~It's a family affair

I do not have a traditional family. Why this is the case could fill volumes, but suffice it to say that in the world of Cutter, blood isn't much thicker than air.

I'm starting a new relationship. I'm building a family with the woman I love, with our love for one another as the foundation. To this new relationship, we bring our existing families, and the love we have for them. In her case, her family is more traditional. In mine, it's far from that.

To my new "immediate family" which consists of the most beautiful woman in the world, and two equally beautiful kids, I add myself and attach those who I consider to be my family. That family consists of 3 siblings, and a bunch of second and third cousins. I share DNA with my brother. I do not with either of my two sisters. I do with a few second and third cousins, but not all of them.

My brother is technically my half-brother, but he is no less my brother. My sisters are my "best friend" and the friend I've had in my life the longest, but they are no less my sisters. My extended cousins, blood relatives or not, are people I can take or leave. I feel fondly towards them, but I feel no sense of obligation and not a whole hell of a lot of love.

I'm lucky that I have family. I'm lucky that I got to choose my family. I'm lucky that my family chose me. As much as I piss and moan about my "mother", my "father", or any of the rest of those I share DNA with, I do know how lucky I am to have people in my life who care for me, and whom I care for.

I'm proud, lucky, and elated that I have the opportunity to add 3 new wonderful people to my life. I'm truly blessed.

~Glum

I don't know that my head is doing too well at the moment. I feel odd... a combination of bored, depressed, apathetic, and frustrated. Even writing is difficult.

Not drinking on days like these is difficult, but I'm trying to quit, and running next door would end me up pissed off at myself.

My best friend has been on vacation for the last few days. I miss being able to talk with her. My girlfriend is busy unpacking and setting up house. I don't want to go next door to visit, because there's always beer and more over there... and I'd end up pissed off at myself.

I need to snap out of the funk, but I'm not too sure how. This morning I was very happy. I bought my train ticket West, and that really had me ecstatic. Somehow, between now and then, I slid downhill. I'm not sure what I need. I don't know if I really need anything. I'm thinking that maybe it just needs to pass.

Maybe I just need a bag of Cheetos.

~Still Gothic, after all these years

A few years ago, on my message board, the subject of "Goth" came up. The topic was raised by a guy about my age, who considered himself Goth. In my opinion, the label was perfect for him. True, my introduction to "Goth" happened in the rather unique early/mid eighties Philly Hardcore scene, so my concept of it may differ from many elsewhere, but in my opinion, what "Goth" is now is not what "Goth" started off being. My friend, who brought up the subject, was (and is) a real Goth. He still lives it. His Goth core is hard as nails.

This was my full reply to the topic:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As enslaved as I am to my memories... it just makes me realize how much of a masochist I really am. There's so much pain there... and so I cling... must cling to the nails, pick at the scabs, not let go of that which causes me to FEEL.

All parts of the world were different, I only know the early to mid 80's Goth scene in Philly... so... I can only speak from that perspective.

From what I recall, Goth started out a lot more "positive"... true, it turned into a fashion craze, just like "punk" and "skin" and "preppie"... but before it was a fad and fashion it had roots in something a lot more meaty. I think it started as a response to the bomb, actually. It was the basic attitude of, "well, we're all gonna die anyway, might as well have fun... do drugs, get laid, fuck the world and what it tells me is good for me. We're all dead anyway!". Actually, its roots are a lot more in line with what you just said about your current attitude. It's not giving up on life, it's realizing that it's already over so you might as well enjoy the time you have however you want to.

