me.
There is not one part of me that does not feel your loss
And there is not one part of me that is not yours.
And though it was your choice to leave
It is mine to grieve.
So I’ll turn myself to stone,
Burn myself up,
Break myself down
And forget that I wanted to spend my life with you
Because to remember is too great a burden for me to bear.
And every moment from here until eternity
Will be spent remembering a child we never had
And a future we never made,
And a love you let go,
And you won’t know it…
And for that I am so very sorry.

Off topic entirely

Nothing, really, just general feeling terrible about myself thoughts. My boyfriend of two years (with whom I had frustratingly vivid visions of a future) broke up with me two weeks ago. We've been doing the long-distance thing for a while, and had plans to move in together this summer.... Now we don't. I'm the ijot who put her life on hold for the man I loved. I'm the absolute muffin who knew he was unreliable and immature and prone to bouts of frozen-feet. I'm going to Other Country at the end of May to get my stuff back. I kind of hate everything right now, except cigarettes and whiskey, that is. (Possible hilarious musings on how whiskey is what people drink when they really hate themselves may follow.)

And since I hate everything, I'd like to add that my ceiling is raining spiders. The nasty little buggers that bite and make you swell up and turn funny colors. Like I really needed to feel even worse about myself, now I'm being bitten by spiders and turning funny colors.

So what did Lucy learn? Dating English boys leads to insomnia, nicotine addiction, and spider rain. Aren't those the first signs of the apocalypse?