There and Back Again

My friend is calling this "Julie and Julia, but with Eddie Izzard."  I am calling this "recapturing--or, capturing, actually, since I haven't ever really had it--the will to live."  It's both those things, except more.

It's like this: in six months I will be twenty-two, and I will have never really lived.  A couple of days ago, I told my mother if I didn't dig out of the financial and emotional hole I am in, if I don't get my life together and get started moving forward toward my goals, if I don't get out of my head and into the world, I am probably going to end up killing myself.  Literally killing myself, something I have never seriously considered before.  It would be a waste of life if I can't get it together soon.  I know if I don't do this now, I am likely never to, so I might as well end it.  I don't want to end it.  I don't want to die.  But, I can't exactly call what I am doing living.  I have been sad for a long time, standing still for even longer.  I have to start moving forward.  I have to start living.  All my life I have been dreaming of doing crazy, incredible things because I have been trying to find my own will to live, my own survival mechanism, my own fight instead of flight instinct.  This is the time.  I start this now.

I am giving myself until my twenty-second birthday, July 15, 2010, to start living.  I have a list of things I want to do before that time, as well as a couple of partners in crime to find adventures with.  All of it is going to culminate in the ultimate show of self-confidence and self-belief.  I am going to do a stand-up routine on my birthday.  It is something that I have always secretly wanted to do, secretly hoped I'd be good at, but never truly believed I'd do.  I never thought I would want to put myself out there like that.  Stand-up is a scary, scary thing.  You can kill, yes, but most likely you'll die.  And the silence and the desire to please and the fear and flop sweat is just absolutely terrifying.  Why would I ever want to do that to myself.  Well, because I have always loved being on stage, and have always had a performer's heart, even if I've never had the confidence or the will.  I think I could do it, I think I could be funny, and I think if I am ever going to survive in this world and find who I am, if I am ever going to accept myself and become something, I have to believe I can do it and try.

Eddie Izzard says you have to believe you can do it, see it happening, before it can.  That, of course, is also what many books say on the matter of achieving anything, and I don't disagree.  I have to believe in myself, I have to believe in something, because for so long I haven't bothered.  I have to have faith, put some serious stock into myself, have some fucking hope, and believe.

Why Eddie Izzard, you say?  He's my favorite comedian, and if I could aspire to be anything in my one performance, it would be to be like him.  Of course, I am not trying to actually be like him, I think that's considered impersonation.  I guess I would just like to do him proud.

So, for the next six months, I am going to do everything I can to live.  I am going to write about it, I am going to share it with the world, I might even try to tell Eddie Izzard--although, I doubt he'll notice.  (He seems busy, is all.)

I am going to capture the will to live, so that I might live, for once in my life.

This is my story of how I took Rock Bottom and turned it into something new.  This is the uphill battle, the acceptance of who I am, and the refusal to quit now when I have so much I could do.

This is it.

Wish Me Luck

My Goal

This is very rough.  The delivery is shoddy, and I have been having a hard time remembering certain points, so I wrote it down.  It's very, very rough.  But, these are a few jokes I'd like to use in my first stand-up routine.  The last is a new addition, and needs work.  There is also one about the cells in your eyes being vampires that I don't have written down.  I'd like to talk about attracting lesbians to myself as well, but I don't think I have enough material to discuss it.  Anyway, like I said, this is the first time I've written anything like this down, and it's very, very shoddy.  Ellipses indicate the segway between jokes. 

My inner child, I have discovered, is a twelve-year-old gay boy.  Yes, I have learned that I am a gay man.  Not a queen gay man or a butch gay man.  I am the slob gay man.  The gay man you think is straight, who dresses okay but is a bit of a mess and one day you see through the “wash me” handwritten note on his back bumper a rainbow flag sticker and you realize, “oh, he’s gay!”  That’s the kind of gay man my inner child is.  He likes to play football and climb trees and swim in creeks and poke dead animals on the side of the road.  Yeah.  And then he goes home, cleans himself up, puts on mommy’s makeup and practices kissing boys on his wrist.  He’s the boy that hangs out with all the other boys at the skate park and secretly flirts with them.  That’s right, he’s flirting, but they don’t know it, because they are twelve year old boys!  He’s the type of boy who will kiss you on the cheek and then take a punch to the gut.  He will kick your ass too.  Even if he loses miserably, he won in here (point to heart).

That’s my inner child.

You have to think, when you’re talking about inner children, what they must be thinking about sex.  They have to be like, “eew!”  “Don’t touch me like that!”  (whispered:) “The counselors at school told me if anyone touched me there I should tell.”  They have to think that’s gross!

I think that’s the true difference between sex and making love.  In sex, your inner child is grossed out, and that little bit of you is distracted.  He’s saying, hurry up and orgasm, let’s get out of here!  You can’t really make a connection, ‘cause he’s standing right there watching!  But making love, that’s a deep, emotional thing isn’t it?  I think it’s deep and emotional because my inner child and your inner child have run off together to play in the sand box.  They teamed up and went to go poke an opossum.  That’s my inner child.  Hey, kid, let’s go poke dead things while they touch each other.  And then me and my boyfriend can have this connection, this moment.  It’s beautiful.