Although I had a "Goth" attitude and I wore a lot of black and also dyed my hair black quite often, I didn't really fit into the "Goth" group... my head was usually shaved actually, and my clothing was usually ripped or bloody, and not always black... Most of the "Goths" were not squatters or runaways... looking really "Goth" costed money.. more money than looking "punk" did anyway... whatever the reason though, the "Goths" were usually from a higher income bracket. Every now and again I looked Goth, but I was often mistaken for a "skinhead" as well. I was out of the closet, so to speak, as a Vampire and as a sexual mutant and as a masochist (...even earned the nickname of "Slasher" from the locals). In truth, I never really had a secure label... I had friends from many groups. We somehow met in the middle and hung out together, in a way, becoming a crowd... but in another still staying true to our individuality and some to their respective groups. True, we lived hard, but as well, we didn't break or change for anyone, no matter how hard they tried to break us... they couldn't change who were were, tell us how to act, what to wear, or what to believe in... and so, the term "hardcore" stuck. Many of us never called ourselves "punks", even though everyone else did... "Punk" became the standard name for "non-preppie" or "non-Jock". Even "Goths" were called "Punk". Among us were Adam, Jen, Andrea, Siouxzie and Catherine, the "Goths"... Ed and Laura, the "preppies"... Ron and Mike, the "metal heads"... Ben J., Kim and I, the usually bald psycho "punks" and the mohawked and/or dyed, spiky "punk" ones, Jeannie, Heather, Nicole and Pam. There was Mary, who was a cross between Goth, punk, and just plain psycho... we'd often drink 40s then see who could get down the stairs the quickest by purposely falling down them. There was John, the "skinhead". There was Ben W. and Josh, brothers who just looked pretty artsy and poor. There was Karen, a punker version of Grace Jones and also my girlfriend for a while. There was Matt, the out of the closet, beautiful male prostitute. There was Bill, the acid burnout, dealer, Vietnam Vet (?). I could go on for hours, detailing the entire face of the West Philly Hardcore crew during the years of '83 - 86... but that's not what this thread is about. This thread is about Goth, and about change, and about perspectives...

I think that as we age, many of our labels slide off... and we do our best to hang onto the ones we have pride in. I have my West Philly Hardcore tattoo. I'm proud of my roots, I AM my roots in many ways, no matter how much I grow. In my teens, I thought I had it all figured out... I knew everything. In my twenties, I knew that I had been wrong about knowing it all as a kid. In my thirties, I'm proud to announce that I knew everything from day one... I just needed to learn words to explain it all to others.

No matter how much I grow... I am who I am... that doesn't change... I just learn new words to explain who that is to everyone else. There are labels that stick, some that don't, and some that become tattoos. My "Hardcore" tattoo is permanent... physically and metaphorically. I will ALWAYS be a part of defining what "Hardcore" is, was, and always will be. I will ALWAYS be pompous about it and always inflict my standards on other people. *shrugs* It's one of the few things I'll never bend on... there's no, "well, if you're hardcore then I'm not"... there's only I'm Hardcore, period. If you want to know what that is, just get to know me. Part of being Hardcore is that you're a stubborn pompous ass about who you are and the fact that it'll never change because of society's standards. It's pride in the self (or selves, in my case)... no matter what that self happens to look like or chooses to do, feel, think, or what that self chooses to act on or do.

Hold onto that Goth label... the rest of the world honestly needs to learn what the fuck Goth is, was, and will always be... and I can think of no better example of it than you are (Jim Morrison is no longer doing interviews).
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My core is hard. Does it have a label? Did it ever? Like Mary, I was a cross of Goth, punk, and just plain psycho. I was "Orphan Edge". I was the little, cut up, freak in a leather jacket which had a history. I was I was I was. In Philly, in Israel, in Kentucky, in the burbs, in school, on South Street, on drugs, at the squat, at the shows, in the Institute, in the gutter, in the bars, at work, at home... I was. I am what I was. I am what I am. I am what I will always be.


I'm Cutter.

~Repeat after me

Another day of purging.

I slept for a little while. Two rounds, I think. 6:40 and 8 or so, from what I can recall.

There's a lot I want to do today, and a lot I have to do. Paying the rent is on the agenda, as is the therapist. Hair cutting can be put off, but I'm not liking my current fuzzy state. I'm so vain. I probably think this blog is about me.

Tips and mantras for an easier purge:

If you have to keep a thing in order to remember someone, and that person is still alive, how caring and present in your life is that person? Get rid of it!

Make someone's day and give something of value to Good Will or Salvation Army. Let the potential smile on someone else's face make you feel good.

You bought it once, you can buy it again.

