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May. 19th, 2011

I might be incapable of not being a pathetic human being.

Why can I not come to the simplest conclusions?

And when others can for me... I always have to depend on them for it. I never learn to think for myself. I always go back to being a moron.

What happens when the bad things end?

What am I supposed to feel? Relief, elation?

Why am I never prepared for the work ahead?

Did I really expect sunshine and rainbows? Because I think I did.

I refuse to toughen up and put my big girl panties on. You ALWAYS need your big girl panties.

Told you I was a spoiled brat. And that it was my doing. I still don't think I have to be an adult, that there's an easy way out.

And I always need someone to tell me, no, actually, you H A V E it pretty easy. Quit your bitchin and just do your job.

Why is this so hard for me to get right? Time and time again, I always miss the simplest answers! And I want to find my way out of the cycle on my own, because I seem to be a picky little bitch who can't take other people's advice.

I don't understand me, and everyone else seems to, and I get stuck on that. Stuck stuck stuck.

I've become Marie. I want so badly for people to pity me, to feel sorry for me, to tell me exactly what I want to hear because, for some reason, this makes me feel acknowledged, wanted and cared about.

Yet, I am so blessed as to have wonderful friends who put up with my bullshit and always drag me out of the mud and put me back on track because I'm helpless to do so.

And I have the gall to feel insulted and hurt because I should at least be able to understand myself better than anyone else, and I never manage it. It's all empty, hurtful arrogance.

Yes, my boss is neurotic.

But it's my own neurosis I ought to be worried about.  I am so gullible I believe every emotion I feel is the end-all be-all of my entire existence.

I genuinely do.

How can I expect myself to find the right answers if I can't even detect when one is wrong?

How have I not seen how emotionally volatile and driven I am?

Okay. Okay. Calm down. C A L M  D O W N. This is your problem, isn't it? Okay, first of all, let's try addressing the cause behind the emotion.

I've been told by someone perceptive, if a little fed up with me and my fickle ways, that I'm being ungrateful for what I have and for everything that has improved since I left my old job. I don't come home ranting and raving, I don't hole up and not talk to anyone, I don't spend days off and time between shifts in sheer terror of returning only to lose my job. I look healthier.

And this upset me, because I've been worrying myself over this. But my worries aren't founded on as much as I'd like to think. And this upset me because I felt bad, genuinely and inescapably bad about needing someone else to point out what should have been obvious. And upset that I had taken so much for granted. Hell, I'm still upset. I've been an idiot.

So I'm taking this feeling of being upset and thinking that this, THIS is what things really are: that I should be upset with myself, that I AM an ungrateful bitch in every area of my life, that I'm a horrible, negligent, spoiled ungrateful person. Why am I here, at all, if I can't even tie my own shoes without needing someone's help?

And I'm bitter, because I keep trying to break the cycle and it always ends like this, right after I've started thinking, "Hey, I'm on to something!"

Cue the old resentments!

And I get so caught up in the storm, so caught up in my perceived purity, my perceived victim status, feeding the self pity and looking for reasons to push it one step further.

But if I calm down, if I stop looking for a second for flaws to improve in myself, I can see that she's right, and that there's no need for me to berate myself. I don't need to feel guilty. I actually need to calm down and let myself feel relief, to let myself be content with this job in spite of its flaws. When I'm panicking, it feels hopeless, because achieving perfection IS hopeless. It doesn't exist, unless you count God, and he's not something you achieve for yourself. He comes to you.

My friends, my family, my God all love me in spite of my flaws. Yet there's no love in me for myself. I love other people selfishly, probably to try making up for the fact that I don't love myself, so I feel like I need others to love me. Because I don't, and for some reason, they do.

Why do they love me? Why do they even like me? I'm not a very good friend, and I cry "WOLF WOLF WOLF" all the time when I come across life's grumpy golden retrievers. Sometimes I'm cute, sometimes I'm funny, though I don't personally see it. I half-ass everything, I don't do my share of the chores.... Do you see what I'm doing here, again? I'm finding all the bad things, and it's not my job that's unhealthy - it's ME. My mind is unhealthy - or more, my ATTITUDE is unhealthy. The glass isn't just half-empty, it's "not half-full" and "is practically gone, nobody ever leaves me anything" blah blah blah.

You know what, I'm sick of my shit and I think it would take the kind of generous personality I'm vastly unworthy of  to NOT be sick of my shit.

