zHOMG

Realized when I got dressed this morning that my outfit is less than desirable to some people. Short dress, wrap around button-down, flowery fish-net tights and five inch heels. And then I realized when leaving the house that I didn’t have a fuck to give. I can wear what I want. Im twenty-six this year and I still look eighteen. People can tell me all day how fucking slutty I look. I ain’t fucking ya. I also look better than you. And ps. I know you are just jealous of my boogie. And booty.

sometimes i look at my dash and the posts of the people i follow and the posts that the people i follow reblog and i think to myself: these people are fucking freaks. 

then have to include myself in that too, ‘cos you know, i follow them. 

and i love it. we’re fucking freaks and it’s all good. 

sometimes, i feel utterly alone. i have my life, and then i have my life. i share a lot of things with the two most important people in my life. i basically share as much as i possibly can with them. but i find that there are some things that i just can’t share. 

it’s not that i don’t want to. it’s that i find myself physically unable to share things. i find myself, so full of words, unable to verbalize. and it kills me a little inside. it makes me feel so utterly alone. 

i realize that i talk a lot, there isn’t really a time when i am quiet. i live alone but i talk to myself anyway, no matter what is going on. it does not help the loneliness. it just feels like someone trying to get out and having no where to go, because there is no where to go.

sometimes i wish i was more inspired. i feel like i missed something growing up. the Russian told me once that she didn’t know where i fit, because it’s not that i didn’t fit anywhere, it’s that i just fit. like something that is just floating there. ready to move but content. 

and then she asked what i want to do with my life. and honestly, i haven’t a fucking clue. i worked for seven years with one company and they abandoned me when i helped out my Buffalo. it was one bad decision, grouped into seven years of awesome decisions. and so, they let me go. or rather, they forced me to go. 

and i found myself in a new place that wasn’t for me, but the Russian brought me there and that was good. we got closer. and then, i ended up going to this awesome place where i am now and i don’t know i wasn’t here before. 

but i still don’t know where i will be this time next year. or tomorrow. or ever. and the Russian tells me when i tell her that i don’t know what i want to do with my life, she tells me that sometimes, people don’t start their lives until later. until they are ready to start living. 

and sometimes i feel like that person. i’m twenty-five now, closer to twenty-six. and i don’t feel like i’ve done anything. i am sure that the Russian and the Buffalo would tell people otherwise, they are the only two who know me so well. 

and sometimes i just feel so utterly alone. i look at what i do, personally. my version of art, wrapped up in words. i write books and screenplays and short stories and musicals and i never let anyone see. i know that they aren’t bad. i just don’t know if i can share it with people. like, physically able. 

i don’t even know what i am feeling right now. 

i’m just gonna go sulk or something. maybe watch a sad movie and cry it out. 

i hope that i can hold onto this feeling for the month of november, i do feel like this will actually help a book this time. 

who the fuck knows?

why do i love MTG so much?! it’s almost Thursday which means one more day until Friday, which always signifies a Draft with Limited. 

i think it was that three day pre-release that did me in - but it was so fucking awesome. 

i may have finally found my people and a place i go where i don’t feel hassled. why, oh why has it taken me so long to get back to you?!

sometimes i get so sad that i just want to cry but then i realize that i can’t because i never cry for myself; i have never been able to feel so sorry for myself, so lost, so fucking depressed that i have to cry for myself. i always cry for other things. 

things. not people. 

books, movies, shows and food. those things make me cry. not me, not other people.  

what the fuck is my life? … imma go back to 30 Rock and wish that my life was LL’s. she’s awesome.

and Alec Bladwin is hot. 

i hate that feeling you get when you all you think “i’m so not enough” and then you can’t even talk to anyone about it because you don’t want them to tell you it is okay. you just want to hear the fucking truth and want to be told, “yeah, you aren’t.” this way you can just be relieved.

‘cos my biggest fear is that i’m lying to myself and would it kill someone to tell me it isn’t okay? to tell me that i am right about this and that i am not enough anymore. i hate it when people try to be nice and lie to my face ‘cos they think it is better than the alternative. 

sometimes (all the time) i hate the fact that i need people. why can’t i go back to to the way i was before? when needing people wasn’t an issue, when i didn’t feel like i needed someone to help me keep my head afloat. now though, i’m all broken inside ‘cos i gave into it. i let people come and be part of me. and now i have to let go all over again. 

i’ve broken my own heart plenty of times; why do they keep promising that they won’t break my heart? is it to make themselves feel better? to try to and prove that i am wrong about people?

i ask that people not make promises they cannot keep. maybe they didn’t know they couldn’t keep this promise, but i sure as a bear shits in the would knew that they wouldn’t, couldn’t and most likely shouldn’t. 

am i worth their promises? probably not. but for one shining moment, i felt special. 