If you need your things to show others who you are, how strong of a person are you?

You can't take it with you. You could die tomorrow. Let go.

Memories live in hearts and minds, not on bookshelves.

~The book of love

I was trying to purge, but I had to walk out of the room. My "library". The non-smoking room. Harold's room. The bedroom I can't use because the a/c is in the living room, and the building's washing machine is on the other side of the too-thin wall.

Hundreds of dollars worth of books. Books I never wanted. Books that got dumped on me because Art didn't feel like taking them to the book trader before he ran off to hide in his fucking desert. In my life, there has been thousands of dollars worth of Art's stuff in my possession.

I never wanted his books or his electronics or his posters or his fucking toaster oven. I just wanted him not to leave. I wanted him to be a father.

So, I stack the hundreds of dollars worth of books in my closet. They'll end up at the Salvation Army, in the hands of people who don't know the worth of them, who will bend the pages, rip the covers, and crack the spines. He'd hate that.

Funny how my heart was the only thing he wasn't anal-retentive about.

~Pining Westward

I have a lot of work to do. I have a few months to do it in, which is good and bad. Good, in that I can be a little obsessive compulsive about it. Bad, in that I don't want to wait a few months to be where I want to be.

I know that the months will fly by, on some levels, and on others they'll crawl.

Nights and mornings, they already crawl.

At night and in the morning, when I want to fall asleep next to her, and wake up beside her, yesterday isn't soon enough.

~Pack is good

Cutter is a very very happy woofy.


Yes, you can quote me on that.

~The Seen

So, they're making a movie out of my youth... ok, not about my youth specifically, but about an aspect of what I was a part of.

This freaks me out a bit... I can't help but wonder what the movie will reflect... how close to what was actually going on, and what it was all about, it will be.


Old punks don't die, they just get more leathery.

~When your number is up

A rather loud thunderstorm served as my alarm clock this morning.

I like thunderstorms. I like the adrenaline rush that comes with them. Being struck by lightning, I think, is a lot like winning the lottery. It's either supposed to happen, or it's not. There's not much you can do to make it go your way.

I can't help but play the lottery and I can't help but want to sit out in the rain, every now and again...

It's the adrenaline rush of "what if..."

~My happy place

You know, I'm really in love right now. This is a good thing. It feels really really good. Too, it feels healthy.

In the past, I've thought that I was in love. In time, you begin to see your feelings for what they were, and you start recognizing things for what they are.

I'm actually in love.

I like being in love.

~Don’t forget to flush

I don't like it when I can't get my head to the place it needs to be in order to write. Sometimes, I think that I write easiest while hiding where people can't find me... in a book with a lock on it. Yet, here I am on an open blog, attempting to.

I remember, when I was about 10 or so, hiding in the bathroom. I think that the bathroom didn't have a lock on the door, and that alone freaked me out. I used to go in there, sit on the floor, in front of the door, and do my "rituals". I had a white box. It was an old white purse which had belonged to my (step)grandmother. It was basically a box, covered in white patent leather, with cheap metal chain as the strap. I removed the chain, and turned it into my personal box... where I kept my holy things.

Writing in my diary was part of the ritual, but too was reading/murmuring passages from the Old Testament... the ones you're supposed to say every day, or so I was told, in order to be a good person, safe from the wrath of God.

So, the bathroom was the place I went to protect myself, and express myself, thanks to my own back.

Sometimes, where you have to go in order to protect yourself, smells like shit.

~18 part 2

December 5, 1987 10:35 PM

Here I sit with a quart of Miller. I'm tired, frustrated, and confused. I feel violent, yet I feel like giving up. I hate what life is, I hate society and the ignorance it stands for. I don't want to die, I just want to really live not merely exist.

There's Polly, and I do love her, but the whole damn situation is beginning to be a bit tiresome. There's nothing I can do for her, and she refuses to do what she can help herself. She has to kiss ass and won't, she has to lie. She's 15 years old and has no choice, it's lie or get locked up. It's sad, but it's the truth.

I always get myself into these stupid relationships that emotionally tear me apart. I guess I ask for trouble, I don't know.

