944pm122004

Monday, December 20, 2004 9:44 PM EASTERN

I'm on the train, heading to (A2)'s.

ok... I broke. fucking sue me

Shit, it feels good to write again. I can't tell you how much I deleted. I'll forgive myself. I had my reasons.

My brain is a piece of Swiss cheese.

See?




I'm trying to survive. Fuck love. Fuck feeling. Fuck the fucking ether. I was closer to suicide than I've ever been.

Fuck you

Fuck you for making me feel guilty for saving myself.

Yes... I love you

Yes.. I hate you

YES.. I want to play croquet with your head and a sledgehammer.

THAT is why I left.


I don't know where home is... but I'm still trying.

1041am120304

It's been a long few days. I had an MRI done on the 29th, and got the results back the next afternoon, via phone. I do indeed have MS.

By the first, I was completely blind in my right eye when I got to the doctor to discuss the results, and was given my first IV steroid treatment. I now have some peripheral vision back. Today is the last of the 3 IVs, and then I move onto oral Prednisone.

The real kicker in all of this is that, apparently, I've had MS for, at least, the last 10 years. My repetitive cries of "There's something wrong with my brain!!!" were indeed dead on. There really is something wrong with my actual brain organ. Most of the damage is on the left side, and the corpus callosum is atrophied. I'd go into more detail, but frankly, even typing this much is challenging. So... a lot of the brain stuff was MS. Not that I didn't have mental/emotional shit going on concurrently, but things like the hypersensitivity to sound, constant fatigue, and getting lost while walking in a straight line were/are the MS. A lot of things are the MS.

My life. I really should write a book.

1030am113004

I'm blind in one eye. No, I'm not exaggerating, and I'm not being metaphorical. Blind.

1236pm111904

Don't kill anyone. Don't kill yourself.

1021am102904

Welcome to Montana! First stop, Wolf Point. (Who knew?) So... here we are, my new home State. The land is flat, and the sky is grey. The clouds are so low, it looks like you could touch them if you jumped in the air. We're heading for the mountains. The mountains. Those snow capped ones I always used as desktop pictures. Those mountains that remind you of yourself, that give you perspective. Those mountains. Heading to the bears, the elk, the wolves, the ravens...

All is as it should be.

207pm102704

This is fucking amazing. I'm on the train...very very happy. I ate and had a smoke. My laptop is hooked up and the cell phone plugged in. Stylin'.
I'm still reeling from today's HUGE coincidence. Waiting for the train, I peer between two ticket dispensers, and who do I see? Jackrabbit. Fucking Jackrabbit!!!! Even more, he's on his cell phone.... with Paradox! PARADOX!!!!! Holy fucking shit!!! Rabbit was in, visiting from San Francisco. That's where the two of them live now. Completely overwhelming. Haven't seen Rabbit since about '93. I don't think I've seen Paradox since I left the squat in '86. It really was a wonderful thing... knowing that they're both still alive and well means the world to me. I exchanged info with Jackrabbit, and I really hope that we keep in touch. He tells me that he's in the process of writing a book about the squat days. Simply amazing.
Happy indeed. Although it was very difficult saying goodbye to S., I'm completely elated. I'm going HOME. I'm on my way to where I belong... with my Sara. You can quote me on this.... Life is good.

Got Brains?

I have about 76 hours, and a list of things which I have to do that is a mile long. Nowhere on that list is sitting in front of the computer, blogging.

I lost my mind years ago. This is just plain crazy.

and

they didn't take the desk.

Fuck me.

I have no clue as to how I'm going to get this beast out of here.

Wish me luck.

Missions

I have about a hour until the furniture people (aka The Trenton Rescue Mission) might get here. I was told they'll be here sometime between 8 and 2. Hopefully all will go well.

I can't say that I envy them. This place is ridiculously difficult to move anything in or out of. Hopefully I won't be liable if one of them gets killed while attempting to get my desk out of here.

Are you supposed to tip when you're donating to a charity?

I hope that whoever gets the desk also gets the luck attached to it.

I should tape a note into one of the drawers... "Give it about 5 years, and your dreams will come true." Maybe a p.s. too... "Don't drop this thing on your foot, it'll leave a mark."

One more week...

fucking incredible.


I'm smiling.

Finishing up

I have 8 days, 4 hours, 26 minutes and 12 seconds until my train leaves.

I have a lot to do... on many levels.

Settling into Blogspot. That's something I'm doing. I added a hit counter just now. I like to know if my blog is being read, and how often. I'd prefer an invisible counter, but that's a pay service, and right now I'm not wanting to pay for it. I shelled out 20 bucks for my last blog, I'm not shelling out more for this one until I have some time to settle in properly.

Today's "to do" list is, although short, very time consuming and, well.... icky. I want very much to drink a beer and just not do anything having to do with cleaning or furniture.

Maybe I'll drink a beer and then get started. No sense freaking out about the whole thing. It's just cleaning. I like cleaning. I just don't like venetian blinds.


I have 10 days, 13 hours, 54 minutes and 37 seconds until my train arrives. This makes me very happy.

Until death

It's said that when you kill in self defense, it's not murder.

I think that I'm having issues with defining "self defense".

What is it when you kill someone who is making you want to kill yourself, rather than exist another minute on the same planet with that person?

What is it when you kill someone who will completely destroy your life, making it a living hell until that person chooses to stop?

What about when someone is a part of you? Is it not then self defense to kill someone who is torturing that person?


Yes, issues.

rrrrp

Saranac lager is a very very tasty beer.

My Path

Have you ever wished that you could go through life honestly? I mean, being 100% honest with people... telling them how you really felt about them, the good, the bad, and the ugly, all of the time. I've often wished that. I think that I used the Internet to play around with that... to see "what would happen if..."

I played. I watched people play. I let people think that I didn't have a clue. I let people think lots of things. It didn't matter. It wasn't real. (right, sk?) I fooled a lot of people. I successfully fooled myself. It was necessary. I did a swan dive into cyberspace and took care of what I needed to take care of for me... had some fun... helped a few people out now and again. I flew around, breathing fire like a dragon and when on the ground, hurling feces like a good primate... and I howled. I howled until the howl was answered.

It's coming to a close. It's been over 5 years that I've had "Internet" as my full time job. It's an interesting field. It's not just writing. It's not just navigating. It's drama, social skills, art, psychology, occult studies, P.I. work. I think I have my Masters degree now.