i’m not, though, special in that way. i’m special in the way that i don’t lie to myself about shit. i see it for what it is and i let people know that i know. i just wish other people could do that, too. see when they fuck shit up and can just admit it. 

they won’t. but it is okay, i will just clean up the mess. pick up the pieces. send you back out to the big, scary world where you will forget about me for a while, until the next time you need someone to help put you back together. 

i’m as much to blame as you. i promise myself that i will let go. i won’t pick up the phone, won’t answer the text message, won’t think about you at all, because i know you aren’t thinking about me. i’m not even a blip on the radar. 

all that talk about how you can’t talk to anyone else, no one sees what i see, that i listen differently. but now that there is a hand to hold that isn’t mine, a place to sleep that isn’t here, it doesn’t matter how much more i am than someone else. i am not enough. 

what breaks my heart is that you were enough. i don’t need the same things other people do. i understand that most of us are trying to find a soul mate, a significant other. someone to share our bodies with because that is what we have.

i did that once. and it ended. not badly but not good either. but i don’t miss that. all the hurt. all the pleasure. everything in between. i’m not looking for a boyfriend, girlfriend or whatever else there is. i was just looking for someone to be above all that. more than some person i know. more than a friend. more than a sibling. more than someone to fall in love with. but i’m not enough for other people like that. 

everyone else is looking for their “once in a lifetime”, that mysterious pull of romantic love. it’s okay. i understand. i’m just asking that you take back all those promises you gave me. i told you what i wanted. and you told me what you thought i wanted to hear. 

i told you once before, i want to hear the fucking truth. i don’t run away from it. no reason to. i respect it. if you can’t be there for me, if you have to leave me, just tell me. don’t promise that you won’t walk away like the others. don’t promise me that you will always be mine in some small way. 

you’re selfish. and that’s okay. i’m selfish, too. only difference? i know that i am and it doesn’t kill me to admit that i do things because of it. it’s the reason why i like to take care of people - it makes me feel better because other people think i am a better person because of it. fuck that. i do it for me. everyone is selfish, i am just not hiding it. it doesn’t kill me to know that about myself. 

i’m not enough. and i wish, i wish so fucking hard that when i tell you that, you simply agree. don’t tell me it’s okay. don’t fucking stroke my hair. don’t tell me that you will always be there for me. you won’t be there for me, not always.

but when your heart breaks again, and you feel like nothing good is ever going to happen, when you are so lost and scared and stuck in the dark - let me know. just let me know. 

i know that you will leave me, that i won’t be enough, not always. but when you need me, i will be there. i will give myself over to your whims, to love you and care for you and make sure that you are all better. and i will watch you leave me again and it will kill me a little more. 

but i will wait for your return, knowing that one day you won’t. 

that’s okay. it is enough.

Had a phone interview this morning. Tomorrow I go in for a test/interview of sorts. 

… I’ve never had to study before an interview. It’s tech stuff for Apple - something I should know but I haven’t touched anything by Apple in at least three years and it’s been way longer since I even used an Mac system. 

In other news, I did get a call back for a second interview for the job I really, really want. *fingers crossed*

Not a whole lot going on in my life. Oh well. I miss working.

I made Malibu cupcakes and frosting yesterday. And I want to make some red velvet brownies for my cravings. 

But I need someone here to clean up my kitchen. This place is a disaster. 

… Sad face.

You know what I hate? When I’m dying and gonna be dead soon.

Happens a lot when I watch a series or a read book.

Currently, I’m dying. Gonna be dead soon.

today i realized that i fangirl by repeating the letter k. i don’t even understand it myself; i don’t even like the letter k. 

everyone else has like other letters and here i am just squealing “KKKKKKKK” … it’s like i am calling out to a club of haters to show them how awesome it is to love things. 

lots of things. like doctor who things, or supernatural things, or torchwood things, or doctor horrible things, or firefly things or cake. 

yeah. i probably shout all those k’s to rally a hate group and teach them the ways of love. 

i lost it there, huh?

totally just realized i love Doctor Horrible waaaay more than I thought. I just finished watching The Producers (for like the umpteenth time) and I think to myself, yeah, we should watch Doctor Horrible and it is turning into a problem.

when people ask me if i like musicals, i say no.

and then right after i remember Little Shop of Horrors, The Producers and Doctor Horrible.

And i made myself a liar.

…  

What’s the best thing about being older than 21 and living on your own?

That’s right: impromptu make-up and nail painting parties. I can invite people over any time of night, watch tutorials and get crunked while doing make up. 

Bitch please, we ain’t got no bed times. I’m so glad that I didn’t have this experience when I was younger, I wouldn’t love it so much I think.

WHY DO I LOVE MAKE UP SO MUCH?!

is everyone fat? I don’t understand this fucking trend, phase, fad or what have you on this issue. 

Like, everyone is fat. I grew up in a house where I was considered skinny until I was eleven and started period. I would eat a bit more than my mother would consider “normal” and there I was, a fucking blimp.