I guess it's the beer, maybe it's making me depressed. Ugh.

~About stalling at 18

I figure I can continue with the storytelling/journal entry thing, or I can simply pick pieces of writing, some from my journal, and some not, and toss them out there. I'm actually feeling like I don't want to keep storytelling. I don't want to keep scratching my scars... especially the ones that don't even itch.

It's my blog. I can do whatever the hell I want to do on it.

I wonder why I have to keep reminding myself that.

~Blood Money

If I let the demons play on other pages, imagine how much fun they'd have. Imagine what they could do.

Do you think that most fiction writers worry about influencing people; about giving them bad ideas? Do you think that they worry about creating serial killers, rapists, and pedophiles? Do you think that they worry about their families fearing that they themselves are the characters on the pages, or worry about their families fearing that the writers are indeed demons wishing to escape the pages?

I worry about these things.

So, I don't write fiction.

Maybe I should stop worrying so damn much. Fiction might pay well.

~Mating

It is my understanding that with wolves, the Alpha female leads the way. The Alpha male follows the pack and protects every other wolf in front of him. It goes without saying. It's just that way. He trusts the Alpha female to know where to go. She trusts him to make sure they get there safely.

So I howl, and I growl, and bare my fangs.

She offers herself to me.

...and I circle...

~A Special Place In Hell

That I know of, there have been two people in the course of my life who have violated me. Yes, there were more who violated me, but in this case, I'm speaking of violating me in a specific way.

There are many things I've done throughout the course of my life, in order to keep myself safe and alive. The one thing which has, in all likelihood, worked the most effectively is my journal. My journal is where I can let the "demons" out, so to speak. The journal is where the serial killer in me can play. The journal is where the child in me can cling and cry. The journal is where the asshole can piss all over people. The journal is where the sick, twisted, mother fucker can break every law in the nation.

Taking the safe space of my journal away by entering unwelcome, takes the place away where the demons live. If someone reads my journal, then they see those demons. If people see the demons anyway, what reason do they have to stay in the journal? If a person looks into the pages of my journal, and sees me as a horrible person, what reason do I have not to be one? It's not that the truth is in the journal, and I'm living a lie. The reality is that I'm a really nicer guy, because I keep the bad stuff at bay.

I think that Stephen King's "Dark Half" had something to do with this, although I'm not sure. I only saw the movie, I didn't read the book. With writers like me, we often use the page to give that which is evil in us a home. Too, we use it to give our weakness, our doubt, and our fear a place to be where it won't destroy our lives.

When I tell people... make them promise not to ever read my journal without my permission, I do it not because I'm attempting to hide something from them, or because I'm lying to them, but because I need that safe space. I need that place where I can let out the part of me which would cause harm if let loose, where it is safe for that part to exist. It protects me, and it protects those around me. It's part of my job. It's doing what I need to do in order to not kill myself, or anyone else.

Think of that which you fear most. That's me. That's what needs to live in the journal.

We all have a "dark half". I like to think that I'm a whole hell of a lot safer to be around, because mine has a home.

My mother violated that space when I was very young. She let out some of that darkness. In 1993, my girlfriend violated it. She let out more. There is a special hate I have for both of them because of this. All is not fair in love and war. There are certain courtesies you even give to your worst enemy. When you don't, then you become a demon, and demon wars are forever.

I am a very sick, twisted, dangerous, mother fucker. I live on the page. I live on the page because I'm also a nice guy. I live on the page, because the page is there for me to live on.

I tell people never to read my journals unless I give them permission, because pissing off a demon is not something you ever want to do. They will reserve a special place in hell, just for you.

~Complete Twain

I've been up for a few hours. Managed to make coffee, and do some reading. Talked (online) briefly with my brother about these books I'm wanting to sell. He said that he'd help me to sell them on e-bay... help that is much needed and appreciated. It's not that I really don't want the books, I do, but I need the money, and they'll get a good price. I've had them for years. It's a complete (29 volume), hardback set of Mark Twain's work. It's never even been read. I've seen it go for about $500, so I'm hoping that I can get at least that for it. It weighs a ton though. Probably about 60 lbs.