I'm never satisfied, never happy, never never never no no not.

un and non and in are my primary prefixes.

Okay, self, let's do a little exercise:

Name three positive things about today. Three things that reflect positively upon you. No sarcasm. No belittling them. Examples:

"I didn't kill my boss today, that's something."
"I didn't forget a table, but that's not much of an achievement."

Three things, self, that you can't look at and feel angry, sad, depressed, or guilty about, or feel like an idiot because of.

Go. (hit the (.) while you're thinking lest you forget to stay on track)


All things considered, and despite some stressful moments, things went pretty smoothly today, even though I made some mistakes.


I finished all my responsibilities as the morning person and even started a cleaning chore after I opened the bar before it got busy.


When the sun started to slant over the pastry case, I went to lower the blinds so the chocolatey things wouldn't melt, and bosslady doubted that it needed to be done, so I pointed out that the sun was shining right on the dessert bars topped with melty chocolate. So then she goes, is that even the right window? I told her I thought so, and she's all, Okay, try it. So I tried it. and I lowered the right blinds to block the exact beam of sunlight endangering the product she's told us to lower the blinds in the evenings to protect.

And then, she goes, "you know, of this whole part of the city, we are the ONLY shop who doesn't have a building taller than two stories across the street. Nobody else has this problem."

On my walk home, I walked along the street the shop is on instead of going immediately back to the street the train line is on. I noticed at least TWO blocks of businesses who didn't have buildings across the street from them taller than two stories to block the sun as it sank toward the west.


I almost let her dissatisfaction with everything become my dissatisfaction with everything.

And all I had to do was take my head out of my ass (read: C A L M  D O W N) long enough to see it objectively.


This year's seems to be "One Freaking Day at a Time"

Yeah, okay, okay.

My life the past six years is going to be turned on its head come October. I am not excited. I want it over with. Odds are stacked against me: I will probably be moving and leaving my best friend, and the person I love the most all rolled into one, really, behind.

Not that I won't visit as often as I can.

I feel like I'm abandoning her.

I feel like I'm leaving behind the most wonderful thing in my life.

But on my own, I cannot survive in this city. Not when all the independent housing consist of rooms filled with strangers, cat allergies, or potheads.

Or all three.

I have no love for Portland. I have every love for her. But if I'm not able to live with her, and I'm not able to live with Bekka or Marjorie or Nathan or any of the other people that were possibilities, then it is time to bid Portland adieu.

I wish I could take her with me everywhere for the rest of my life.

I wish I could go with her everywhere for the rest of my life.

The dead-end jobs end here.

The empty "somedays" of going back to school will be through.

I have learned a lot from this city. Maybe one day I'll return as someone bigger than what it could make me at entry level.

Until then it's one day at a time.

I do not want to leave her. She has saved me from myself countless times.

I really, really do not want to leave her.

Or maybe it's that I don't want her to leave me.

That seems more likely.

It explains my lack of discernment between me moving to an apartment three blocks away from her and her husband's house and me moving eighty miles away to my parents' house.

I don't want her to go. I don't want her to go. I don't want her to go.

I don't love her the way most people think when I say it. Hell, it used to be a sexual thing but it's not even that anymore. She's home. When she laughs, all is well. When she's happy, and sharing anecdotes and jokes, the sound of her voice, her speech patterns.

They've become my home.

I'll go back to my old home, then, and visit her and only her when I can. I don't want Portland anymore. Maybe I never did. I took what I needed, the work experience, the limits it tested, and I am ready to go and get on with things. I have seen her through to her engagement and I'll see her through to her wedding. I'll see her settled in their house, and I'll stay in touch, always, and visit and stay the night, always.

But Portland is not my future.

I always go by my instincts. The one time I didn't, I realize now it would have been safer to stay.

I was reluctant to leave Borders, even when I was already out the door. Something still calls me to it. I love that work more than I can say. One of the greatest and simultaneously the most harrowing experiences of my life. If I'd have stayed, it would have been a clean, tidy break with Portland in October. Nearly four years of service to a failing book business, and shoop. Gone.

Now, it is not so simple.

My current job is what it is. I have not bonded with any of the crew that much, except perhaps one with whom I share a secret love of coffee. It's not a personal business, and it has little need for the things I love to do most. I don't like to serve food. I like to sell things. To show people what I have discovered in the merchandise, the good and the bad. The adventure is gone.

LJ was right, in a sense, I would be good in sales.