A booty call, though, is devoid of emotion.  That’s because booty calls happen in the middle of the night, don’t they?  Our inner children are sleeping.  You’re free to be as freaky as you want; little Billy is dreaming.  He’s not paying attention!  Go ahead, get crazy.  Just don’t wake the boy.

...

Oklahoma is like a completely separate entity from the rest of the world isn’t it?  I tell people here that my inner child is a little gay boy and they think that’s truly strange.  My friends get it.  My friends in Chicago get it.  “Oh, your inner child is a gay boy? Yeah, yeah, you’re a gay boy.  You’re totally a gay boy.”  They get it!  But, in Oklahoma, they do not.

I don’t think people own televisions in Oklahoma.  Or, they own them, but they don’t really watch what is happening.  They are hearing, but they aren’t listening.  I used to work at a Starbucks, and people in Oklahoma would walk in, look at the menu, look at me, look back at the menu and say, “can I get a grandy carmel machiati?”  And I look at the menu, and look at them, and say, “A grande caramel macchiato? Can you read?”

Seriously.They act like they have never seen the word grande before.  Like it isn’t on the menu at Taco Bell; I know they’ve seen it!  And macchiato just scares the living crap out of them, doesn’t it?  It’s Italian.  Italian is scary.  I-talian, not Italian.  I-talian, it’s hard.

There is a city in Oklahoma called Miam-a, but it’s spelt Miami.  Miami, and they pronounce it Miama.  Miami.  It’s Cuban.  No it’s not.  I’m pretty sure it’s native American or something.

My friend used to work in a shoe shop, and she told me that people used to pronounce the word Nik-ee as nike, which just furthers my belief that Oklahomans don’t own televisions and haven’t since the dawn of time.  Nik-ee.  And pue-ma.  Pue-ma.  It’s puma!  It’s French for cat.  No it’s not.  It’s French for big cat.  No it’s not.  It’s French for really big ass killer cat that lives in the jungle.  I don’t think it’s French.  I think it’s Portuguese.   For shoe.

...

Oklahoma is pretty bad, I think, but I don’t know that it’s as bad as some places.  I lived in Chicago for a while, and I heard some pretty poor grammar while I was there.  English is a different language up there.   I actually heard the word “therre” used in a sentence.  I didn’t know that was actually a word.  I thought Nelly’d made it up.  I heard it.  There was a woman on a bus I took once who apparently was talking on the phone to every member of her family, and every other word was “shit,” or “titties,” or “motherfucker.”  She actually said the word therre, and then she did something truly appalling.  She told her niece, whom I assume couldn’t have been that old, that she needed to stop being such a shit because this woman had raised her since she came “outta her mama’s pussy.”

I didn’t come out of my mama’s pussy.  I am from Bixby, Oklahoma.  I was born of my mother’s womb.  I was brought into this world by the hand of God Almighty and am a blessing unto this earth.  There was no “coming outta a pussy” for me.

Accents, dialects, diction is all different depending on where you are in the country.  For instance, my friend Allison is from Pittsburg.  She was birthed from her mother’s vagina.  That’s the difference! 

No pussy for us.

Yellow is the New Black

I can feel the numbness ebbing.

Today was a mediocre day.  Hardly the type of day-after one would imagine a girl having since hitting rock bottom the day before.  Yesterday, the day in which rock bottom was hit, wasn't the type of day you imagine hitting rock bottom.  None of this is how it should be, but this is how it is.  Today, though, I woke up, didn't I?  I watched an episode of Lost and drank a cup of coffee.  I got out of bed and hugged the dog and had a chat with my mom.  I pulled out the classifieds and started looking for a new job.  After making a list of websites and phone numbers, I got in the shower and started getting ready for work.  I did all of this without thinking, without feeling, without telling myself to move forward.  I knew what I had to do and I did it, and I suppose that is similar to the way a day-after rock bottom should be.  I didn't have the power to send out resumes and call non-stop every place I could.  I had to go to work, I had to keep living like people do.

I can feel my heart beating, in my chest, so I know that I am alive.  But all of these things I did in the morning were washed away when I got to work.  I didn't feel like I was numb, not like I did yesterday, but I didn't feel like I was living.  I felt like I was starting new, but like I wasn't moving.  I wasn't excited for the day, and shouldn't I have been?  It's so strange, because I found out I have four days off in a row this week, so I was happy to learn I could spend it finding a new job.  I even set a goal that I would have one by the time I was back at work.  And, I was working up stairs, closing with people that I liked.  I was smiling at myself, at little jokes and memories of old ones, making myself happy.  I was talking and behaving like normal, like nothing had happened, like I hadn't admitted I would end my life if I couldn't start it soon.  I don't know, looking back, if the behavior was false; I don't think it was, I think I might have truly taken a step forward.  But, my happiness was so fragile, from here seems like it might have been.

I was yelled at today.  Yelled at in front of customers.  It was mean, too, the way he did it, how he said it.  And from someone who I thought would never do that.  I don't know what was going on in his life at that moment, maybe he was taking something out on me--he was in a strange mood all day--but that isn't an excuse.  He didn't know what was going on with me, and his outburst at something I had been told to do by my other manager shattered my little pantomime of normalcy.  The numbness set in.