Nowadays, everyone is a blimp. A zephyr. An elongated hot air balloon. And it’s getting redunk.

I understand being healthy. That’s totally awesome. Be healthy! Be shiney!* Be happy with yourself. 

But for fuck’s sake, stop being “fat” - it’s fucking insulting. Seriously. I understand that no one likes to be left out, but shit. Can’t we all be like … good looking? Can’t that be the trend? 

Every time I surf tags, hang out on pinterest or leaf through a magazine, it’s always about how fat we are. How much cellulite we have. How much we should hate ourselves for shit that’s normal. 

Fuck that shit. Be healthy, not fucked up.

… I’m just tired of the same shit over and over again. I mean it. I have been called fat, a balloon and other fun things by my mom. Luckily, it didn’t affect me too badly - I just continued eating. It could’ve been worse since at those times I didn’t have a support system. If I had cared when I was younger about my body image, maybe if I started reading Seventeen or Teen Cosmo  back then instead of National Geographic, Popular Mechanics and read actual books, maybe I would be in that bad situation. 

Hell, I might be considered lucky that while my mom was busy emotionally screwing over her kids, she also taught us to that we can only do for ourselves. And that teaches people a lot. 

Anyway. Stop being fat. You aren’t.

*Shiney: don’t shine, show off your shins. WE WILL SHIN THE WORLD INTO SUBMISSION

my usb mouse died today and i am slowly going insane having to use the touch pad. i am tempted to make a special outing to the all night wal mart to get one. … fuch, i am spoiled.

So, I’m not a terribly emotive person, growing up in a house were anything other than “neutral” was frowned upon (letting people know: that is not a healthy way to live, it’s the just the only way I know how) but somehow, wallowing in certain fandoms, I get a bit crazy - or regular for a normal person. 

Anyway, I was saying, not terribly emotive which sometimes leads to me having these  outbursts, most notably from searching the damned Doctor Who tags and seeing images of Rose & Ten or Rose & Nine or just Rose (total girl crush on her). I’m laughing one moment and then bam! I’m balling, screaming about how people shouldn’t be talking about “my Rose”. It brings some crazed looks from the people in the house, and then subtle shaming. Really, really subtle shaming. 

I should not be allowed to watch tags that cause emotional outbursts. I can’t help it.

…

Geezus; why the hell am I having an argument over how to fry a fucking eggplant. It’s my goddamned eggplant, why the fuck can’t I bread the effing thing?! Ugh. This is why I am moving - because I can’t take this shit anymore.

Can’t be angry, can’t be overly happy, can’t be anything other than fucking “neutral” - what does that mean? Why can’t I be upset that I’m not allowed to make my eggplant that I bought, why does it have to be community property? I pay to live here, I buy my own food, I don’t eat anyone else’s stuff. 

Christ almighty. How the hell have I lived like this for so long? All I want to do is eat my food how I want and cry over TV shows. 

I WANT TO FEEL OKAY ABOUT CRYING OVER ROSE AND THE DOCTOR! I am sick of being so ashamed of everything.

Maybe I should allow myself to surf the Doctor Who tags and the Sherlock tags and the Supernatural Tags along with the crazy OCD and Food tags that I follow. It’s okay for me to follow food, I like to eat, it does not bring an outward emotional response. It’s okay for me to follow the Corgi tag, I work with dogs. 

But TV tags? With delightfully sad pairings? And I’m not just talking about my Rose and the Doctor. I’m talking about the insane, closeted love for Supernatural. Like  Extremely. I can’t talk about it, I try not to think about it and I sure as shit attempt not to perpetuate it. 

… tell that the TVDs I have hidden in the closet, wrapped up and waiting to be opened and played. Can’t do that here, I dare not shed that love to light. I watch it secretly.

… While I type this, the fight is turning from eggplant to the fact that my mother is pissed that I am leaving. I’m in my late twenties and I’ve been trying to get away since I was 18. I fucking moved 3500 miles away on Christmas. And then she followed and due to the fact that I wasn’t making any money at my job, I was forced to move back in - those were the best six months of my life. 

Being the fuck away from all of this. Being able to not feel so … fearful, of people’s reactions on what I like. Being able to embrace myself, I have no idea who the hell I am. HELLO! Identity crisis here. 

I’ve been doing the same thing for six years. The only thing that has changed is the fact that I no longer go to college (I graduated, which is a big deal because I HATE school) but mostly it is the same: Sleep, Work, Eat and Home. I don’t even go out with people really or have friends outside of work. 

It horrifies me at times. … Where’s the little girl who wanted to climb Mount Everest, who wanted to travel the world on a water buffalo? I feel like I let myself down.

See what happens when I look at Rose/Doctor tags? It’s frightening. 

Less than a week, and I’m out of here.