I did say that I didn't play well with others. I didn't lie about that. I'm as selfish, cruel, unfeeling, hypocritical, and egotistical as I've ever accused anyone else of being. I was trained well, and I trained myself well. I'm very good at being very bad. Did you know that you can make others feel good about themselves by simply being an asshole? It's crafty, yet rather effective.

We're all just entertainment to one another. We're not real. We project our emotions and insecurities onto one another. We turn each other into who we want each other to be. We love, we hate, we laugh, we cry, and sometimes we even die. We use one another. We're all just psy-vamping through cyberspace, "Aren't I wonderful!"(ing) and "Woe is me!"(ing), until we feel like Gods or Demons. Freaks and Geeks. Humans.

Did we really care, or were we just hungry? Does it really matter?

I followed my Ravens. They led me to the other side of the country, to my family, to my home, to what I've been searching for my whole life.

My name is Jx. I'm a thief, a liar, a whore, a beast, and a manipulator.

I'm no angel.

Strokes

I suppose that there's plenty I could write about, but lately I'm finding it difficult to blog. I suppose that it's about spending the last 5 and a half years online... writing and writing and writing... I suppose that I'm pretty over it. Every now and again you get someone who gets something out of what you write, but generally speaking, no... at most, you can pat yourself on the back for being a good drumming chimp. It's just entertainment... drama, for other people.

Do I really care? Maybe a little. I'm sure that deep down inside of me I want people to care about what I have to say, but I can't care too much. I did that for a few years, and it did nothing other than make me want to hunt people down and shoot them. When you care, you put your heart on the line. Not a good thing to do with the Internet. My conclusion, after 5 and a half years? As quickly as possible, take it offline.

It's not real.

I argued that point, once. I used to want it to be real... to be typing back and forth with other real people... to believe the "I love you!s" and "You're family!s"... It's not real though. The words were, generally speaking, empty. News Flash: If only one person thinks it's real, it's called a delusion.

So, why do I continue writing online? I don't know. I think that right now it's just about killing time... and getting the occasional ego boost. There's nothing quite like hearing "you're right!" to give me a stiffy. Doesn't take all that much to make me happy, I guess.

In a while, I'll drift offline. I'll go back to pen and paper, and Word docs. The thought is a pleasant one. I don't even recognize my own handwriting anymore. My writer's callous is gone. It's sort of sad.

Instant gratification. That's what it's all about, I suppose. It used to be that I didn't care if anyone ever read what I wrote. In fact, I preferred that no one ever did. My writing was for me. It was an outlet. Then, I wrote online and people ooh!ed and ahh!ed... and the rest is history. More! More! More! Feed me! Feed me! Feed me! Stroke my ego! Harder! Harder! Harder!!!

I used to be able to get myself off just fine.

Sad indeed.

My love

I'm coming to you... myself... all of me. I'm not going to drag old baggage with me, and I'm not going to leave doors open in the least that should be closed. I don't need an escape hatch. I don't want an escape hatch.

You are my destiny. The path of my life lead directly to you.

I'm closing doors with a smile.

Cave in

Often, I feel completely socially awkward... sort of like one of those little rocks in the Paxil commercial. Is it Paxil, or Prozac? One of the two. Anyway... sometimes I wish that I'd shut up a lot quicker than I do. I say things without thinking, then beat myself up for how I must have come across.

Often, it's easier just to hide.

~Wolf in the Box

I spent the last couple of months trying to figure out how to get my wolf Mandala into a box which is suitable for shipping. Yes, I have indeed lost sleep over the matter. That's the thing with OCD, there's an "O" in it. It's not that I choose to obsess, it just happens. I do try not to. I talk to/with myself, train myself, reward and/or punish myself, but it's quite an uphill battle. I'm just glad I figured this one out before the Mandala ended up in the trash. I'll do that too. If the obsession gets too far out of control, I'll often solve it destructively.

So, this morning, I finally solved the problem. I took it apart, and it fit into one of the boxes I had. I am very happy about this. I think that the afternoon nap may well become a reality.

~Hooked On A Feeling

I went next door to get myself a 22oz. bottle of beer. When I walked into the bar, the last minute of "In Your Eyes" was playing on the jukebox. I felt you. My heart swelled.

Of course, at that moment, you were posting the lyrics to "I Can't Fight This Feeling" on your blog.

Was it the song, or was it you thinking of me, or was it just life making sense?

I don't know.

I don't care.

I do love you.

~31 days

If I'm honest, I'll admit that I'm completely freaking out.

Guess I was just honest.

It's good and bad stuff, hence the freaking out. The good stuff is overwhelming me on the "joy" scale. The bad is overwhelming me on the "stress" scale.

The last of my stuff has to be either packed up or gotten out of the apartment. I have to clean the place. There's laundry to do. I should go see my neighbor. I'm in OCD hell.

All I want to do is be there. I miss my Sara.

411am092204

My name is Jx. I'm a thief, a liar, a whore, a beast, and a manipulator. Just ask anyone.

~Loving

I was born with a purpose.

Life happened to me until
I grabbed the reigns.

I went West and back
I went South and back
I went further West and back

I went within
I listened
I remembered
I looked

I searched
I learned
I experienced
I fought
I was imprisoned

I played their games
I lied
I cheated
I stole
I cut
I bled

I howled.
I broke down.
I was labeled.
I was fucked.
I fucked the world.

I walked
I sat
I watched
I wrote

I followed my bread crumbs.
I followed my ravens.
I followed my heart.

I found my heartbeat.
I found what I was looking for.

I'm going home.

~Mornings

Sometimes I really suck at expressing myself. Sometimes, even though I know how I'm feeling, I don't know why I'm feeling the way I do. Sometimes, the actual problem hides behind something that isn't a problem at all, thus enabling me to feel as if I can solve the problem.

I don't fear not being able to take care of myself. There's plenty of help out there, if I can't manage alone. Do I fear not being able to take care of others? I have 35 years worth of 'not being good enough for other people' messages, from my mother to my message board. I also have that much time in under the "ungrateful" whip, the "thief" whip and the "whore" whip. Do I fear more of those messages or beatings? Not really. Been there, done that, lived to tell the tale. So, what is it that I fear? When I get insecure and attempt to OCD my life, my head and my wallet into making sense, what is it that I fear?

Just flashed back to a day in High School. I'm pretty sure it was the Winter of '84. My head was shaved, and I wore a bandana to keep it warm. Not that I spent much time in school, I basically showed up to see friends, but on this day I decided to go. I walked in and was making my way down the hall, taking off my bandana, when a girl stopped me. Michelle, the epitome of Hardcore in my book, didn't often speak to me. She didn't often speak to anyone, actually. She was the growly type. That morning though, she stopped me, and proceeded to talk about my newly shaved head. She asked, in her growly way, "What are you covering your head up for?". I laughed, and brrrrred out my reason. Reason aside, she continued and preached. Always be proud of what you do. If you have to be ashamed of it, you shouldn't be doing it at all. If you shave your head, wear it proudly. I didn't have issues with the proud part, just the cold part, but that morning, and that message, stuck in my head the rest of my life... to this day.