And then Amanda happened.  Then Amanda gave me a hug that nearly stopped my heart, and all the physical and emotional pain I had evaporated.  It came back later, but lighter, until it slowly ebbed away.  She kept me smiling, and once the night started to settle into itself, I started to smile again on my own.

When we got off, we decided to go get cheap coffee and talk.  I decided to tell her my life story, get it all out there, everything I was feeling, so she could start helping me live again--live for the first time.  We spent thirty minutes hacking away at an inch of ice and shoving several inches of snow from her car.  I took it upon myself to do it.  I made a joke that I am the man; I like to do shit like that because it makes me feel useful, like the hero.  So I did it.  I got clever and found a way to make it work with a tiny, plastic ice scrapper and my un-gloved hands.  I hacked away, laughing at the situation, and at us in it.  I hacked away until I could only laugh.  Laugh at how dull everything has been, how numb everything has been.  I scraped and I shattered and I pulled away until all the numbness I had was in my red and bleeding fingers.  Until Amanda's car was clear of its ice shell.  Until mine started to break away.  And I was laughing, not really caring about the numbness, or the cold, or the fact that I really didn't have to do it, but I needed to do something, so I did.  At one point, I climbed on her hood to shove away snow and get my fingers underneath a sheet I couldn't reach by leaning from the side.  I went out of my way, and I had fun, doing something we all see as a tedious chore.  I had fun, and I kind of made life easier for a friend.  Everything melted away.  I let go and let it.

I told Amanda, for doing that, she owes me friendship for life.  She has to come to my wedding.

She told me she'd send me cookies when I'm deployed.

I'm really glad I found her.  I think that with her, this will be easier.  Changing my life will be easier.  Pulling myself up from rock bottom will be easier because of her.

On the way home, I sang in the car.  I mean, I fucking belted it.  I sang like you do when you know you can sing, when you have nothing to lose, when you open up to the song and just let it take over.  I sang, and after chipping away at ice and telling my whole life story, eating pancakes and throwing around some jokes, I felt like I wasn't imitating life quite as much as I was before.

I told her thank you.  I don't feel quite alive just yet, but the numbness is ebbing away.  I can feel myself waking up.  I told her, "let's keep this up."

How Eddie Izzard, Skeletons, and a Few Adventures Saved My Life

Good Omens

It's days like today that I am not so afraid of believing in God.

I believe in signs, patterns, things happening for a reason.  There are no coincidences in murder investigations; I don't think there are any in life either.  Things happen, there is irony, and there is a pattern, and we just have to see it when it happens.

Today I told my mother that if I didn't make it out of the situation I was in soon, if I didn't pull myself up and make my life into something, that I would kill myself.  I wasn't lying, or being melodramatic.  I was serious; completely serious.  I would take my own life, because there has been nothing in this world that I have bothered to live for, and if I can't get out of this, there never will be.  It will be a waste, all that I have done and all that I could be, a waste.  And I would remove myself from the earth than bother knowing I really wouldn't ever amount to anything.  It isn't meant to be melodramatic; it isn't meant to be "angsty".  In fact, I don't think that I am either of those things.  I am quite literally depressed; the kind of depressed the prescribe Prozac for.  And, though I have never before thought seriously about it--because, you always feel better tomorrow--but if I knew there was nothing to this life, that I was never going to be anything but this, I would end it.  If I knew that all there was for me was to re-learn the same lesson over and over, digging myself deeper and deeper, I would end it.  I am almost to that point.  I have this moment to change it; this moment to pull myself out.  If I don't take this moment, I won't make it, I will die.

I told her that and she looked at me, and she knew I was serious.  And then I went to get ready for work.

I don't want to go to work.  I don't want to throw myself into the same situation day after day; retail will be the death of me, truly, if I don't get out soon.  As I got ready, nothing was right.  I was fidgety, my attitude declining, my eyes welling with tears.  Retail isn't that bad, you say; not enough to make someone want to drive their car into a snow bank just so they can call in.  But, when you know you're smarter than that, when you know there is so much out there you could be doing, when you know that you're holding yourself back, and one of the ways to do it is to piss and moan about retail; retail sucks ass.

So, I was fidgeting with my hair.  Messing it and combing it and straightening then twisting it around my fingers.  I was pulling and shaking my head.  I was clenching my teeth and twirling it in my fingers, but not in the flirty, thoughtful way.  In the way addicts do when they're going sober.  The way mothers do when they're worrying about babies.  The way people do when they think about death.  And I was telling myself to suck it up, suck it in, write about it later and be done with this right now.  But I felt like I was walking to the gallows.  If I went to work today, I was accepting it, my fate.  If I went to work, I was giving up for nothing.  If I went in, I was putting off cleaning up until tomorrow, and I need to clean up today.

I gave up on my hair and threw on a cardigan that has never really fit, but I wanted it because it was yellow.  I love yellow.  Yellow does for me what only beer can do, doesn't it?  I see it, and I think, maybe today.  Maybe I'll be happy today.  On the inside, like I pretend to be on the outside.  With my smile as I tell you how wronged I have been and how fucked up I have made it.  Maybe the color, like the alcohol, will penetrate.  Maybe I will absorb yellow.  It didn't fit like I wanted it too.  A button had come off in the wash, anyway, and every time I moved, another would pull out of it's hole.  So, I ripped it off.  Let it fall to the floor.

