Tonight...

I vomited like rose petals. But that's not getting in the way of anything.

;0

Enough irony...

To poke an eye out.

I've been trying for some interweb man-dates for about a week now. When I was seeing Kyle there were boys everywhere in real life; now there's none in real life and none on the computer. Or, maybe two of them. Who knows.

What absolute lameness, though.

Oh.

The ex just dropped off my shit, and picked his up. His hair was cut, and he was freshly shaven. Either he was on his way to somewhere important, or he wanted to look good. I had wanted to look good. So he'll maybe ponder what he's missing. Also, supposed to go out with pals but now I'm not so sure about that.

I'm crying just a little, and I don't know why.

Idiot.

The exbf obviously does NOT realize that with just a little bit of cooperation he could have ended this relationship on one of the most positive notes ever. Granted, most of my relationships have ended with very little fallout, so I guess I'm sort of up for this sort of thing, but ALL I want is to get rid of his clothes, and get my CD and money back.

For revenge, I would like to have every stripper and bartender in the city turn on him and his friends.

And, if he'd only taken care of this shit real fast in the first place, I'd have foregone any revenge at all.

Stupid fucker.

Vortex! Whirlpool! Flushing Action!

While I often get uncomfortable reading other people's "vortex of self-pity" type posts, I'm flailing pretty bad, emotionally speaking, so somehow, somewhere in this post I'll hopefully shit out a kernel of meaning that will make me go "Oh!" and move on with life.

There's that whole problem where bad things happen at once, and since I'd known for weeks (in the back of my head) that I needed to initiate the breakup sequence [5-4-3-2-heartbreak!], I decided that since other Bad Things were happening I may as well get it over with just to deal with everything at once. It could have been a bad decision, as this morning's almost complete numbness to life and obligations meant I laid in bed semi-conscious while the volunteer event I've been looking forward to since spring passed me by.

I didn't even shower. After the House of Good Names, I've been a pretty fanatic showerer.

I think one major problem is that, with the anxiety bit going unassisted, the depression bit seems even worse because, while I'm not sure I'm ever actually happy on lithium, I do seem to be depressed quite a bit. So even though it does have some good effects, it no longer works for me. At all. So problem #1 is just getting into the clinic and hanging on until then.

There's also the problem that, while at the beginning of the relationship I was being super understanding because I knew how hard it was for Kyle to juggle everything, he seemed to want to be with me. But then that last email implied that he'd never had time for a relationship, he just didn't know how to tell me- which is so ridiculous that it's either 1) not true and I'm just panicking, or 2) he really was just using me for sex which he said was not true. Or implied. I actually erased his emails pretty quick because having reminders of him felt distasteful to me.

There's more, but I don't even have the energy to evaluate all that. Now every time I drink juice (and I'm craving some right now) I'm going to think of him. That's the worst part: the juice. If I could just drag myself out of a complete malaise I'm sure I could go do something constructive like take a walk or write in the park (I'm behind on my NaNoWriMo), but it's hard to claw through.

Well!

It lasted about 2 hours longer than "this", and now it's over there's a surprising sense of relief. I don't care how cute and smart a boy is, I learned before that what looks awesome on paper doesn't usually translate to awesome in real life.

Mom told me awhile ago that one of her major regrets is not teaching my brother and me to rely on our intuition and instincts. Sometimes it's hard to even recognize intuition, but this time it was slapping me in the face for at least a week and a half. It's not that I didn't rely on it; it's that I didn't want to deal with it in the first place. *I* wasn't the one who wanted out, but I'm also never a person to try and force a relationship into a place it's not meant to go. If a man can step into a relationship he should be able to step back out, with honesty and forthrightness to the woman he is seeing. That's what hurts- the thought that even though Kyle liked me (he better have), he stayed even though he didn't want to. Why does that hurt? Should I be flattered somehow that he tried to tough it out? It just makes me mad. It makes me feel DECEIVED. And being deceived means there was no respect, no caring... I guess that's what hurts.

On the bright side, now I can lose 10 pounds, get gussied up, and loiter in book stores looking for a new and better one.

(Ok, still hurting.)

Oops

You know how sometimes you spend 2 days straight writing and saving, but not sending, drafts of an email? And how it's going to the one person you need it to sound perfect for, so you keep polishing and retrying and trying again? Then you FINALLY send it, and 2 minutes later you're on the toilet and the PERFECT sentences float into your head? You know that?

It's like that.

I might softly vomit a little to myself.

I'm definitely going to cry. Vulnerability + nerves = lots of crying.

It was too soon to tell if it would last forever, but I hope it lasts longer than this.

A little depression sinking in.

I don't know how to occupy myself right now without wanting to cry. I could sew my bedroom curtains; hem my pants; work for money; get dressed and go to the store. Nothing sounds all that great, although I know for sure I can't wait until tonight to start caring about life again.

I could pretty easily go whole-hog off my pills right now, but that would cause a bad reaction. Without something to ease the pain I am pretty sure I would just drink. A lot. Having just reread the post about Laura and dad, I am pretty sure that I don't want to do that.

There's a long and a short story to everything. Being a girl, and an introspective self-analytical girl, I usually want to go into the long version. But nobody wants to hear THAT. Well, I sort of emailed it to mom but I haven't heard back (par for the course, it seems). The short version is that I'm pretty sure I'm in a relationship with a person who is significantly less interested in a relationship than I am.

Discrepancy of that sort is never good. I do think it's unfair to expect a complete equilibrium in any partnership (practically impossible), but sometimes I want an indication, any indication, that my SO wants to be, well, my SO. Because watching TV and boning twice a week gets old, fast, no matter how enjoyable it is, if that is ALL a couple does.

A space odyssey.