In my life, being and/or looking "different" has often been the case. I was in style for a while there, thanks to the whole "Grunge" thing, but generally, I don't exactly blend. Over the years, and maybe because of the whole Grunge thing, blending and/or feeling accepted has become something I actually put effort into. In truth? When I think about this fact, it makes me sick. I remember the day I stopped tucking my pants into my boots, other than for work. I caved in to a snotty hairdresser/coke head who liked paying for expensive dinners. I'm pretty sure that was in '97. The move may have got me a $100 lobster dinner, but it cost me considerably more.

It was a brand new angle to the message... If you sacrifice yourself, it will make other people happy, and they might stick around for a while. Just be who they want you to be, and they won't turn up their nose at you... right down to wearing a bandana full time.

So, here I am with the woman I combed the planet looking for. Not that I blame her for wanting to rip my bandana off, or that I think she wouldn't be justified if she shoved it in my mouth to shut me up, it's just a shift and a shock. I suppose I didn't even realize that I'd put it back on... and I didn't realize that anyone could see my bald head under it... and love it ...and want it ...and prefer it.

Here I am with the woman I combed the planet looking for, worrying that if the bandana comes off, she'll turn up her nose... worried that if she sees me, she'll leave me.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

~Still counting

In 892 hours, I'll be on my way home.

~Turn the page

This is my last day at 34. I suppose that now 35 can start freaking me the fuck out.

I don't know that my 34 years would really entertain anyone. I suppose it's all in the telling though. People have told me that I should write a book. I tell them I already have. It's true. It's just that the final draft isn't ready for submission. Aside from what is already written out, there's a virtual library in my head. All sorts of books in there. It's just a matter of pulling one from the shelf and typing it up all nice and fancy.

I used to feel that publishing books was rather egocentric. A published writer has to feel that what they have to say is important enough for everyone else to listen to. (Yes honey, I know that "they" is not correct grammar. I'm a testy writer though. I refuse to polarize gender.) Anyway, I used to feel that way. Now I'm starting to think it's just about giving people what they want. There are so many people out there bending over backwards looking for someone else to live vicariously through. Blog Stalkers. Board Lurkers. Role Players... so many people who are much more content watching life than actually living it. It's all in the name of a drama fix, I suppose.

Give the people what they want. They'll pay you for it. There's a concept. Shit on a silver platter? Perhaps, but maybe it really doesn't matter. Maybe what really matters is that it'll give you a very nice roof under which to give the most important person in the world what she wants ...and a really nice bed to give it to her in.

I'm feeling good today.

Fight with me baby, I love how we make up.

~It's September

...and I am very very happy.

aX

I'm not familiar with tears of joy. They were there, however.


You've honored me beyond the point I've thought myself worthy of being honored.


As I live, I shall live for you.

~Still counting

In 1005 hours, I'll be at the train station.

I'll be smiling BIG.

~Crawling right along

I could sit here and count up to 3,808,124 or I can actually get things done before I have to leave for the train.

1
2
3
4
5
6
...

~How not to be a loser

If someone you want, wants someone other than you, it makes you a stand-by, a second choice, a back up. Does it really make sense to want someone who could only ever see you as a booby prize? Do you think that the fact that you think so poorly of yourself is going to make you attractive to anyone other than a shrink? It's not tenacity or loyalty to "wait for" someone. If you had that person, even for a minute, and that person went elsewhere, having that person again does not mean that the person finally saw the light. It means that you're getting someone else's left overs.

I spent about 20 years playing this game with myself. I came up with every excuse and delusion in the book. Anything but let go of my ghost/saviour/surrogate mother. Anything but stop waiting... stop wanting. I couldn't find esteem enough to admit to myself that I saved myself. It was so much easier to give all the credit to someone else. That way, I could continue happily beating myself up for everyone.

If you want to end the game sooner, start looking for what you truly want and quit looking at what you thought you had. Stop waiting. It doesn't make you look noble or loyal. It makes you look like a pathetic loser.

~Another day

Still more to purge.

Keep what has meaning. Keep what you can be proud of. Keep what's real.

Always something there to remind me....

I have scars. I don't need transcripts.


The Who are playing in my head. I'm glad. The internal radio hasn't been playing much more than commercials recently. I much prefer music.

~Want

I want to capture this day
I want to capture the love in my heart
I want to capture the feeling of it

about to explode

I want to release yesterday
I want to release the pain
I want to release our fear

threatening to destroy

I want to always

love you

~The Rules

I do get lost.

It is a bit of a battle. It's difficult to stay on course.

Often, I focus more on what hurts me than I do on what helps. Often, I focus more on not killing myself or anyone else than I do on actually living. Often, I get stuck thinking and forget how to feel.

I can't blame it all on this pit I'm used to polishing. I can't even blame it all on those who pushed me into the pit or who continue to keep me in it. I'm here too. I have to take some of the blame. If I don't, I'll never get out of the pit.

See, life will continue to toss me into the pit. This I know. This I'm used to. I end up deeper and deeper every time, as if being tossed into it somehow lowers the bottom.

"...like a deep dark pit, knowing it's swallowed you up..."

I wrote that a couple of decades ago.. a line in an otherwise horrible attempt at poetry.


I'm wondering, does a warrior need an enemy in order to shine? If there is no enemy, what happens to the warrior? Does he create his own demons to do battle with, in order to feel alive?

My blade is sharp. I long to drive it through the heart of the enemy. Best I watch my step. I may lose track of the fact that I'm not my own worst enemy. There are plenty out there to slay. Must watch my step and watch my blade.

"Don't kill yourself. Don't kill anyone else." That is the law of man. The enemy can preemptively strike if they suspect those rules may soon be broken.


The law of the thief... Don't get caught.

Don't get caught, and don't give ammo to the enemy. Don't give them a reason to preemptively strike.

Don't get caught. It's every thief's research project. CSI is popular for a reason.


In truth, I don't fear death. I don't fear killing. I fear getting caught. I fear having to take the blame.

It is a good fear to have.

I'm still here.

~Sounding bored

Life feels abstract. Nothing seems real. I suppose that it makes sense. When life changes, nothing feels really familiar anymore. It's not what you're used to, so you don't recognize it. Maybe.