I stood in my room, looking at the clothes on the floor, knowing I had nothing to wear that would make me feel worth the trouble.  I wanted to cry.

Pink always makes my cheeks rosy and my lips red.  Facing the mirror in a sweater I love to hate, and sometimes just love, I looked pretty.  I wanted to cry then too.

I have a pimple.  A big, bulgy pimple on the lower, left side of my chin.  The pink brought out the red in that too.  Every day I work to look like I did, in that moment, and I fail.  And today, when I wanted to jump into a cold river and go, I accomplished pretty.  So I resigned myself, into myself, said don't care, don't feel, don't bother, nobody else works in that joint, neither should you.  Tomorrow comes tomorrow, and you can make anything of it that you want.  I went into my room, closed the door, and pulled out make-up.  I didn't want to look pretty, I didn't want to put myself together, I didn't want to care anymore for anything than the bed sheets being pulled over my head and curling myself into darkness.  So I put on foundation, covered up the pimple, lined my eyes, and glossed my lips.  I resigned to the numbness, and let myself look nice when I felt like I should never look nice again.

And then I went downstairs to an empty house.  I packed a lunch--a sandwich, some carrots, some cookies--and told my friend what I had said to my mother an hour before.  If I don't figure this out soon, get this mess that is my life together, I will kill myself.

I had a new voice mail from a call I'd missed while making little bags out of plastic wrap.  It was my manager. They where closing the store an hour before I had to clock in.

I believe in signs.  I believe in omens.

I cried in the kitchen, and I thanked a god I am too afraid to believe in.  But, of course god is another story.

Something happened today.  I hit rock bottom.  And then something came and picked me up.

Thank You

Don't Mind the Bullocks

I don't know if getting a no-call-no-show because no one is answering the phone counts as adding a little "-ing," but it looks as if it's happening.

At this point, I am continuously checking the weather to see if it is getting better or worse.  I am not doing this to see if maybe I can go in later.  No, I am doing this as justification.  I want it to get worse so that it justifies my not wanting to go in.  Of course, because I keep looking at it and worrying over it and how it makes me look, the weather seems to not be getting worse.  Isn't that how it always is, though?  They tell us it is going to be very bad and then it isn't so terrible out there.  So, now I am starting to feel guilty, and I shouldn't.  I make less than eight dollars an hour.  It will take me more than an hour to drive through this.  I am not even working a full eight hour shift.  I don't make enough for them to seriously ask me to put myself out on roads of which the conditions I cannot know until it is too late and I am already out there.  And then I have to drive home!  I shouldn't go in, and I shouldn't be so guilty.

I shouldn't be guilty at all. People call-in all the time for no reason than to play hooky and I usually am one of the one's stuck with the extra work load.  I am too afraid to do anything but take the shit that is handed out to me because I don't want to risk losing my job and dealing with the embarrassment.  It really isn't an important job.  I am sure I could find another.  Another retail position that is just as boring and frustrating, but money is money they say.  Except, I said the other day I'd rather be broke than work there anymore.  I am bored; I am tired of bullshit.  But, I do have to pay for gas and the gym.  Those are good enough excuses.  If I get fired because I couldn't make it in during a snow storm, when most people are calling in anyway, than that is seriously unjust, especially since I have only ever called-in once, and I was sick.  It would be wrongful termination, and it isn't going to happen.

But, during my tarot reading, Amanda turned a card that told me everyone else sees me as unreliable.  That really scares me, especially since I know if someone needs me, or if I need to be somewhere, I don't miss it, I make it happen, I am always there.  People don't trust me, apparently; people think I am not going to come through, and thus plans get canceled and friendships die.  I know for a fact that my family sees me that way.  They look at me as if I am never going to do anything, and that frustrates me.  Moreover, it makes me look and the way I am and realize I haven't really done anything to prove them wrong.  Then I question, will I ever?  I want to, I want to prove everything negative about me wrong.  It's hard, though, when negativity is thrown at you.  I need to work on that...I know.

And I shouldn't feel like this because of not going to work on a snow day.  I shouldn't feel so guilty, but I want to be reliable.  I want people, even the people at a shit retail job that is just paying a fraction of my bills, to think of me as reliable, as their go-to girl, as the one they can trust.  But, if I am all of those things, when it comes to a day like today, or any day I want to play hooky and do something nice for me, I get all this bullshit about how they don't expect it from me.  Well, they should; do I look like I want to make retail my life?  Furthermore, is Elizabeth not late to clock-in after every lunch and for every shift?  Does Lisa not call in at least once a month and make it clear that she only works there to spend money?  This isn't a big deal, but I make it out to be one, because my confidence was shattered when I was fired.  Even before then I felt guilty about doing it.  That was a stupid thing to do, honestly, because how many times at 91st and Yale did someone not come in and I worked my ass off for nothing to cover them?  It's dumb.  I shouldn't feel bad.  If anything, I get taken advantage of, because I am so easy to make feel guilty; I am so easy to manipulate.

I shouldn't bother driving to work because it is snowing, the roads are icy, I only have liability, and I don't get paid enough to try.  I am not a bad driver, I could probably do just fine.  But, I am not going to go out there for an hour, fists clenched, tires sliding, just to work for another six and be made to feel like I am not good enough for retail.  I am stressed enough just thinking about it, and when you're stressed, you rarely drive as well as you should.