There's a lot of stuff I have that could fetch a good price on e-bay. I just go brain dead when attempting to manage the logistical end of selling. Too, getting things to UPS or the post office is something I have to rely on my brother for, so the stuff sits and waits (luckily, increasing in value).

Anyone want to buy a genuine WWII German car flag? I'll throw in a copy of "Mein Kampf"! What better way to be anti-nazi than to burn those things!

Hmmm... that might be a good e-bay ad.

~I forget

I'm supposed to go on with reading/posting my journal. I can't seem to get there though. Sometimes I want to burn every last word. Sometimes I just want to let my memories recreate themselves... forget about the truth... just go with the most seemingly interesting thing that pops out of my brain at the time.

I don't have to justify my pain.

I don't need to prove anything.


Sometimes, it's ok to forget.


Why am I doing this, again?

~Jade

I feel like I should write, but my brain is sort of just sitting there being a lump of grey. I feel tired. I feel a bit old and jaded.

I appreciate the wisdom which comes with age, but I don't like being jaded. I don't like the fact that I've learned to always be prepared for/expect the worst. I don't like knowing what the worst is.

I'm not a kid anymore.

Today, being 34 is freaking me the fuck out.

~Clarifying the negative

After a conversation, last night, I started thinking about what I mean when I say certain things; specifically, things which involve the use of the word "can't".

"I can't" - a) momentary "can't" as in, "I can't lift 3,000 pounds" with my pinky." b) long term "can't" as in, "I can't jump off the Empire State building."

a = At the moment, I can't. b = at the moment, I can, but it will lead me to a dangerous place.

To clarify "I won't" - "I won't" is definitive. There's one meaning. "Won't" = will not, whether or not I can.

There's also "I don't feel like". That means I can, but won't unless my feeling changes.


It's rare I don't do things because I don't feel like it, but it is occasionally the case. Most things I don't want to do though, I push myself to do.

There are a few things I won't do, but they often change. I can be stubborn, but I often give in.

There are many things I can't do. Many of those things, like lifting 3,000 lbs with my pinky, are things that most other people can't do either, but there are also things I can't do that most other people can.

How do I measure what I can or can't do? I try. If I find that I can't, and I've tried repeatedly, I can't, and I don't give up easily.

I have two jobs. Don't kill myself. Don't kill anyone else. If something will cause or lead me to not being able to do my jobs, I won't do those things. I will say I can't do those things, because by my definition (definition b), I can't.

To define "I can't do my laundry today.":

I can put the clothes into the washer, put the quarters in, and do the laundry. Before, after or during this process the probability of my slicing myself to ribbons or blacking out entirely is 95%. To me, this translates more into "can't" than "won't", so I say, "I can't do my laundry today."

The reason why I'm on disability, is because I have limitations that most other people in society do not have. The reason why I'm not locked up, in the gutter, or dead is because I've spent 34 years learning what those limitations are, often the hard way, and I respect those limitations. I know how far I can push myself. I know where the line is. I push myself as close to the line as I can get on a daily basis. In the past, I pushed myself over the line repeatedly. This was not good. Pushing myself over the line is not doing my jobs. Going over the line will kill or hurt me, or kill or hurt someone else. I simply WON'T do that, if it is in my power not to. I can do my jobs. If I get to the point where I can't, I can and will ask for help from those in society whose job it is to help me. This is called "taking care of myself".

I cannot do what I cannot do. I won't do what I won't do. I'll constantly do things I don't feel like doing.

I will always walk the line.

~Harold's Publicity Shot

Well, it's the only one on the roll that came out, but.... *points to the left* Heeeeeeere's Harold!

~My latest photo

My new "most recent photo"...

Although I'm not sure this picture is very flattering (I very rarely like pictures of myself), the smile is genuine.

On that day, there was nowhere else in this world, or any other, I'd rather have been, and no one else I'd rather have been with.


I love you, aX.

~I want

There's so much to think about... so much to write about... so much to do.

