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I was born 16 days late and I've been late ever since

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I could say that I'm planning to run away to Ecuador and join a commune of devil-worshippers and no one would bat an eyelash because no one reads this blog. I'm too much for people, my blog's not enough to make anyone want to read? I don't know. I'm just testing the waters here, I'm not fishing for compliments or ego boosts or whatever. 

This is NOT manipulation and I KNOW this, because I practically INVENTED manipulation. 

please believe me.

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I cut my needs down to what I thought was the bare minimum, _and_ split them between two people, but it's still too much? I am way too broken for anyone to handle. Is there no hope for me? Will I never get it right?
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It tears at me and rips. There is no sympathy and no hesitation marks. It's here and it's my whole universe. Red, slithery but jagged, and coming from the very center of me. Not my heart or guts or brain or stomach--from the point in the middle of my diaphragm, the mathematical, volumetric center of me. It comes from nowhere and it defies the laws of physics. My pain does not recognize the persistence of matter. I double over, to maybe contain it? Or just because it's such a blow I couldn't think of staying upright. On my knees, my hands in fists and my arms held in tight. My head pushed down and I cry like I'll never stop. There are only simple words, never more than a few: "he left me," "she hates me," "I failed," "I'm so alone." The tentacles reach my brain and the only signal left is "cut." Must cut, must try, must see blood, must be now. I don't know where the opposition comes from, but sometimes it comes and I write. Ten, twenty, thirty pages to assuage the need for a one-inch slice out of my arm. 
At times the red is too much, though, and I can't write. I cry until the razor's in my hand and when I cut, it doesn't hurt. The numbness doesn't last, and soon the sting shoots to my brain and my hand instinctively jerks away. But now there's something to do: apply pressure, rinse wound, bandage as necessary, put razors away. 
Step one, step two, even slashed-up me can deal with an instruction manual. Could I someday have instructions for dealing with the blood-colored vines? To stop the cloying, grasping relentlessness that ties me down and reduces me to mere survival tactics? Hurt. Must fix. Cut. Now bandage. Feel better. Move on.
They're battle scars, though. Marks of bravery and triumph. My enemy came, and I prevailed. Who would believe a soldier with no tale to tell? Who never saw the front lines, who never faced the choice of fight or run? Run, and you will live, fight, and you may die, but a deserter knows only scorn and cowardice. 
I look at my scars, my half-healed wounds from my fight with myself. You can't say I'm weak *now*--where are *your* scars, "sane" person? When did you stand up and face evil?
But instinct takes over and I carry my coat, a book, I put my hand in my pocket so no one can see. A hero of a hated war never gets a parade. 
I can only imagine what they think, what they whisper to their friends, but I see the fear of me in their eyes. If I can cut myself, what truly terrible, practically unspeakable things am I capable of? They don't understand and the unknown is frightening. 
Maybe they don't have portals to hell in their diaphragms. Maybe their life is so calm and pleasant that they've never felt the clawing multitude of limbs take over. But have they really lived? To know greatness, do we have to know failure? To know good, do we have to see evil?
An empty life they must lead, though calm enough. Dry, smooth, uneventful. 
My pain is a volcano--it erupts and the ash chokes and smothers everything. But volcanic soil grows plants better than elsewhere. Is my life all the richer from all of this? 
I have to find hope and meaning somewhere. 

"Life without idealism is empty indeed. We must have hope or starve to death" -Pearl S. Buck
Tags: ,
Current Location:
desk, Madison, Earth
Current Mood:
nervous nervous
Current Music:
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I have over-analyzed and over-stressed so much that I have lost all confidence in myself and no longer know what I want to do with the rest of my life, other than I know I don't want to live on the street and I don't want to be in a job I'm not going to do well or like. I simply can't put myself in a position where I come home from work every day and want to kill myself rather than wake up the next morning and go back there. And goddamnit, I shouldn't have to take a job that will make me fucking suicidal!
That said, I have no idea what kind of job won't make me suicidal. 
I made a list of the things I'm good at and the things I like to do. Here's a sort-of-explanation of a job I'd like to go to:

something is written, or there's data, or there's a design already done. Give it to me, and I'll fix it up, polish off the rough edges, and make it look pretty, wither by myself, or collaboratively with the original creator of the stuff

option #2:

Something where I get to work with abstract ideas and theory.