So, I need to get over it.  I need to take the day and do something productive.  I need to make it good and happy and wipe away my guilt when there is no reason for it but that it's tradition I feel guilty about something.  I need to wash it away and smile and enjoy the day, because it is snowy and white, it is warm in my house, I don't need to be anywhere, I have plenty to read and work on, and calling-in never hurt a soul.  If I don't feel guilty about this, maybe I can associate good feelings with days off, and finally stop the cycle.  Stop the feeling bad when someone calls me to see if I want to cover a shift and I say outright, "no."  Stop feeling so bad when someone asks me to close because another employee has called-in again and I say, "can't."  Stop feeling so bad when the weather is out of my control, the situation isn't containable, and I am not nearly important enough to bother.  Stop feeling so bad, because the feeling bad about things you can't control, or can't handle, or can't care about but are told you should try...that's what's truly stopping the living.  I have to stop this bullshit.  Remove the bullshit.  Once it is washed, once my hands are clean of it, then maybe I can start feeling the happiness I am so desperately wanting.

Maybe.

Just Mind the Heart


/Edit: My manager finally picked up.  Four minutes after I was supposed to clock in.  She asked me if I tried to drive, because it wasn't so bad.  I told her I couldn't get out of my neighborhood.  I probably couldn't.  Anyway, I dunno if she's pissed, but it doesn't matter now, honestly.  I think I just need to laugh it off, associate the good feeling with the situation.  Whatever happens will happen, but I honestly think it will be okay.  What is she going to do, anyway?  I need to smile, to get over it, and to have a good day.
Julie and Julia tonight with my mom.  Maybe I can throw together a veggie pizza.  It won't be so bad.  I should enjoy it.  I have to work tomorrow, after all.
Snow, Snow, Snow Shower, Snow Storm, Death

Stop Mocking People with a Grammatical Disadvantage to You

So, that thing about writing everyday...yeah!  Huh....

I really don't have an interesting life, which is sort of making this difficult.  But, I did say I'd try to make it more interesting, so here I go.

I am ghost writing/playing editor to a friend of mine who recently started a blog here (she's called Shellface; her blog is "My Boyfriends Vagina.").  I am having fun with it because her life is infinitely more interesting than mine.  It's also encouraging me to put on my big girl shoes and get down to it.  The problem is, my big girl shoes don't go with any of my outfits, but my chucks do....  Hence, I stay at home a lot, dawdling about life, not really doing much.  But, it's nice to have a task other than lose-thirty-pounds-and-make-something-of-yourself.  That's a very good task, but much more difficult and time-consuming than editing a post every other day for a good friend.  It's a nice distraction, and it reminds me how much I love a nice distraction.  You see, I have this problem, called thinking.  I do it too much.  I do it so much, that I block out reality and live in my head.  I do it so much, that I think entirely too much about every last thing until I can no longer handle it and I turn tail and run.  I think I've figured it out!  Why I run.  Because I can't stop thinking.

Here's how I figure it: Anytime I get into a situation, I start deconstructing it in my mind until it is tiny elements of nothing.  I pick each piece of nothing dry.  I pick so hard that everything crumbles.  I pick until there isn't picking left, and I then run around like a chicken-with-my-head-off, because I need to pick, pick, pick.  I have to pick.  I think about something over and over until it is basically burned into my cortex, and then I think some more.  I ask everyone I know about anything before I make a decision, and based on their opinions, I pick a little more.  By the time I'm finished deconstructing, I have no answers, and I start working out all of the scenarios that can go wrong from there.  So, I have to talk about it some more, and think about it some more, and finally I decide I should just hide.  Just hide.  Just run away.  Something could go wrong--something has gone wrong!--so curl in the fetal position and let it pass!  Or, slowly build up until you really can't handle it and then explode.

I haven't ever exploded, but by my math, I should be close.

I run away.  I take myself out of the situation all-the-while convincing myself I am digging deeper into it.  I stand back and I let someone else do all the work while I slowly curl deeper into my own mind.  This is how I do, and I am bloody tired of it, but I am too scared to run towards anything.

I think that's why all of my life I have been eager to throw myself into a war zone.  Anderson Cooper, after his brother threw himself off a building, threw himself into Bosnia...in the middle of a civil war.  He wanted to understand why some of us survive while the rest of us die.  I don't know that I want to understand that.  I think that's just the way it is, natural selection; some of us got it, some of us don't.  What is it?  The Will to Live.  I think what I am doing is trying to find the Will to Live.

I'm trying to find it by telling myself that it will be there, when I can be there, but right now I cannot; so, let's just sit about and wait for it some more.

Except, life is boring while you're waiting for it to boil.  What's worse, it moves quickly.  All this dawdling and you wake up one day realizing you've thrown away four years of your life.  I should be graduating with a degree in political science from UIC this spring.  Clearly, that isn't the route my life was supposed to take, because that will never happen.  Honestly, I am happy that it isn't going to happen, because I don't think I would like the person who would be graduating this year with a degree in political science.  I think I like this person that I am just a little more, but this person that I am has taken a long time to figure out what it wants to do and who it wants to be.  My life wasn't supposed to take that route, but for the past four years, I've had no fucking clue which route I should take.  Even now I am not so sure, but I am a lot closer to believing this is it than I have ever been.  And, I do think that's all you can ever be.  There is no "sure" in this life, just "kinda sure" and willing to take the risk.