When I was younger, change used to excite me. Now, it's not so much that it scares me, but I think that I've stopped expecting the best. I guess that's what people mean by "jaded".

I'm supposed to see my shrink later tonight. I really don't see what the point is in going. It's been two years that I've been seeing her. It was good to have a sounding board. It was good to be able to tell my story, or part of it, to someone. Has it really helped? I really don't know.

A few months ago, I started smiling. Just the fact that my girlfriend existed caused me to smile. I still smile when I think of her. I think that's more valuable than going to a shrink.

~Yes

Welcome to September.

~grumble grumble

Sealed up the first three boxes last night. I have a couple dozen more to go, but it's tough, because a lot of it is stuff I may need in the next month or so. Seasons are changing, the whole clothing thing is tricky.

I managed to get a few things done yesterday. I'm pretty impressed with myself. I'm only a year or so out of struggling just to bathe every day. "Transition", I think you'd call it. ...the butterfly getting out of the cocoon... although I'd not call myself a butterfly.

On the other side of the country, my girlfriend is beyond stretched. Work, kids, house, bills, and this new relationship to deal with. It makes me feel pretty frustrated. There's not a whole hell of a lot I can do from here. I just tell her I love her and that it'll only be a couple of months. I don't think that helps much though. It doesn't exactly compensate for the sleep she needs and isn't getting. grumble grumble

Today, my brother is supposed to come up. Food store and, hopefully, dropping a few boxes of stuff off at the Salvation Army. Musts. The help is beyond appreciated... as is the company.

Not feeling very creative. I hate it when I struggle to write. grumble grumble

~The Ninth Month

I'm not sure that I won't be going back to bed, but I'm up, for the moment.

The movie people have been in touch with me, and I have to decide what I want to do about that. There's something about it that doesn't feel right to me. I fear that I'm putting off talking to them simply because of not wanting to say "no". I suppose I'll give it some more thought before I give them a final answer... make sure that my heart and head are in the right place about all of it.

It's September. I wanted to concentrate on certain things this month. At the top of the list is cutting back on the smoking and drinking. There are many reasons why I want to, not the least of which is that I need the money to start mailing my stuff out West. Problem is that I still have a couple more months of intense boredom and solitude to get through. I tend to smoke and drink a lot more when I'm idle. I also wanted to concentrate on the more tedious aspects of purging. The writing is waiting for me to go through, and the photographs, and the financial records.

Everything will get done. I'm just anxious. I wish that I didn't have to deal with it. I wish I were just there already. Makes me want to crawl back into bed. Time passes more quickly when you sleep, sleep disorder or no.

maybe just a nap...

255pm083104

I gave notice to my apartment complex this morning. So... here we go. Things are in motion. Do or die.

I'm scared. Petrified actually. Determined, but full of fear.

I hope that strength people keep telling me I have holds out.

~Mourning Thoughts

Another morning, another cup of coffee.

My brain is tired. That has always troubled me... the fact that I can't turn off my brain. As close as I can get is being drunk, but even that doesn't work sufficiently. All drinking does is slow the thoughts down a little... quiets them.

I once tried to capture what my head sounded like. I had a 4 track recorder. I overdubbed until I had enough tracks to get close. There are always voices, and noises, and music, on the inside of my head, along with the noises that come from the outside. Sometimes it's louder than others, the inside stuff. Sometimes I can't tell if it's coming from inside or from the outside. Sometimes it keeps me up, because it's too loud. Sometimes it keeps me up because it's too scary.

I feel like I'm dying. I feel like I'm killing myself. I'm not sure that "integration" is supposed to feel this way. I'm not sure that there's supposed to be a residual mess to clean up. My mother emasculated me. My father could only laugh at tears. They both spoke with violence as their native language. They both walked on me. And so the game called "life" began. I'm tired of playing the game. I just don't know how to stay alive without doing so.

Another day, another cup of coffee, another beer for breakfast.

~Burning Desire

I have a lot to do. ...a lot to do which I don't feel like doing. My apartment is a mess. It's tough to have anal retentive issues while packing and purging. All I really want to do is hide from it. I wish that I could fall asleep and have those elves from The Elves And The Shoemaker come in and take care of it. What a messed up message to give to kids... just go to sleep and everything will magically take care of itself.

This task would be so much easier if I had access to a burn barrel.

~What I am

I'm in love.

I'm in love. I'm in love. I'm in love.

~Just plain goofy

It's amazing, the number of hits I get while NOT blogging.

~The Wright time

Dear Ben,

I think of you when I listen to Genesis. You and Josh. I think about the bunch of us... the hamsters up in the loft. I think about when Genesis was intense... about when U2 and REM were new... and I miss you. I wonder what you're doing now. I wonder what the lot of us are doing now. Then was so intense... there was love with no words... there was just us... the bunch of us.

Time passes. People come and go. Memories remain though. The intense ones last forever.

I hope that you're smiling somewhere.

...and I hope that you think of us all... sometimes.

~Meds

sometimes, you just gotta

~Gotta love a metaphor

The hurricane thing is about an hour or so from me... a little water, a little wind.

I suppose that I should be worrying about the weather, instead of everything else running around in my noggin. Can't seem to do that though. My brain has a mind of its own. Sometimes the hurricane is in my head. Sometimes I just have to do my best to wait it out... Cling to the trees... and hope that they're strong enough.

~Sad indeed.

Yeah, this is the part that sucks most about getting old... knowing it's all past, and very few will ever know what it was all about.We got to be king of the world, for a time. Now we're just old whiny fucks who try to dress like teenagers, or so some say.

I think that it was all about "community"... all about people really giving a shit about one another. Maybe it wasn't though. Everyone drifted away... so how much was it really worth to them? How much were we really worth to one another?

~Bring it on

It's funny. Out of all the entries, this blog entry is at the very core of why I started this blog. True, not many have actually started from the beginning of my blog and read the whole thing, but I'd like to think that people who read a blog daily would at least check out the beginning of it.

You can't go back in time... but you carry your past with you. It shapes you... admit it or not.