So helpful, huh?
Any comments, as long as you're nice, are welcome. Though I think really only one person reads this. *le sigh*


Current Location:
Current Mood:
crappy crappy
Current Music:
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It's so great that you can take a fucking joke. I'm so glad that I tried to be involved in what you were doing so that I could get to know your girlfriend and be a part of your life. So. Glad.
Oh, and the song you're playing now is the stupidest song on the whole damn game. 
Worst. Song. Ever.
I'll just sit back and allow myself to be pushed out of your life, seeing as how that's what you seem to want. Sorry I took up so much of your time.
Oh, and the fact that I was all "bitchy" when you first came home? Legitimate reason: I didn't know where you were, if you were bringing home dinner, or what. I was hungry and annoyed. 
Thanks for being so inclusive. I'll just stay out of your way, since we only live together and don't have a really long history of going through tough shit together. It's not like we're best friends or anything. 
So, yeah. Just wanted to let you know.

p.s. could I _be_ any more Chandler?
Current Location:
Current Mood:
pissed off pissed off
Current Music:
Guitar Hero II from the living room
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Well, right after I complain a little more. My neck is so sore! I have no idea why, but it hurts and I have a headache and I don't want to cook anything but I'm the only one home and eating will help my headache. sometimes I hate being an adult. 
All right, I give in, I'm "cooking" (baked potato in the microwave--it's food, it's heat, it counts as cooking!) and I'll have some more stuff, too--ohhhh a smoothie, yes, definitely....mmmm.....fruit and sugar.....
Ok, and back to the task at hand--proving to the extremely few people who read this that my life is not all bad things. I tend to write about the bad stuff because I really need to get it off my chest, and bad stuff is more likely to get me the kind of attention I want (=sympathy) (there's that self-awareness again). I'll try to write more about the good stuff too. So, here's some good stuff:
UK accents.
English, British, Scottish, Welsh, Irish, whatever else they've got on those beautiful islands...I love to hear people with these accents speak. Women, men, children, everyone. Especially men. Hot, sexy men that aren't the British-stereotype-foppish-pussies. Men like this:
Yes. Hot. Wonderful. Yum. (They are OF AGE) Also:
Oi. Give me. Yes, delish. AND:
Holy! Prince Harry turned out HOTT. Maybe hotter than his brother. 
They could all read me the phone book and I would be rapt. And it's not 'cause they're famous. There's a certain reader on LibriVox by the name of Graham Williams, with a wonderful british accent. I would love to have him read everything. Also, just to prove it's not that I just want to listen to men talk, Joy Chan read Tristan and Iseult, and I loved it. *sigh* I would really love to date a tall, lanky, red- or dark-haired, somewhat-freckled Brittish/Irish/Scottish/Welsh man. For a big University city, you'd think I could find one or two. I'm on the lookout. ;-)
Ok, so, there's something good, to balance out my rants. Off to find some more good things to eat. 
Oh, and to start knitting. Or spinning, I haven't decided which.
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Current Location:
Current Mood:
horny horny
Current Music:
last week's Grey's on TV
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I'm so mad that people I want to talk to don't talk to me. They have their reasons, but damn, must you really sleep so much? Are you really that tired? Is that other person that much more interesting than me?
Hello, and welcome to the little place on the web where Robin whines. 
People say oh, I don't want to read people's blogs where they just whine about stuff all the time. But how are we whiners supposed to commiserate and fish for compliments if we just write it all down in a little paper journal and keep it on a shelf?
The crazy romantic in me wants some handsome man to see all this crap I write and say "oh, no, you deserve much better, you deserve me, let's go have a whole-night-long conversation where we can vent to each other and make each other feel better--meet you at Cafe Montmartre [or someplace equally romantic] in an hour?"
Does this mean I'm desperate? NO. It means I'm impatient. That's all. I am totally ok being alone/single. I just don't really want to be anymore. And now that I've decided what I want, I want it NOW. So. Just to be precise. Robin = impatient, NOT boy-crazy, NOT desperate. Yes, picky, but that's another post for another day.