And there's the last problem.  As I run away, convincing myself I am running towards, I also convince myself I am willing to take the risk.  I haven't been.  That was a lie.  I lied.  Big deal, except it is, because now I am four years behind everyone else.  The funny thing, though?  If I step up today and do something, I could actually be ahead of the curve in a few years, and wouldn't that be fucking ironic?  Because of these four years of dawdling and digging deep into financial and emotional depression, I have diug out of mental depression into a desire to learn.  I have also dug out of my hole full of job options and chosen one.  Because I have had this time to fuck around, I now know what I want, and I can make it happen.  My peers who will graduate this year or the next may now find themselves dawdling.  Degree in hand, they'll realize, fuck all, I have no clue what I want to do.  They will be in my boat--probably with a better paying job than what I have, although that isn't so likely in this day and age--and I will be finally working toward something.

To do that, though, I have to stop thinking so much.  And that requires distractions.  Something that is not-my-life that I can spend hours at a time considering.  This is why I love comedy, so much, I think.  Because it is so far out from what I am doing that I don't have to think about it.  That is also why I love writing so much.  Always have, for that simple reason: distraction.  I didn't always have a happy childhood, but I don't know that, because I don't remember it around all of the thoughts of writing.  I remember the stories I wanted to write better than I remember my family before the age of fifteen.  No fucking shit.  It's a distraction that kept me from reality as a kid, and now it can be a distraction that keeps me in it.  Keep me out of my own head.  If I have to spend all day in there working out a new plot, at least I won't be thinking about money or sex or a future I can only think about and have a hard time making happen.  Then, when I have a moment, I am happier from the writing and am more optimistic about those things.  I am more likely to work toward something than run away from it.  That's why I need my friends.  That's why I need my writing.  That's why I need to make a life around myself being happy now rather than a life around myself being happy someday.  I need to start living.

I know, I know; last two posts have been about this.  Well, fuck off, no one reads this but Amanda anyway, and I have to get all the thinking out.  And, it's icing out there, what am I going to go do?

I need to get living, though; I do.

And, thus, I'll make a list.  Not resolutions, per say, because I think they're rubbish, but certainly things I want done this year.

1.)  Lose the weight and get into the navy, because that is the only way the government is going to pay for my college education.

2.)  For no reason than to grow some balls, do some open mike nights and a little stand-up comedy. (Seriously?!...yeah, that one's scary.)

3.)  Karaoke!  It'll be...fun....

4.)  Finish the list of stories I've been working on for two years.

5.)  Finish two books I've been working on for seven years.

6.)  Publish something, for the love of god.

7.)  Learn every bone in the body, every muscle, and every forensic technique that can be learned from books and not classrooms.

8.)  Get a tattoo.

9.)  Get a boyfriend...well, a fuck buddy at the least.

10.) Hold on to friends.  But know when to let go.

Alright.  I'm done with this crap.  I wasn't going to write another one of these posts today, but I didn't have a lot to write about anyway, this is what my life is right now. And, I've been watching Eddie Izzard, which always makes me a bit rambly.  Rambly, but adorable.

Next post, I swear, will actually be worth reading.  Possibly.

I don't actually think I accomplished anything, by the way; I know I didn't.  I still don't really know why I run away, but I think I am closer.  And, the closer I get, the better I'll be at stifling the urge to flee.  Fight or flight, right?  Well, I want to start fighting.

Holy Deduction Skills, Batman!

Adding a Little -ING to My Life

So, Amanda did a tarot card reading for me the other day, and, though I don't really believe in it--or in much, for that matter, in that area--it did offer some good advice.  I am sure most readings are the same for most people: get over your obstacles, believe in yourself, you can do anything.  Okay, I get that.  I tell myself that all the time.  But, it's true what they say: unless you're ready to believe it, it ain't gonna happen.

Yeah, I said "ain't".

Anyway, if I am not "ready," per say, I am ready to be ready.  I'm getting tired of not moving forward.  Buddhists say when you're ready, your teacher will reveal themselves to you.  Okay, teacher, it's time to come out of hiding.

Two things the taro reading told me--well, two things I inferred from an otherwise useless deck of cards:

If I want to, this year I can finally get my life moving, starting today.

If I want to, I can finally accomplish those things I always wanted to.

It also told me, if I wanted to, I can change the way the world sees me, but I'm still skeptical about that one.

Anyway, I am choosing to believe what the silly deck of cards told me.  I'm choosing to believe in something bigger than myself, and by doing so maybe I'll start believing in myself too, right?

I went to the gym today, and I did well.  It'd be fantastic if I could breathe easier.  I might like to run more, I might actually enjoy it more, if I could just breathe.  But, honestly, the running isn't the hard part at all.  It's the speed walking, which is the fastest I can go for a long period of time, or I would just run.  I am out of shape, and I have asthma, fuck you if you think I'm weak.  Anyway, the running is the best part, because I hit that point when all I am doing is concentrating on running.  Everything else falls away.  There is just me and the air I am struggling to put in my lungs.  My feet hit the floor and I am only focusing on lifting them and throwing them down again.  It's kind of zen, for an exerting exercise.  And, truthfully, that's my ultimate goal: to find a place in which I can meditate; in which I cannot think, for all I do anymore is think.  I rarely act.  I need to do a little more of that.  I think through everything, talk to everyone about it, before I take an action.  I need to act before thinking sometimes.  I need to take a risk.  "Taking a risk will do us all some good."  Haven't I always told myself I believed that?  I should believe that.  I should believe in something.