I've been to the bottom. I've had those I love most spit on me. I've been locked away. I've been branded a freak. I've shit in buckets in abandoned houses. I've had doctors poke at my genitals as if poking at a dead frog. I've sucked dick for drugs. I've been fucked and kept a smile for food. I've slept under trash. I've had my ass kicked for my appearance. I've had my belongings given away, thrown away, and burned. I've used my leather jacket as a pillow, and as a blanket. I've been mugged at gunpoint. I've had my head slammed with wood. I've had cameras stuck up my urethra. I've passed blood clots the size of my fist through an opening the size of a pea. I've been operated on. I've had bugs living under my skin. I've been cut, punched, slapped, had my hair ripped out, kicked, and stabbed in the back repeatedly. I've had friends and family die. I've lost the right to be around children. I've lost the right to be around family. I've had diseases. I've been in car accidents. I've been in a fire. I've been lost in strange places. I've been on Welfare. I've eaten in soup kitchens. I've spent evenings in Crack houses and late nights in Emergency Rooms. I've been to Rehab. I've had my skin engraved. I've had teeth pulled. I've broken bones. I've punched brick walls. I know what chains feel like while being beat with them, what leather feels like when it stings your skin, and what it feels like to get on stage in front of hundreds of people.

I know what it's like to have people trying to make a movie out of your core.

~16 candles

It's my nephew's birthday tomorrow... the one I'm forbidden from seeing... the one who's been raised being told I'm a freak by his pedophile of a father. I wasn't allowed to see my sister either, not after about maybe a year of their son being born. My sister "wasn't allowed" to have contact with me and she didn't protest a whole hell of a lot. We both did what we felt we had to do in order to have people love us and want us around. In her case, keeping her mouth shut was something she felt she had to do. Why she still keeps it shut, I don't know. Maybe she forgot what she wanted to say.

After my sister left the pedophile, I think it was sometime in '94 or '95, I managed to see my nephew once, by showing up at my sister's dorm room. The kid really really liked me, as he did when he was first born. I really really liked him too.

When he went home to his dad, and his dad found out that I'd seen him, all was not well. His father took him to a shrink to make sure that he really did like me, and that being around me wouldn't damage him horribly. The result was that my nephew forgot all about liking me. To this day, his "memories" of me are not good... and no one is trying to change that by telling him the truth.

Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.


Happy 16, Sean. Here's hoping you can rise above. I heard we're a lot alike. That makes me smile.

~Good head

Haven't felt much like blogging lately. In all honesty, I haven't felt a whole hell of a lot like turning on my computer at all. I'd rather pick up the phone and call people. More and more I'm realizing that I don't want to share my life with people who really don't give a rat's ass about me. The few people who do care in the way I want them to, I can get in touch with otherwise.

After 5 years or so of serving as entertainment for people, I guess I'm just a little sick of it. I'm not getting paid for this... and I'm really not making a whole lot of difference in people's lives. I used to think that I did, but then, I did say that I had a big head.

I found what I wanted to find. When I first connected to the Internet in '99, I was looking for someone.

I stopped looking...

...then I found her.


That's the key, folks. "Stop looking." Stop wanting it. Stop needing it. There's nothing more attractive than a person who can stand on their own two feet... even if they're growling, with a beer in one hand, and a cigarette in the other.

~More pining

It's 46°F with 86% humidity where you are.
It's 64°F with 68% humidity here.

I like the way we compliment one another.

~Did you know

If you drink two cups of coffee, a large Pepsi, and a half gallon of Lipton Iced Tea, in a day, you'll wake up the next morning with a caffeine hangover.

ouch.

~To beg for meds

I have to get in the shower, call a cab, take a train, then walk to the doctor's office.

Yes, I'm stalling.

I'll get there. I just wish that it was easier. I wish that I could just walk the 15 minute walk to the doctor near me.

Someday, the world will be different. Someday, people like me won't have to fear being molested or being treated like lab rats just to keep an eye on their health.

Until then... I guess I'd better get moving. My doc may be one of the good ones, but even he has an appointment book.

Off I go...

~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).

~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.

~G force

I've had people accuse me of "living in the past". I disagree with them. True, my past does affect me, but I don't live in it. If nothing, other than the present, I live in the future.

I worry.

A LOT.

I plan and figure and anticipate and plot until I'm completely frozen.

You can't move forward if you're that far ahead of yourself. It just doesn't work that way.

You can't jump from A to Z, without tackling the rest of the alphabet first. If you try, invariably, mid jump, something like "G" will jump up and bite you in the ass, sending you right back to "A".


One day at a time.

One hour at a time.

One minute... second...breath at a time.


Must remember to breathe.

~The real thing.

(1987)

Nobody understands. I guess that's cause I can't explain it. It's not depression, it's despair. It's not confusion, it's frustration. I like the physical pain of cutting myself. It's tangible. It's pain derived from an action that's supposed to cause pain, as opposed to life, which shouldn't be painful but it is. I like the sight of my own blood. I like blood, period. Call it a fetish, call it what you will, but it's plain and simple - I just like it. It's so late, 4:00 in the morning. I have to get up early tomorrow, but I can't sleep. The urge to destroy is upon me, along with the urge to crawl into a hole. I'm feeling insane, or like I could go insane in an instant.

~Bla Bla Bla

I'm feeling fat, scatterbrained, and otherwise insecure. I hate when I get like this. Good time to write.

Many loose ends to tie up... laundry to do... the extra pounds will eventually be shed

metaphor

reality

sign sign, everywhere a sign

it is the seemingly least cryptic which holds the deepest meaning


I like people who can speak "Bla". I like it when I can say "bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla" and be understood. I understand "Bla". I just like people who can speak my language, I suppose. Words are fun. They're fun to play with... to paint with... it's all "bla" though. The meaning is not in the words, it's in the energy. Not speaking or understanding "bla" causes misunderstanding, and the ability to be lied to. Understanding "bla" helps one to see the lying hypocrites most are, yet swear they aren't.

My name is Bla. So is yours.

~Yeeha

I'm still tired. True, I could get back in bed, but I'm up now. The coffee's made, the Dorito breakfast was eaten, and the clothes are on. I feel like I should at least try to do something before giving up entirely on the concept of "morning" productivity.

The Cowboy downstairs has started with his music. Insecure guy. Needs to announce to the world what a Cowboy he is.

Yes, asshole, we all know that you're from Nashville and that you can play the bass. We also all know that you think Country music is the best music on the planet and that you're very proud of your stereo system. Now, will you kindly turn your fucking volume down and go find somewhere to get trampled by a herd of cattle?

Prick.

~With love, Jx.

Her name is "Sara". It was always about her. It's still all about her. It will always be all about her.

We move. We travel. We come through others... some are simply easier to come through... and so we do. It can't be helped... we don't want it to be helped, only changed. We don't want to use any of you. We don't even like any of you.

Sorry. It wasn't meant maliciously.

We're simply magnets and madmen.

~That's why they call it "heat".