And that woman was a lot of things, but she had damned good instincts and she was damned astute and NEVER wrong. Dramatic, perhaps. Never. Wrong.

I feel like if I hadn't burned my bridge there so thoroughly, I'd go back.


No matter what, that's the month of reckoning, if you will. That's the point of absolution. That is when, regardless of where I am, my two week's notice will go in. Depending on when the lease runs out. Maybe even in September. Maybe closer to November. I don't remember now how it works.

Honestly, I feel bad for my coworkers, for my bosses who have been accommodating and understanding about certain things, but this is the end of my time here. It's time to take the step backward that is the step forward. Time to stop living at the convenience of others.

We will pack our belongings, all, paint the walls white anew, and go to our new old homes.

I will hear my parents voices in the evening again, and the sound of their laughter. I will be able to sneak over to Aunt Char's and chat her up and taste all the food she's dreamed up. Nice perks.

I will go back to school and put my life on the table and start molding it.

No one will ever ask me to smoke pot again. No pressure to get laid, or to hit on people or whatever. I will not miss you, Portland, you and your "adult" expectations. I'm tired of sex, and I am tired of drugs, and I'm tired of being weird because I'm 26 and a virgin. Whoop-de-fuckin-doo. Once that comes out, it becomes me and I'm this anomaly. I won't miss that.

Not a single bit.

One day at a time.

That's the only way, for someone so melodramatic as me.

Note to self

don't secretly film your friends and then put it on youtube and tumblr so you can show them. They are more self-conscious than you think and will be intensely uncomfortable with the publicity, however small.

don't do this. no matter how bored you are.

no really. they don't like it. now shut up and drink your damn beer.


Watching movies

I have trouble watching movies when other people in the room have loud outbursts about things having nothing to do with the movie. It's like those ads in the theatre, where the dialogue is drowned out by someone on their cell phone.

Can't focus on all these things at once, dammit, is it the movie or is it this new thing on Tumblr? @_@

Diet Coke

Old habits. They die hard. I have a lot of self-loathing right now, and I really want to talk to someone about a lot of things. How I was in love with my best friend whose impending marriage will result in her buying a house with him and therefore upending my entire life in this city, how my job being good, solid employment with good pay warrants me no extra attention now that I'm out of the job I could complain about, how I bottle things up and never talk about myself, how being inarticulate and impatient makes it hard for me to do so anyway without giving people the wrong idea and fucking it all up....

I want to talk to someone. A shrink, perhaps? No, they are very expensive. A psychologist would be preferable though, but it's out of the question.

I also want my roommate to always be my roommate, I also want my pms to not involve something a lot like rage issues and / or chronic depression and / or severe self-loathing.

I also want someone in my life who values me as much as I value them without a boyfriend to shake up the balance.

Part of me wants to move back home with my parents, get a job down there, and see if they'll let me stay with them and pay them rent or something until I get my head sorted out and stop feeling useless.

I was flipping through the religious books again today. Because I run to the religion I was raised in when shit hits the fan. it's a very contradictory, hypocritical relationship I have with things. Things like God, and people. Ended up buying one and adding to my financial problems, but I read it a little bit and it was pretty damn close to what I needed to hear. It's a start. I don't know what else to do, but religion isn't something new and risking, it's something old and familiar that I have never been completely comfortable with, and the consequences of me not finding my place in it are so high.

A start is a start I suppose. Why is it that you can't wait to face life until you feel better about at least a part of it?

I feel down, and very alone as a whole.


Dear Writer's Block:

When I get my edge back, I'mma come and shank you.

And I will get it back. I haven't been doing this for fourteen years for nothing, dammit!

Start running, you bastard.



Spirit Day 2010

In loving memory of not just the recent string of teen suicides due to bullying because of homosexuality or appearance thereof, but of their families and all those who have suffered before them.

Butterfly brushes used in my icon were made by a deviantART artist. When I figure out which one (it's been a while) i'll post that information.

I chose the butterfly because of the following:

"There are many symbolic meanings associated with the butterfly.

The Mandarin Chinese word for butterfly is "hu-tieh". "Tieh" means "70 years", therefore butterflies have become a symbol for a long life. In this culture butterflies have also become representative of young men in love.

In the Japanese culture butterflies are thought to be representative of young maidens and marital bliss. Many Japanese families use the butterfly in the family crest design.