I don't like belief.  Belief leads to things that it never should.  Belief is too strong for a lot of people, it consumes them.  Ideas are nicer, easier, kinder to the ideologue.  But, belief moves mountains; ideas just want to.

So, my first act of acting, of living, of not thinking, is to get to the point where I can run and run and breathe and not think.  And that takes going to the gym.  That takes doing it every day.  That takes a little belief in myself that I can self-discipline and do something for a change.

My second act is to keep laughing.  Have I ever told you how much I love Eddie Izzard, Kathy Griffin, Ricky Gervaise, and Jim Gaffigan?  I really do.

My third is to start writing again.  Here and on projects and in my spare time.  Because, though not a physical activity, per say, writing gives me a high like little else.

And fourth, reading.  Okay, so it's not very physical either.  But, reading a murder mystery about a forensic scientist trying to solve the crime and keep their life together reminds me of all I want and all I am working for.  So, it helps.

As I come up with more things, more actions, I'll update.  Another one is just to keep up with a social life, because I truly enjoy those parts.  Drinking with friends, playing board games, having coffee and talking about strange things and sex.  Yeah, a little more of that.

So, I'm doing better?  Eh, I'm doing okay.  Am I getting better?  Yes, I think so.  Thank you for asking.

And the World Spins Madly On

So, I'm All Dark and Twisty

It's been too long.  I'm no good when it's been too long.  I have a hard time saying what needs to be said, feeling what needs to be felt, touching on those things that have, for so long, gone without an embrace.  I am no good when it's been so long, because I am no good at rekindling, no good at reconnecting.  After a time, things--people, memories, song lyrics and melodies--seem to give a sickening feeling.  Nostalgia for me is no fun.  It's dark, in my memory.  When I look back at something I rarely feel comfort or hope or love; I rarely feel anything you are supposed to feel when remembering things meant to be warm and welcome.  At the time they might of been, but that's the bit I can't remember, isn't it?  I don't get the warm.  When I remember, look back at my childhood, think about things long since resolved, I only feel sadness.  I only feel a knot in my stomach and an ache in my heart.  For the things that never could be, maybe; but, I think it is for the things that never were.  It was never a happy childhood, but certainly it was naive.  Not the bliss, the white halo of youth; just stupid.  And depressed.  And too adult. Even when I look at the things that are meant to remind me of good times--mostly the things that have happened recently--I am still plagued with the sensation of  loss, of a deep depression beyond my comprehension, of a desire beyond my reach.  I have no happy memories, because even those that initially made me smile, now remind me of all I lost.

The other day as I was driving into Tulsa, about to take my exit from the interstate and prepare myself for work, I was overcome with the mad desire to stay on I-44, to keep heading west, to run as fast as I could.  I am always running, and I don't know why.  I always want to start over, but I never can.

I wish that I could take what I had and run away, but I am too sensible to move without knowing what I have waiting, too afraid to just jump the way I've always imagined.  Recently, it's been worse.  I don't know what's come over me, but I want to leave forever, never see any of this again.

I think it's because I can't remember a single time when I was happy.  Truly happy with my surroundings, not always thinking of what will be, content with my life-as-is.  I am always looking for the missing pieces, always dreaming of a future I never put my foot into; I never dig in.  I think this is where I need to begin.

Yesterday, I was running, and as I did I knew there is truly more to me than there is to me, as silly as that sounds.  I haven't found it; I haven't been looking.  I think it's time.  I need to dig deep, I need to believe, I need to do better.  All of those stupid little things we always say, those motivational bullshit buzzwords we throw around, I need to bury myself in them and come to terms with their cliches.  They're cliches for a reason, people always say.  People always say things that make sense, and listeners are always never listening.

I know that I can be this and do that and all sorts of things I've never really given myself the chance to prove.  I complain about things in my life that I have put there, things that I have allowed to happen.  I ignore the things that were done to me and have yet to come around to forgiving the perpetrators.  And when I look back at my life, I am overcome with sadness at the lifelessness of it all.  I haven't been living, I haven't been seeing, I haven't been doing my best.

So, it starts here, the beginning.  This is where the show really starts to roll.  When I am fifty, I want to know that when I look back, I won't cry.  That when I remember, I won't beg to forget.

Eddie Izzard says to do it you have to believe.  The book The Secret says you have to see it to believe it.  Truthfully, it isn't so hard.  Overcoming the negativity, the skepticism that is consistent with my line of work, that's the difficulty.  But, the hard work, I find, is usually worth it--unless you work retail.

I'm going to start from the beginning.

And it begins by turning my frown upside down--or, at least, slanting it to one side. I am going to start living, because all I've been doing until now is waiting to die. I'm going to start making memories.  Good memories; memories I want to remember. I am going to do what I have always desired but been too ashamed, too embarrassed, too chicken. I am going to do what I must so that the future isn't just an idea anymore.