This kind of shit is why I sleep so damn much when I'm depressed. If I'm asleep, I don't have to deal with the feeling of not having what I want. Hot damn, that makes me look so childish and gimme-gimme-gimme. But what's the payoff for being all nonchalant or calm about it? This is how I feel, so I'm gonna feel like that. Which leads to the ever-popular, the guy who loves me is gonna love me just the way I am, I won't have to change for him. But where the hell is he, already?
I'm doing the things I'm supposed to be doing--I'm going out, I'm checking out men, but I'm not being belligerent with them; I'm trying to make new friends on MySpace (which sometimes makes me feel like a 15-year-old, but you know, whatever works); I'm doing my damnedest to get to work and make money, and not sleep too much, and take my meds like a good girl. I have plenty of energy and motivation to date and flirt and make nice, but it goes nowhere, and that's discouraging.
Another discouraging thing is that no one seems to be reading this blog. Wait, maybe that's a good thing. Then I can say whatever I damn well please, and it kinda feels like I'm shouting it to the world, it's just that no one's paying attention, so I'm so unlikely to get into trouble about it. So maybe I can just hone my fabulous writing skills while thinking the world can see, but really, it's just for me. 
It kinda hurts that no one's reading this blog, because, surprise, surprise, lots of this stuff is a cry for help. For attention. Duh, as if that were something I just started to. It's hard to be so fucking self-aware, to know when I'm doing things just as a call for attention or help or love. To know that when I tried to kill myself, there was no way I was actually trying to kill myself, there was no way I was gonna kill myself with that damned dull blade. And then to go to him, what I was saying was "pay attention to how much I hurt and please help me through it! just be there for me and show me a little big-brother-caring-type-stuff, I need to be taken care of." And, as I should have known, he failed miserably. 
Then there was another him, who was supposed to understand. He was supposed to really like me, appreciate me, enjoy me, and be proud of me. But he wasn't. He was so damn pissed when I had a good time without him, when I didn't hang all over him and look dejected while I sat alone and he went off and exerted his popularity. And to top it all off, he accused me of lying, of calling him a "bad person"--and even if I had, which I hadn't, who could have blamed me? At the time, he had refused my calls to talk about my mother dying. I wasn't thinking straight. I was being selfish, but who has the ability to read minds at a time like that?
Oh, and those two. The one who set me up with him, and then the one who dropped me flat. Then, ah, sweet vindication, she did to him what he did to me. Yeah, bitch, it sucks ass when someone says "no, I don't want to have that kind of relationship with you because I think you're making me too important and that freaks me the fuck out." And yet, I bet they're still together and they'll be together forever and have 2.1 perfect children and a well-behaved labrador retriever and a white picket fence. I hope they suffocate on their conventionality.
There's a handful of hims who used me for a night or two and then ran, like the cowards they are. I used most of them, too, and, mostly, I just chalk it up to the requisite one-night-stands everybody has to go through in their life. Live, learn, other cliches, etc. 
Oh, but the one that's been around for the longest. The tricksy one, the one I kept going back to, despite how bad he was for me. And, God I hate to admit it, he was so fucking charming I didn't even realize how sleazy he was. I can recognize what my true motivations are in the blackest depths of depression, but I couldn't see what he wanted with me. He wanted sex. When it was convenient for him. And I had to go to him, the bastard. He didn't even value me enough to make the effort to come to me. Charmed the pants off me every time. Knew what made me happy, what flattered me--though, he meant it enough, it just wasn't...extemporaneous, it was always calculated to get him closer to being in my pants. 
I read Crazy Aunt Purl's friend's blog and I latched on to a little bit, and twisted it around to fit my own life (of course)