I don't feel overwhelmed, and that is a bit surprising. I feel determined.

Knowing what you want is half the battle. The other half is figuring out how to get it.

I know, and I have a plan.

~Home yet not.

I don't want to be here.

I want to be there.

I want to be where I belong.

I don't belong here.

I belong there.


Time for MEGApurge.

~Chickin in

I'm here.

I'm happy.

'nuff said.

~The number you have reached...

I have birds to follow, and a heart to guide me and welcome me home.

That's where I'm at. That's what I'm doing.

Please leave a message at the tone.


beeeeeeep

~3 days and 46 minutes

I have a lot to do, but I'm feeling pretty brain dead. I can't even really seem to write.

Things will get done, I'm not worried about that, but I don't like feeling like my brain cells are having bad communication days.

I think that I'll drink a few beers, try going to bed a little early, then take care of things in the morning.

Hopefully, by then, my brain cells will get the fuck over it.

~The poopy dance

Waiting on the UPS man.

Don't you hate it when you know that you'll have to answer the door as soon as you hear the buzzer, and you really really really have to go to the bathroom?

~Look what I can do!

Well, look at that. #13 on the "Hot Blogs" list. Still not as popular as suggestive looking school girls, but not bad for someone who doesn't do anything but write in order to get hits, and who can be a real dick when it comes to comments.

~Keep your hands off my pen

Sometimes I think about all I've written here so far, and I feel a little guilty. So many people... so many names left out of "the story"... so many stories left out of the blog. Many people were very very important to me... people I loved... and they're not reflected in this chunk of writing.

I've got a few years left, I think. True, I could die tomorrow, and right now I've never felt less like dying, but it is a reality. I guess I can only hope that I'll get the chance to tell all my stories before my pen is snatched from my fingers.

Better stop thinking about this. I'm going to get myself feeling pretty crappy.

go to a happy place go to a happy place go to a happy place!

~He who follows

It'll be a couple of weeks before I get the chance to blog 18 part 2.

I guess it makes sense... a break before tackling "adulthood". It would've been nice if there had been a break in the past, when I actually was first expected to play "grown up" full time.

Although I'm putting them off at the moment, I have real "grown up" things to do... and like it or not, I'm a real "grown up". (You know you're a grown up when your tattoos are old enough to vote.)


I have to take a trip.


I have to follow the ravens to their nest.

~Grumpy

I've got a sour stomach. Ouch. Drank some Bass Ale last night, and my stomach is, obviously, not very happy with me about it. Real beer was good for a change though. My stomach will get over it.

As usual, I'm up but still tired. I'm always tired. Damn sleep disorder.

I need to ungrumpify myself.

Beer for breakfast?

~18 part 1

1:13 AM 10-16-87

Ah, time for another fun entry in this stupid yellow book.

Things are going a little nutty. I had what you might call a relapse on Monday, I flipped out and sliced my arm up again. I don't know why I broke down, I just did. Sometimes it feels that the whole world is on my shoulders, and I just collapse under it. Monday was one of those times. I guess I have to get my ass in therapy again before any more "break-downs" follow.

Needless to say I had to be stupid about the whole thing and run to Drue for support. Wrong, bad bad move. She'll fly away the minute she thinks I need her too much. Some lover I've got, here when she's horny, gone when I really need her. She's got Brian to lean on when she needs someone right away, I run to her for support and offer mine but she doesn't need it, he's there. So, who can I count on when I need support and a shoulder to cry on? No one. These are the drawbacks of loving a taken woman, you give her all you can but her happiness comes from another. She wants to run my life, but won't budge an inch for me. Stubborn, big headed, selfish woman, and I have to fall in love with her. She can be so kind and loving one minute, and the next she can be so cruel. It hurts bad enough when I get depressed and suicidal, it hurts even more when she turns to ice. I give and give but what do I get from her? Some good sex? I don't know, I'm just pissed at her right now so I'm being overly critical, things may clear up, I guess I'll find out soon enough.

~Sticky

You know it's hot and humid when the honey roasted peanuts stick together in the can.