In May and June of '87, the stomach problems I was having at the time put me home from school. Drue was home from college. Drue was wanting. 1 + 1 = hell yes. Hell. Heaven. Both.

In the beginning of June, after some stomach x-rays the same day, I went to my "prom", which was basically a dance in the loonytute gym where all the students, both inpatient and day school students, showed up for a few hours. I played in the band. I wore what I usually wore. Jeans, a t-shirt, a ratty long sleeved shirt, biking gloves, and my leather jacket. (I wore Chuck's instead of boots that day because of the drumming, not because of any other reason.)

I was sick and full of barium (Did you know that barium makes your poop white? White! I kid you not! It's the coolest thing in the world!), but I was there.

My "prom" picture is of me, Alison, and our friend Brian, who was also the bassist in the band. It looks nothing like a prom picture. I'm glad it doesn't. The whole "prom" thing was not only something I found to be completely nauseating at the time, but completely ridiculous when you're talking about a school whose graduating class that year was 10 students total. I liked drumming. Drumming made it a good day.

Also in June, I hit graduation... a few days prior to which, my grandfather died. I was a complete wreck. I read a poem for him at my graduation ceremony. Wish I had a copy of it. Well, leave it to me to put any group of people into a state of depression on what is supposed to be a happy day. Gotta be good at something, right?

I had to continue school for another couple of months before I got my "real" diploma, but that was no big deal, really. Technically speaking, I did 4 years of High School in 3, so the extra couple of months wasn't too high of a cost.

Drue was home, I could love her again, everything was just perfect. Right?

ummmmmm....


This is my life, remember?

No pain. No gain.

~17 Part 5

5-19 (1987) 8:47 PM

I'm laying here listening to one of Drue's old tapes, the last one before we broke up. It makes me smile now, a month or two ago it would've pissed me off. It's so hard to believe that she's come back, I really thought I'd lost her forever.

So, our affair continues, now we both have something to lose if it gets out. I don't know why I love her so much, but I do. She gives me nothing but her time, but it's all I desire from her. Alison, who's my rightful lover gives me what I need, Drue gives me what I dream of.

~Forgetting

I've been asked, throughout the course of my life, whether or not I've ever cheated on anyone. My answer? "No."

I didn't lie about that. Every time I thought back over my girfriends and tried to triple check my memory, just to be 100% sure, I couldn't remember one time I cheated. I always broke up with a person before lying to them. It was a lesson I learned early in life.

It causes more damage if you lie to, and attempt to stay with somebody, than it does to break that person's heart by leaving.

I just forgot how I learned that lesson.

~Automate this!

Did you know that you can't recharge AT&T phone cards on the weekends? I didn't. They sure told me though, right after the automated voice recognition machine of an operator had me punch in my credit card number and expiration date

What a bunch of shit.


I damn well better not see any charges on my statement. Fucking assholes.

~Getting over it

Today promises to be another busy day. Much to do. My eyes are trying to re-close as I'm writing this. I'm wondering if it's because I'm really still tired, or if it's because I don't feel like doing things. I'd be more inclined to think it was actual sleepiness. I do want to do things, I just wish that I had more time to do the things I have to do along with the things I simply want to do. One of the things I want to do is sleep.

I don't even know what the fuck I'm talking about.

I do know what I'm not talking about though... and I'm getting sick and fucking tired of my own fear of the world.


I'm going to see aX in less than a week. I have a million things to do to prepare for the trip. All I want to do is spend the day with the phone attached to my ear. All I really want to do is be there already.

All I have to do is get through a few more days.

~17 Part 4

4-30-87 5:16 PM

So, here I sit at the kitchen table with a beer and a cigar, listening to Bowie. Classic. I'm pretty bored, and I should be studying, but I just don't feel like it, besides, I'm home early, I'll start any work I have to do at 7:00.

I think I'll be going over to Alison's tomorrow for the weekend. I really don't feel like dragging all my clothing to school, but I guess I'll have to. So, I have to pack tonight, and I have a test in Biology tomorrow so I have to study. So I have my work cut out for me for the rest of the night.

There's no food in the goddamn house and I'm really hungry, it's not fair. I want to have dinner! Oh well, I guess we can't have it all can we.

5:43

I started packing, and now I'm listening to Depeche Mode (Flip side of Bowie) I just have to wait til my pants are dry to pack them.

I'm getting hungry and drunk. Bad combo. I suppose I'll look around for some food, but I doubt there's anything around. Oh well.

6:04

Wow, a delicious dinner of tomato soup. Yum Yum. Jeez.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The epitome of life at Art's. This entry sickens me.

~If you don't like it, leave.

My whole youth... my whole concept of "family"... my whole concept of life...

That's all it ever was. That was always the bottom line.

I did two things, thinking that was reality... the way of life... the way you were supposed to be...

I learned how to get the people I loved to go when I "didn't like it", and I learned to leave... to hide... to protect myself by isolating myself... by shutting down. Yes, steel shutters.

The fact that it's not the bottom line all the time is a new concept to me. The word "try" is new to my vocabulary. The whole concept that someone might not be ok with my not liking something, and might want to make it so that I do like it, is difficult for me to trust as truth.

Some wounds take longer to heal than others.

~Kentucky Fried Cranium

Busy day.

Not that it was bad, but it was busy. I feel a little discombobulated. Think I need to write... but I need to eat too.

Busy head.

Maybe I'll be able to write later. There's left over Cheekun in the fridge calling my name.

~Got Grease?

Today is food store day. The food store is near a pretty little red and white building.

Yes, indigenous to the suburbs, the wild Kentucky Fried Chicken heavily populates this area. Its call carries across the highways, and its unique musk permeates the air, luring me to its source.


Please forgive the drool.

~Right now

I'm in a very very very good mood.

Thank you, to my Gods and Goddesses:

My brother
My best friend and hers
My girlfriend and hers

...and myself.

At this moment, life is good.

My smile is genuine.

~Touch

Did the thought of simply holding someone's hand ever bring tears to your eyes?


Never happened to me before either.

~17 Part 3

4-11 (1987) 11:30 PM

I'm on my way home. Drue called while I was out. Pain. It's almost a year. Why do I still hurt so bad? Why do I still love her? I'm so lonely. I need someone. I had a couple of beers maybe that's why I'm down. Could be. It still hurts though. Whether the beers are to blame doesn't really matter.

There are alot of assholes on this el. I'm down enough to kick some ass. And well armed. 2 knives and a scalpel. Deadly. Let them stare and talk, I could kill them if I wanted to. I feel like it sort of. Killing people just for looking at me wrong. Death is irrelevent when I feel like this. I'll get over it though. So, no, I won't hurt anyone.