I know that some of them were beaten so badly that the idea of love, with or without a condom was so precious that in the moment, and every moment it happened, it felt so much like light that it didn't matter.

She was talking about working as the director of the Southern California HIV/AIDS Hotline. I wasn't physically beaten, I was emotionally beaten. Mostly by myself and my perfectionism. And my situation isn't as desperate as the one she describes, but really, the gist of it is the same. I'm much better about this all now, but I'm still working on it.

I wish he would read this and talk to me about it. It's hard when it seems to me that I've expressed how important it is for him to read it, and he seems to really take no heed of it. Oh, Robin's LJ? Yeah, I think I have it bookmarked. I'll go read it tomorrow....and tomorrow, and tomorrow. Uh oh, I'm quoting poetry I don't know without realizing it. Totally time for bed. 

I just wanna be loved and be a good person! 
Now sleep.zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

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Current Location:
desk, duh
Current Mood:
sleepy sleepy
Current Music:
iTunes on random
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Please forgive the crypticness--I don't want to shout this to the world, but I want to talk about it.

X gives Y to me, sometimes. It's something I don't know that I could ever express my gratitude for. X really doesn't have to give Y to me at all, X has every right to keep Y and not give Y to anyone, let alone me. But, I hope, X trusts me. I don't know that X does, because I can't ask X. I wish I could, though. I'm working on being able to ask X, and yet, I don't even have to. I can have Y and know that X is absolutely ok with it. But I still want to ask X, I want to show X that I don't take Y for granted, and especially that I don't take X's giving of Y for granted. It's really silly that I feel I can't ask X about all of this. I mean, X gives me Y, for pete's sake, I should be able to talk to X about it. But it's scary, because Y is so important to both X and me, I'm often worried I'll say the wrong thing, or not be able to articulate my thoughts correctly, and then X will get the completely wrong idea about the whole situation.
I wish I could have Y of my own. It's hard, the times when I have Y, because I know Y is not my Y, Y is X's Y. I know in my heart that I will have my own Y someday, and I really take solace in that. But still, I'm such an impatient person. I want my own Y, and I want my Y now! Wouldn't that make everything better? *sigh*
X is really so wonderful, I stumble on my words when I try to express it. But does X know that I feel that way? X and I don't necessarily communicate...very much. Who can I fault but myself? Maybe X will read this and understand.

X, I want to say that I could not be more thankful for what you have given me. I hope that you know and believe that I would never try to overstep my bounds--to do so would only show contempt and disrespect (for both you and Y), and I have nothing but the utmost admiration and appreciation of you and Y. As much as I enjoy having Y, when I do, always in the back of my mind I feel the need to show my gratitude to you, X, because my having Y is completely contingent on your decision that it's ok for me to have Y. I don't know how to thank you for trusting me enough to give me Y. 
And that seems to be the hinge on which my fear rests--because this is all up to you, you also have the ability to say no, to not give me Y. I'm always worried I'll do or say something wrong, something that will make you stop giving Y to me, ever. I would live, the world would keep turning, but it would be a far duller world for the loss.
I'd really like it if you, X, and I, could get to be closer. It's just silly that we're not, really. It's always scary to say that, to say, hey, come figure out if you really like me or if, on closer inspection, you realize I'm a douchebag. :-) But hey, I sang karaoke tonight. If I can do that, I can put myself out on this limb. 

Thank you to anyone who has made it through this nearly incomprehensible and really very verbose and linguistically pretentious mess of words. Not that anyone reads my LJ anymore, so, you know, I could have been less cryptic and maybe given away state secrets and no one would have been the wiser. But, just in case. 

I'm done being verbally pompous, I think. Next post will most likely be back to my normal style and less like some 18-th century text venerating the most recently canonized saint. 

you know you love me ;-)

Current Location:
desk, obv.
Current Mood:
loved loved
Current Music:
the tv, obv.
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So sometimes things are meant for a certain purpose and wind up serving the very cause they mean to undermine. For example:
this website has a "list of companies scoring a perfect 100 percent on the Human Rights Campaign's 2006 Corporate Equality Index, with policies beneficial toward homosexuals". The parent website, www.f2a.org, is a rather right-wing Christian organization who embody all of the anti-gay, pro-life, incendiary, sensationalist crap of the worst of that group of people. I came across Faith 2 Action because I like to listen to conservative Christian talk radio--mostly I laugh at it, but, also, know thine enemy. The radio show that I've been catching the last few days is actually pretty damned funny, The woman who talks--and that's all she does--sounds like she took lessons from John Bunnell, the narrator of those cheesy Fox specials like "World's Worst Drivers Caught on Tape". It's such an over-the-top, cliche-ridden style that I just have to laugh. How can these people be taking themselves seriously?
Well, back to the point. This list of companies that the Human Rights Campaign finds are diverse, tolerant places, is meant to insight boycotts (like the boycott of Ford they're attempting to promote) and calls to these companies to say "stop helping the homos! bad company, bad!!". But really, how kind of them to consolidate a comprehensive list of companies and organizations that are pro-gay! 
And there really are a lot of companies, and big ones, too (Microsoft, Sun Microsystems, Gap, Motorola)--it's rather encouraging to find that anyone who wanted to boycott all "pro-gay" companies would have a hell of a time finding things to buy.
And so, I say to you who would promote tolerance and are not anti-gay, know thine enemy--those ultra-conservative crazy activist christians are all over the freaking place, and maybe we can use their research-gathering powers against them. 
But! Caveat Detractor: I take a similar stance against child pornography, and....wait a second....lemme check...nothing else. Well, I believe in equality, but certainly not they way they do. I won't pick and choose when I play the equality card. grr. 
Constructive Criticism requested on my STYLE, not necessarily on content. I will not participate in anything that comes close to a flame war.