Germany has a very unique belief about butterflies. As butterflies can often be found hovering about milk pails or butter churns, they have become associated with witches trying to steal the cream. The German word for butterfly is "Schmetterling", which is actually derived for the Czech word "Smetana" which means "cream".

There are many links with butterflies in mythology from all over the world, many of which, in particular Greek mythology, link butterflies to the human soul. The Ancient Greeks also considered butterflies as the souls of those who had passed away.

In ancient Greek the word for butterfly is "Psyche", which translated means "soul". This was also the name for Eros' human lover and when the two figures are depicted they are often surrounded by butterflies.

In one of the Russian dialects, butterflies are referred to as "dushuchka" which is a derivative of the word "dusha" also meaning soul.

There is also an Irish saying that refers to the symbolic meaning of butterflies. This saying is: "Butterflies are souls of the dead waiting to pass through purgatory".

There is a small town in Mexico that also associate butterflies with souls. It is to this town that Monarch Butterflies migrate every year, around the holiday known as the Day of the Dead. The people of this town see these butterflies as the returning souls of the deceased."

I'm rollin with the Ancient Greeks on this one. May their souls find peace.


Period is two weeks fucking late. Job sucks. Roommate trains dog and promptly decides to ignore the signals she trained it to give. Maybe I'm freaking seeing things that aren't there. I hope I am. It's just getting really tiring to watch, and enormously hard to cope with when the animal decides in front of me as well to forget all its training because no one bothered to show the dog it was worthwhile. >( Lots of negative, cranky, restless shit in my head right now, as well as a severe concern for my own fucked finances. It's friggin ROASTING outside lately, a dreadful sideaffect of the brief taste of hell known as summer, and I can't seem to calm down or sit still long enough to meditate, much less find a quiet place in which to do it.

gonna go back to pulling out my hair now. TT_TT


too much

Things are beginning to look to stay that way. From the deterioration of how my coworkers and I are treated at my job to my grandma's passing Sunday and the subsequent pain to struggling against the internet to submit applications (seriously, Firefox, LET IT REDIRECT) to the pain of everyone else around me as they deal with their own Lows... Well, the one physically present anchor I have in all this is starting to waver, starting to feel dejected and uncared for.

And oh, that's not it at all. I love you dearly sweetie, and don't ever think that I don't and I know you couldn't expect any excitement for your accomplishments or gratitude for them but I wish I'd have been able to take you a little less for granted in this maelstrom of pain because no one likes to feel crappy and no one likes to feel crappy AND alone.

It's hard when everyone needs you to be their rock because you're so good at it and never gives anything back because you give it so easily. And I know when you told me that you weren't lashing out or trying to subtly make me feel guilty, but that you were venting a little, looking for a little love and reassurance. And by deities I hope I told you something that helped a little, because of all the things I've fucked up the words of this week, I hope to every god in existence that you were the exception.

I know I've fucked up and dug myself one hell of a hole with the job thing and I hardly ever have anything to be happy about to share with you, and I'm so sorry that you've had to carry me in spite of your own pain through all of this, through all of your bad days and unfortunate circumstances.

I know I'm dramatic and silly and so, so selfish and self-centered and it really hit me hard being with my family for the wake and the funeral. I don't know how to go about fixing it yet. It's hard to let go of the urgent need to be loved and cared for and begin to show that same compassion and kindness to others instead. The golden rule and all that. When I'm able to do that, I'll be a better friend to you, I know it. Please let me heal the hole left by Grandma's passing and let me try again when I'm operating on less than a dead battery. Please, please. Nothing but the funeral itself could have driven the point so far home as saying goodbye did, so it's unfair, I know, to be more depressed after than I was before. Please don't despair, don't take it so hard because I can't be happy about anything right now, or excited or anything. I'm trying to put a happy face on it, but it's not working. Please don't take it personally, please don't.... not any of it... You're the only thing that holds me together when it gets down and dirty like all this has...

oh my

I noticed it first in my writing, though I wasn't sure what I was looking at. Can still hardly believe that when I marveled at it, I chalked it up to my usual insufficiencies and decided to see what I could learn from it. You know going through the damn motions.

Then I started noticing it in the nuances, in the little details. Small vices, little allowances accepted in place of things I really wanted.

From there, in the words to other people. "I'm going to be ready," I said earlier today. "I'm going to be ready to take over when she leaves."

Because the new supervisor isn't cut out for the job at this location, and management is blind to it. I could do better, I could. It's a game I know quite well. I'd need little training, even.