~Hot and Cold

The walk to the shrink will be disgusting. It's too damn hot out. I like it here in my igloo. The last thing I feel like doing is sweating my way to the office to spill out all my fears and insecurities... my stifled desires and twisted wants.

Around these parts, I prefer to stay in the igloo, where things are safe from me, and I am protected from them.

I need to go play with the other penguins.

~Long and winding road

In the morning, after I smoke half a smoke, I wash my face, rinse my mouth, and put my clothes and coffee on. I then plant my butt in front of the computer, and attempt to come up with something to write about.

It feels like starting the car engine. Not that I would really know what that felt like, being that I don't drive and am not a car, but I can guess.

It has become a ritual for me. I've done it for 5 years. I don't even really remember how I used to start my day, before my long, strange trip in cyberville.

The night my net service started, five years and one month ago, I sat down in front of my computer and continued my life long quest. I had a mountain of clues, and a whole new world to search.

I remember asking people, when I first started exchanging cyber words, "What are you searching for?" hoping to bring to light the fact that just about everyone is searching for the same thing when they become part of online communities. We're all looking for "The One".

Five years and a month ago, the trail of bread crumbs I followed... and my ravens... led me to the Internet. I picked up the bread crumb, and I typed the word "Vampire" into a search engine. There, the online leg of my quest began.

My ravens then led me over the river and through the woods, over hill, over dale, in circles, through tunnels and caves, down long and winding roads. They led me here.

They'll lead me to your door.

~The other edge of 17

Yes, the story does continue.

I hit "childhood's end" out of school, jobless, living with Art, hurting, and continuing my affair with Drue.

I want to make a joke about "the rabbit dying", but I won't. I loved my Bunny. I had to give her to the school because Art was allergic, and didn't want to help me care for her. Oddly enough, before I found out she'd died, I had a dream about it. Guess that was my preparation. From what I heard, she got out of her cage and was killed by a cat. Made me very sad.

So, what happened with Alison?

I'm pretty sure I told Alison about my (re)involvement with Drue pretty soon after Drue and I slept together again. Alison always knew about Drue. I met Alison in the hospital. She was there for a lot of my rants and ravings about Drue... she listened. She loved me. Alison and I "hooking up" happened because I got to the point where I said, "Why not?". If I'd followed my gut, Alison and I wouldn't have hooked up. My heart was elsewhere. Not that she was a bad person. I loved her. To this day I wonder how she is, what she's doing with her life, where she ended up. She was good to me. She just wasn't "The One". "The One" was busy ghosting in and out of Drue.

One day, maybe I'll understand the whole ghosting thing. All I know now, is that it happens. It always has happened, and it's still happening now. Traveling without moving. Being two places at once.

I suppose if I'm actually delusional, it won't change my life much. What's one more label? Right?

~Steel

Pebbles just bounce off
Better find some bigger rocks
If you can lift them

~Monday Morning

This morning it was some sort of rap or hip hop bass line that got me up. It wasn't directly below me, but it was still loud enough to vibrate my apartment.

I really need to do my laundry. That's looking like it's not going to happen though. As usual, the machine is in use. I can hope that it'll free up at some point today, but I'm not going to count any chickens yet.

I'm itchy. My skin is broken out. I have a cyst in the worst place, and it hurts. My face hurts from pulling at my beard. My stomach is sore. I'm still tired.


deep breath

deep breath

deep breath

Focus on the moment.


I love you.

~Lights

Getting close to bed time. Drinking what I think might be my last beer for the night. Miller Lite is evil. Tastes great and less filling. Right. That just means you drink four times as much. Not good for poor people. If you're going to go for a light beer, "Natural Light" is the way to go, if you're poor. It's cheap, tastes like shit, and burns your stomach. You don't tend to drink a whole hell of a lot of it, so it's much better on the (already skinny) wallet.

So, today was Independence Day. (Well, technically yesterday, but...) I have my own Independence Day, which is in the beginning of November. I think I understand the meaning of "Independence" better than most. I understand the cost of taking it, how difficult it is to fight for, and what the benefits are.

It's more than just a bunch of fireworks.


...and I understand those too.