Current Location:
my desk, of course
Current Mood:
cold cold
Current Music:
the original Sabrina is on!
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I could not-do-it, and that might make him see me in a different light, in a whoa-she’s-really-unable-to-be-normal-I-must-save-her kind of way, and make him come over here and hold me, and ohhhhh the holding, it’s so comforting. Or I could comply and show up like a puppy bringing the stick back to its master: “yay! Yay! Look at me! I did what you said! Ohboyohboyohboy yay! Praise me!” But that’s so cliché, the puppy routine. And the can’t-do-it? Cliché, also, for sure, but at least I’ve had practice. It’s not new and scary, it’s me and it…maybe defines me? Well, well, well, little breakthroughs all the time.
I did it. I did most of a yoga DVD—I left out the handstands and headstands for my safety. And then I had wonderful tilapia and French fries for dinner. And then I went grocery shopping. Just like he said I should. Just like I said I didn’t want to. And it was good. And then I got home and ate two “Raised Chocolate Bismarcks”, and damn they were good. But then I wanted another, and in an effort to avoid eating three weeks’ worth of calories in one hour, I chose instead my demi-baguette, with butter and jam. I think that the baguette had fewer calories, but with the larger volume, it kind of made me sicker than I think the Bismarck would have.
But, all in all, it was just as nice as he said it would be. Endorphins make me happy. There was only one twinge of depression in there, rather than an evening’s worth of pity and wallowing. Except. Except when C called.
C is not someone I want to date. He has been described as a “player”—I want loyalty. He’s short and bald—I prefer tall and with hair. I don’t find him attractive—that’s really a requirement for a date. But the real deal breaker is that he’s such a hick, a redneck, a country boy. I was on the phone with him and he was talking to his “employee” (as he called the person), and said “Start your car? Bitch, start my truck!” with that sort of jovial laugh that lacks a genuine sense of joking. As if he fully expected this person to do nearly anything he said. As if he were the kind of country boy one might find in, say, Pardeeville.
Why do these boys—because I can’t call them men, they’re too selfish to be called grown—consider women to be their personal slaves? Bitch, go get me this, and bitch you have to stay home and watch the kids. Drunks, mostly, and they drink and drive. Because “I know how much I can drink.” And apparently that’s a case of the worst beer available. Cocaine, weed, any drug they can get. I’ve heard such stories that I once thought were only fiction. Husbands who won’t let their wives do anything but stay in their run-down trailer homes and watch their children. And the women who submit to these “men”? They get pregnant and marry the fathers in order to get health insurance and because “that’s just what you do”. I’m speechless—for now.
What I can say is that I’ve been turned off from all country boys. All the ones I’ve met have been patriarchal misogynists who haven’t got a high school diploma and have ambitions that go no further than showing off their new truck to their equally anti-feminist male friends, while the women they’ve roped into this scheme make sure they’re never left holding an empty beer can.
Maybe I’m being sensationalist. But I’m not sure I could find anything particularly redeeming about this little slice of Americana. The cowboy hats are pretty sexy. That’s all I’ve got, for now. I’ll let you know if I come up with another.
I should make it very clear that I’m not against all “country boys”. But I haven’t met a single one who didn’t make me want to run screaming for a museum, a college class, the city—anywhere they wouldn’t be. I’ve given some chances and they’ve proven to me that they are only interested in me being barefoot and pregnant and makin’ them a sammich. Now, for the right man, my shoes would be off and I’d be in the kitchen in a second. But that right man would have to recognize and respect that the delicious sammich a la moi was made for him because I wanted to do something nice, not because serving him is my sole purpose in life.
Really, truly, I have been shocked by the backwards and anti-female sentiments of these so-called “good ol’ boys.” My plan is to remain open but wary to any male claiming he likes to go four-wheeling, loves his truck, wears a cowboy hat, prefers country music, or calls himself a redneck.
Coming soon: my rants against pretty boys and guys who say things like “cash money fo eva”, mountains of praise for the little-seen and oft-taken-before-I-meet-them cute geek.
Tags: ,
Current Location:
my desk
Current Mood:
predatory predatory
Current Music:
Just the TV
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