What a life. Feeling down, celibacy, loneliness, and a rabbit. At least my rabbit loves me, and I love my rabbit. Some happiness in a grim life. It's wierd how such a small thing can mean so much.

It's a full moon. I like this night, even though I'm down. It's beautiful out. My paradise as a sunny day is to a surfer. The night is my kingdom, my world, my escape from the sun's death.

I look at people, older people, wondering what their lives have been like. I look at middle aged women, beautiful, wondering what it would feel like to love them. I look at girls and pity their floosy ways. I look at myself, and feel alien. Not a girl, not a boy, not a man or a woman. Just another life form, alienated, It's strange.

It's gotta get better. It can't get much worse. Maybe one day love will prevail, and I'll feel content again, happiness, love, satisfaction. Their all so alien, so unreal.

~Got Slim-Fast?

Damn milk was bad. If anyone doesn't know this already, a gallon of milk does not last 2 weeks before spoiling. Sure wish I could remember that myself.

On the brighter side, there's nothing better in coffee, when you run out of milk, than (Vanilla) Slim-Fast. You don't even need to add sugar. It's handy. It keeps forever in the cabinet, and you can use one can at a time, thereby not wasting loads of it when you do get your preferred milk.


This tip of the day brought to you by Cutter, who's actually starting to need Slim-Fast again because of a beer, KFC, Cheetos, and no exercise diet.

~17 part 2

3:28 AM 3/1/87

It's rare that I'm in a writing mood lately. Inwardly I'm a fucking mess.

I'm trying to figure out what I need, what I want, who I am. Where all the answers are. There are so many questions, so many god-damned questions.

I thought I had myself all figured out once. I thought I knew what I wanted, where I was going. But now, I just don't know anymore. Everything seems so fine and easy when you're in love, when you are loved. Why is it when love goes away your whole inner self shatters? Does it make me a weak person? Am I so naive? So vulnerable? My lovers say that I have alot to give, that I should find someone worthy of me to give it to. But every time I think that I've found the right one, she says to find someone else. I'm not that wonderful. I don't deserve a princess, nor do I want one. I think what they mean is that I should find someone who can give to me as much as I give to them. Maybe.

Love is only part of life though. I've got school to worry about, college, work, family, money, music, friends. And a wicked urge to get wasted to battle with. Not to mention my all too often violence spells. How long will it be before I won't feel like killing someone every other day? I've just about conquered the suicide problem, now I have the homocide problem. It's ridiculous, one thing after the other. And people wonder why I'm strange.

I just don't know what to do. I'm going nuts!


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Well, what I did was snap. Some kid rolled a pool ball down the pool table, at school, really fast. My hand happened to be on the bumper. Given, this kid was making me nuts all day, but my reaction was a little extreme. I threw it at him. Hard.

I was expelled and being prepared for an "Anger problem" stint in lock up. It obviously wasn't enough of a problem though, because due to some issue with the insurance, I was just re-admitted to school after going through complete hell for about 3 weeks, worrying about having to go in to play with the rest of the nutters.

Drue and her new boyfriend, Brian, were around. That was complete torture for me. She was trying to act friendly... but failing miserably. Yes, one morning they stopped by with a bunny. It was a very nice gift. It didn't hurt any less though, or make up for the day when they came over and he was wearing my t-shirt. The whole thing was just wrong. She'd call me and things were back to being intense and connected... the "I love you"s were numerous. Then, in front of Brian... yeah. Might as well have been Marc. Might as well have been a year previous. Nothing had changed, and I was still sucked into it. I'm thinking that just maybe a bit of that anger came from there. Yeah. Just maybe.

To this day, I'm amazed that all I did was throw a pool ball at the kid. True, when I returned to school, the Principal made him lift his shirt and show me his back, which was still black where the ball had hit, but shoot, at least I didn't stick a knife in him.

That Principal, rumor has it, was removed because of being "inappropriate" with the boys. Yes, I do wonder how he knew what the kid's back looked like in the first place.

The world is a happy place. The world is a happy place. The world is a happy place.

God... it so COMPLETELY sucked being a teenager. I wonder why I occasionally idealize it. Maybe because it doesn't stop there. Maybe because it gets worse. Maybe because it just stays bad, and then you have more and more baggage the older you get, and it becomes more difficult to maneuver. Whatever the case, I do smile about that time every now and again. There is something to be said for being young, and social, and feeling like the world is yours... fearless... as close to fearless as people ever are, unless they can remain ignorant.

Ignorance is bliss.

~Flustered

Sometimes I can deal with not being able to get my head to where I want it to be, sometimes it just makes me angry.

I want to be able to write... to continue on with that little journal adventure I've been on, but it all seems so complicated. There's so much detail... there are so many stories... how am I to determine which are the most important? Sometimes I think that I should stop attempting to tell any sort of story... sometimes I think that I should just slap up random entries and see what it looks like. Pushing myself to tell the story is what makes this the most therapeutic though... it forces me to really look hard at things... to weigh them... to put them into perspective.

How can you know where you want to go, or if where you're going is where you want to be, if you don't know where you're coming from?

Why is it so important to me?

~Give it a rest

I have a lot going on right now, so I think that I might be posting less entries for a while. Bummer, I might lose the #19 spot on the "Hot Blogs" list. What a pity, I won't be able to climb up there to the top of the list along side of what borders on kiddie porn. I'll feel like such a failure as a writer.

Seriously though, I think I might be pushing myself to write blog entries when I shouldn't. I should be keeping this blog going only for myself, writing when I feel like it. That's what I started this thing for. For me.

I look at my stats page much too often, and too often actually give a rat's ass about the hit count. That's not a good thing. Once a day or so was just fine when I started this blog. I think I'm going to cut myself some slack.

Too much... too little...

Moderation.

Moderation can be a good thing.

~No

I don't need anybody
I don't need anyone
I can stand alone
Needing no one
I don't need
I do not
I don't
I
Don't need
I don't need
I will not need
I will not

I need

You

~I am slowly

waking up.

~eew

Herr's Crunchy Cheese Sticks are just NOT Cheetos.

yuck.

~Things

I had a lot that I wanted to write about while walking to and from the shrink. It seems to have all slipped away though. Now, the only thing on my mind is this tasty bottle of Boone's Farm which I picked up as a snack. Everything else is just a hum... blended in with the white noise of the a/c. Even these sentences are taking effort. It's not a good thing or a bad thing... just a thing. It'll pass. Most things do.

~As if this blog isn't therapy enough...