I guess what I am going to do is believe in something bigger than myself, but really, what it is, is me.  I'm going to believe in me.

Curious, how this turned into what it turned into, but it's all true.  Well, except for the lies.

I want to remember good times without missing them because all that is in my life is sad.  It isn't.  It is, though, time to be honest.  Time to live.  My life is mundane but my dreams are anything but.  So, let's start making dreams reality, and reality a memory, something I can smile at and recall all those good times.

But, Only on the Inside

Oh How Its Been So Long

Brand new work!  This are the first few paragraphs of the first chapter of the novella I am working on, to be called "Good Thing Gone," or possibly something cooler.  Read, comment, enjoy, hate, whatev.

Death

               

                You never know a good thing until it’s gone.  Life is like that—a good thing; and, until you don’t have it anymore, you tend to take it for granted.  I know I did.  But not anymore.  Because, I died.  I died naked.  Except for a pair of shoes.

                I didn’t know I was dead.  Not at first.  That realization came as I watched my reflection in a shard of glass.  I watched myself bleed, stiffen, and bloat.  Finally, the stench reached the hall; the neighbors complained; the maintenance man unlocked my front door.  The man who found me has been no doubt scarred for life.  I feel for him, it’s terrible finding a dead body, especially when it’s your own.

                I didn’t know what was happening.  The seconds it took for my lungs to stop breathing and my heart to stop beating were black.  The days it took for them to find my body went by like moments in a montage; a second of rigor mortis, a flash of flies lying eggs, a brief instance in which my belly deflated and I succumbed to the effects of decomposition.  I know all of this now; recognize it for what it is, but in that place following my death, I thought for sure it must be a nightmare. 

And then they came for me.  They placed a sheet over my body and transported me to the morgue.  I knew it when I felt the unrelenting cold of the freezer, the hollow emptiness of my body as it sat open on the table. 

Since I had no place else to go, and I still didn’t know how exactly it had happened, I hung around the morgue and learned my cause of death.  A stray bullet, a drive-by shooting, an unintentional mistake by a wanna-be-gangsta.  It ripped through my heart, my lung, my breast.  It shattered the mirror in which I had been looking, deciding on an outfit to go with my new red shoes.  Shoes now in a plastic bag; evidence, to be locked away and never worn again.

It was all very depressing, watching my death unfold, so I sat up and walked away from my body.  The sutures down my front where clumsy and dark, my skin, insipid, a sick contrast to them.  I resembled a fucked up rag doll, gnarled and broken, an imitation of human.  I was glad when they put me in the hearse.  I was thrilled when they burned me.  It took so long to get there, to get to that point, to be disposed of.  I waited for that moment my whole-death-long; for the weight of existence to be lifted.  Turn my shoulders to ash and the world topples away.

The relief never came.  But something else did.

His name was Dexter. 

The Skeleton Friend

I haven't updated this blog--or any--in about forever and a year.  But, I am doing it today, because it is time things begin to look up for me and I start writing to publish again.  I have been writing-to-publish since I was six years old, and it still hasn't happened.  Now, I have about eight months before I ship out to the Navy and become one of the enlisted.  I am, naturally, going into law enforcement with all the hope in the world that they will pay for my education in forensic anthropolgy, but until they do, I want to put my name out there once and for all as a writer to watch--especially since I have a whole series of crime fiction in mind when I'm a Ph.D toting anthropologist.  So it's time I begin, again.  Again again?  Yeah, it's been a while.

Last night I was reading the fourth Dexter book (Dexter By Design, read it, you'll love it) and as I always do when I read one of my favorite authors or characters, I got the itch to write.  I am currently in the developing stages of an anthology I am calling "For All the Lost Girls," which compiles several short stories, novellas, and flash fictions all centered around women who would otherwise be described as "lost," in every possible meaning of the word.  Last night I began thinking hard on a piece I describe as Dorothy meets "Dead Like Me," and I am very excited about it.  My only fear, as always, is translating my particular sense of humor.  It isn't exactly the..."wettest" humor in the world.  I have plans to work on it today; but, honestly, I have 242 pages left in Dexter and I'd like to finish them.  I have some time set for writing though, and if it isn't too much trouble, I plan to get some done.

There are some other things in development.  I am writing a novel--like I have been since I was thirteen, right?--and I am currently reworking it and spending some time pondering.  I haven't been hit with any major ideas just yet that will get the flow going again--it has been a while since I wrote seriously--but I do have the majority of the plot figured, so it's just a matter of time and thoughtfulness.

I also took a story I'd been working on since I was fifteen--a very mundane affair that is too realistic to be anything of use in FAtLG--and have split the ideas into two seperate, very different stories.  I couldn't figure out what was wrong with it, but when I considered splitting it, I realized I was going about the main theme entirely wrong, a; and, b, there were two sub-themes that did not go so well together.  So, I have nixed the story all-together, and now I have two life forms ready to come to life.  But, more on those guys later.

Really, this was just an update, and it was mostly for me.  I would like to post some pieces on here, but I have to get to work first.  And, before all of that, I really need to finish Dexter.  Can't leave him hanging; you never know what he'll do.

Just Fooling Around with Skeletons