But dammit, that's when I noticed it!

Reading, in fact, a romance novel whose author voice I"m not too snobbish to enjoy. It came to some victory tastebud swapping and I thought to myself

"How unnecessary. Is the victory just an excuse for smut?"

Oh dear. Oh Rachel me, Oh dear oh dear. Oh my. You know good and god-damned well that it's not. Welcome, you shut in, to the limits of your imagination.

It was not a good feeling.

Vices. Middle-aged women and underachievers have vices. People who are dissatisfied and cannot get what they really want have vices. I don't want to be a person who has vices. I don't want to be a person that goes through the motions. BOTH inhibit growth.

But why do I want to grow?

Well, I want to eventually meet someone with whom I"ll eventually feel camaraderie and then fall mutually in love with.

Wow, sounds pretty cliche when I put it like that. Not even the best actors could save a script like that. Not even the Immortal Bard could spice that up. Not without adding a few potholes along the way.

So why do I feel suddenly, instead of so lost and morose and facing a thousand roads that mean nothing, so alive? So vital?

It's another turning point.

Truth is, I don't want vices. I don't want the vice that my job is, I don't want the vice that my once-a-week-shift is, and I don't want crackers and tea every night before bed. I don't want to spend my paychecks on little things like Jamba Juice and I don't want to be spending my hours dreaming about things I'll "never" have like a cafe of my own, like a better job, like my own books in print and my name on the New York Times Bestseller list. Because I do want that. I can't even begin to deny it. I want that.

I want, more than these things, someone to love. Someone in my life just for me.

The Immortal Bard, not that I can even pretend to know him so well, would through a hitch or two into my equation. So I'll let him. Shakespeare, give me something good. No more compromises, pal. How would you shake it up?

I need to do something hard. Something that my entire nature balks against the promise or symptoms of.

The idea of going out and talking to people - in bars, in cafes, scares me. Where do you begin? How do you not begin judging everything on sight? Oh, that's a seedy looking place. Better move along. Don't want anyone that hangs out there.

There's the idea of going back to school. Part time. Get a loan, work, pay the rent. I'd graduate in seven years, maybe eight. Arduous, expensive, and my interests (English lit) would not pay off. Hell, I"m not even interested in English Lit. I"m interested in writing my novels

That's it. I don't care about anything but what I can make of myself by myself. But sitting right here, right now knowing what I know this second I know that my writing will look so immature and silly when I get a little more exposure to the world. Positive exposure, not negative. You don't need to step outside to see the bad. You just need to read a paper, turn on the news, pick up a copy of Mother Jones and steel your nerves.

And I know what it is to be hard, to be callous and take my beatings. I know what working for nothing feels like, and it feels a lot like my current job. I know what being a badass feels like, and I know what it feels like to know being a badass means nothing.

But me? I'm closed off, small. Unsure, absolutely afraid and with no knowledge of what I need to do.

I need to get out there and FIND that someone to love. Stupid sounding, and absolutely insane, that. The population of this city alone is daunting, and its number of bars, cafes, students and blue-collar workers nothing less. How can I jumpstart my life? Because all of my social connections are through work. And my best friend, bless her heart and soul, had so much of her fill of social networking in school that she's got no desire for it now. She's a complete person. I feel less than that, and it grates.

Can't hit a nail on the head if you've never held a hammer. I know I'm going to bruise my thumbs doing this, bruise them by looking, aiming, and failing over and over. Until I pick a face in the crowd that's a dead ringer for exactly what I want.

I should have been asleep three hours ago. This is so ugly and big, so paralyzing and intimidating, this hunt for where I went wrong and how to fix it -- alone. I am no one's priority. And on top of that, I am so dramatic. Especially when I'm depressed. That people face anything for the sake of someone they love... It's hard to imagine that. Difficult. Impossible. I don't know what that is because my loves have never been requited. Sometime life asks you to be ready for anything by demanding you be prepared to let go of everything. Everything must be transient, unnecessary, baggage. Stuff that you could come to terms with ending up on the wrong plane. You have to look at everything this way, because when you're looking for Home you don't want to miss it by superimposing a previous obligation, priority or 'necessity' on it and scratching it off the list before it's even had a chance to take root.

I cannot retreat into writing for this. I cannot retreat anywhere.

That is some scary shit.

And I know it gets worse before it gets better. Dammit.

Now, now I feel like crying. 

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