I'm off for the weekly shrinking.

Well, at least the walk will be good for me. I feel like I'm hatching a red dog.

~Bumpies

I remember, one night in January of '87, being on the el and writing in my little book. A woman who was sitting near me asked me if I was going to be a writer. Maybe she asked if I was "writing a book", but it's all the same. I'm pretty sure I said "maybe" or "you never know". Exact words aside, I remember the night vividly... taking one of my usual trips into Center City to see my friends... bumping along and bitching about the fact that it was really screwing with my penmanship. I started calling the episodes "the bumpies". Much of my teenaged writing was heavily influenced by the bumpies.

I wonder if that woman remembers that night... and I still wonder if I really am a writer.

~17 part 1

7:20 PM Jan 23 (1987)

Drue called me, I can't stand it. I can't fall out of love with her. Yeah, I can see Angel, mess around, but it wouldn't ever mean anything. It would just be something to keep me busy. Drue would still come first.

Why can't I break away from her? Am I so weak, is she so strong? I just can't understand my feelings. Maybe it has something to do with one of my past lives. Could be. That's the only reasonable explanation that I can think of.

So here it is Friday night and I have nothing to do but wait to call Drue back tonite. What a curious life I lead. Where does it all come together?

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Now?

~Scratch it, if it itches.

I'm itchy. I hate allergies. I swear, I have more allergies than anyone else I've ever met.

This morning, it's the molds. This place is really bad with mold. Anytime it rains, forget it. I feel like scraping my skin off. Itch itch itch.

I've always had a pissy immune system. Intolerances, and allergies galore. Some allergies are ALLERGIES. You know, the kind where your throat closes up and you look sort of like a blowfish. Others are skin rashes, stomach irritations, itchy eyes and runny nose.

They say that people who were abused or neglected as kids often have a lot of allergies and other health problems. Not that they're psychosomatic, they're very real, but apparently the brain decides that the body should get sick when the person needs love. Often, that's the only time an abused child feels cared for or gets something resembling the love they need, and so the brain just grows up that way.

I don't know how true it is, but as often as possible, I try to take the power of the brain into consideration when something is bothering me physically. So, for example, if my skin itches, I try thinking to myself something like, "ok, what's under your skin?". I just always try to factor in my brain as much as anything else, when I have a physical complaint.

There is a book called something like "Heal Your Body" where the author goes into physical ailments and what they might mean on a life level. It's pretty nifty... makes some sense. True, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, but sometimes it isn't.

So, what's under my skin? What's irritating me, other than mold spores? Not sure. It's my shoulders and back that are the itchiest. Maybe I feel like I'm taking on too much? Carrying a weight, so to speak? Baggage is irritating me? Could be. Too, it could also be that I just need to change my damn sheets.

~Turn it off

Guess it's about bedtime. My eyes are getting heavy. There's a part of me that doesn't want to go to bed though. I have no clue what it is I want to do. Eat. Drink beer. Watch tv? (Magically transport myself across the country? YES!) ok... really... I don't know. In the last month I've really cut down on the tv watching. I guess I watch blogs instead. Maybe it's that there's enough drama in my own life? I don't know. I'm thinking that it's a good thing. TV really warps a person's sense of reality. It can be educational and enlightening too, but too much and you're forgetting what the world... your world is really like. Worse, you forget what you're really like... what your place is in everything... how normal you are... how ordinary.

Remember 9/11? Yeah... THE 9/11. I remember being asked, on a message board, how it had affected me. I gave an honest answer. I said, "It hasn't". Well, other than the drama of the day, it really didn't. I think that if people didn't have the Internet, tv, newspapers, the media in general... well... only the people in the areas where the planes went down, and their relatives and friends would have been affected. If it hadn't been for all that, it would've just been another day for me, and probably for millions of other people too.

I've always thought that at any moment, bad things were going to happen. Worrying about airplanes crashing into buildings? Old hat. No new worries in my book after that day.

People would be a lot less stressed out without the media. They'd look around them every day and realize it's just like the last. If the continent on the other side of the planet from you suddenly disappeared, would you notice, if not for the media?

Less tv. I think it's a good thing.

~EEEEEEEEEEK!!!!!!

Sudden THUNDEROUS downpour!!!!!

Someone send a boat!!!!!


AAAAAAAAA!!!!!!

~All about walls

There are tapes all over the place. I'm trying to put them back in alphabetical order, because date order was making me nuts. Not that it isn't fun. It does appeal to all of my OCD characteristics, but there's no getting it done fast enough. There's at least 5 feet of tapes lined up against my living room wall.

...and I sit here in silence... listening to the hum of my a/c.

Old music. Music holds memories... memories of things I don't really want to think about, and feelings I don't really want to revisit. Want to see a mess? Stick me in a room with Pink Floyd's "The Wall" playing.

I don't need no arms around me
and I don't need no drugs to calm me....

It just sorta takes you back. Doesn't it?


Great. Now it's playing on the internal radio.

Think I'll listen to the external radio instead.


Sweeet home Alabama
Where the skiiies are so blue
Sweeet home Alabama
Lord, I'm cominnng home to you

woohoo! Git down!


Much better than beating my head against the wall.

~Labeled

So... in January of 1987, after the insurance ran out, I was miraculously well enough to leave the locked environment. I was discharged and sent to live with Art, although I had to keep attending the school attached to the crazy house.

They sent me "home" with my own fancy shmantzy set of labels. It all made sense now. I was just crazy. No problems. I wasn't really hurting, I just suffered from Major Depression Recurrent. I wasn't screaming to everyone who saw me, showing them just how much pain I could take, trying to scare off those who would harm me, I just had Borderline Personality Disorder. And really.. I wasn't a boy. I was just a girl with Gender Dysphoria.

Everything's all ok. Happy Happy. Joy Joy.

Labels. I'm obsessed with them. Why? Because of what they have the power to do. Because of those damn labels, and the fuckers who put them on me, I spent half my life thinking that I was a sick person... knowing that I was a sick person.

They won. They got me into the mold, and created what they wanted. They put layers and layers of CRAP over my core... suffocated it with labels... suffocated ME with labels. They gave birth to a depressed, psychotic, lesbian.

I learned to love the dirt I ate, and happily sucked the dicks of my makers. Yes, so to speak. Dykes don't do dick. I made sure to be exactly what they wanted me to be... or at least, to present myself that way. I knew what happened when you didn't. When you didn't, you'd starve on the street. When you didn't, you'd lose your freedom. When you didn't, they'd give you Thorazine.

I'm tired of being sick.