I remember the last Christmas my auntie Laura sent us all gifts. It was, well, last Christmas. So almost a year ago. Anyway, we all got books. Mine was pretty funny. It has penguins on the cover and is titled something like "How to Make People Think You're Normal". It makes Oregon jokes. Ha.

Dad got a book called "A Million Little Pieces", a memoir about some dude's serious drug abuse problem. Dad got about 10 pages into it and immediately started snorting and guffawing because, as he said, "There's no way. This guy's a liar. He's making it up, and here's why", at which point he launched into every single reason this memoir-write could NOT have done what he said he did. Months and months later it turned out dad was right. It WAS made up. How did dad know? His own somewhat extensive drug history and knowledge of pharmaceuticals (as he likes to call them). He knew what was and was not possible, basically. Even when you're blitzed out of your gourd there are limits to what can happen to you, and dad recognized those limits were being pushed out of bounds by the writer and called it.

Auntie Laura had a pretty extensive drug history as well. Granny likes to think Laura just drank a lot, and maybe smoked some weed, but I remember being young and Laura going in and out of the house, leaving her son with us, with rapid weight fluctuations and totally bizarre behavior. If that doesn't scream "drugs", what does? Well, she often had bizarre behavior. She always reeked like alcohol and sometimes, later, couldn't talk for the slurring and the twitching (which I think was actually from a medication, at a certain point). But Laura loved Oprah, so much, and "A Million Little Pieces" was an Oprah Book Club book, plus I think there was some sort of dig on Laura's part toward dad (if this guy can do it, so can you!), so it became a present.

Auntie Laura died in June of this year, from liver failure. She was pretty torn up, liver-wise, and possibly combining bipolar medications with alcohol and over-the-border Vicodin, which is a recipe for disaster if ever there is one. Dad's about to start 59 days of house arrest; he drove under the influence and assaulted a police officer on the night of Auntie Laura's funeral while mom and family were still in Arizona attending to matters.

Whenever my family tells me I'm like anybody, it's either my Auntie Laura or my dad. Usually I'm the "better days" version of either of them, but every once in awhile I can't help but think my family is just trying to warn me that I've got nothing to look forward to except dying in a trailer in Arizona, or getting tazed by police every couple of months. I have cleaned up my act, 99% anyway, but it's like this constant looming monolith of doom and I'm the monkey rushing for it.

It's the thought that counts?

Some nights I can't sleep and I let those everyday random thoughts boil around in my brain like lobsters in a pot. Tonight I rehashed my least favorite excuse of all time: intentions. Yes, everybody likes to think, Oh, Johnny meant well last night, but it's too bad he got fired from his job. And My Rasputin teaches the NLP concept of positive intentions: All actions come from a place of positive intention, but they may not end up positively. So it is our duty to figure out the positive intention, learn from it, and then in the next situation (Johnny calls into work to be 15 minutes late because he helped a friend with homework, instead of calling in sick because he figures it's not worth the effort), fix it.

Most of the positive intentions are more outward-reaching than the pretty lame Johnny example used above. I'm sure everyone can think of a good example, but here's another one: Jane wants to get her mom a present to make her mom happy with her, and Jane's idea of a perfect present would be a nice new sweater, so this is what she gives her mom. Unfortunately, Jane didn't take the time to figure out what her mom really wanted, which was a new tablecloth. While Jane's mom is pleased at the present, Jane is miffed because her mom isn't raving about it. Jane meant well, but didn't go past the good intention to finding out what the best result would be in the end. Not like you have to ruin a surprise, but it's pretty easy to snoop around and figure stuff like that out.

So, if every action has a positive intention, what about all the crappiness in the world that we so like to blame on pretty much everybody except our immediate selves? Pedophilia is disgusting, but it fulfills a positive intention on the pedophile's part to satisfy his/her inner need. So he/she MEANS well. Is that a good excuse? Granted, there are levels to any behavior. Giving the wrong gift is nowhere near as bad as pedophilia. Everybody gives a bad gift every once in awhile. This should not be punished (we'll go into death for molesters later); but there has to be some way to call people on their misguided good intentions.

To make a small leap, this is why I find the label of "hate crime" a little dubious. I could easily cause problems for someone by upping a simple assault into a hate crime assault. Should I do so? No. If they came at me yelling anti-Semetic comments, would I then report it as a hate crime? I'm not sure you can; I think it's a designation police make. Because no matter what the motivation (the positive intention) is, we as people in general can only judge the RESULT of the intention, not the motive. I can SEE and PROSECUTE an assault case. If there are no witnesses either way, can we prove it is a hate crime? There are some clearcut ones, don't get me wrong (graffiti and bombings and such like), but the end RESULT is the same. Either we judge every single crime based on supposed motive, or none. "Crime of passion" is a careless designation as well; I don't care if it's been planned for 4 years or 4 seconds, a murder is a murder and a beating is a beating.

Part of this was brought on by reading an article on how women talk. I want to have a Talk with someone soon, and I realized that all the sentences I've been rehearsing in my head were filled with this "woman talk": self-deprecating, vacillating, unsure. That made me mad at myself. My positive intention is to state my opinion on a particular subject, and elicit the other person's opinion on the same. I mean very well with this future conversation, but I believe it will go awry if I speak too "womanly". The end result will be influenced, I am sure, by how I state the words, and I can guarantee I will be judged not on my good intentions, but on the result of the conversation.

Trite but true: Actions speak louder than words. And in my world, actions are results while words are intentions; I'd much rather get results than be left floating around in intentions.

Myello.

It IS a good idea to have a public blog for public posts.

Thusly: When working with tulle, it is good to keep in mind the intended girth of one's hips and knees, as improperly worked tulle can, in fact, add bulk and discomfort that draws away from one's sweet robot costume in general.