Probably a short post because its late.
Got up early again. Damn it.
But since my package would arrive in the short future, I stayed up and was happy.
While it was still early, the sun too low to bake our patio, I decided to go out and write something while I smoked. That something, one way or another, ended up being the long version of the notes I wrote about August 3, 2005 while I was back in AR. That was the day I watched a movie with my brother in the afternoon. Okay, here we go.
Start out doing that and continue it throughout the day, on multiple occasions.
By 4 pm, I had it done- 8 pages written out by hand on the graph paper of my red journal, gel ink pen, black.
I was strung out and decided to go briefly down to LR.
The package: long story short, it didn't come today. I was not pleased. The delay, as shown on the UNITED POSTAL SERVICE WEB PAGE, when I checked it by tracking number was simply: Package Missed. No Attempt to Deliver as Scheduled.
Fuckers. Whatever. I left the house- revived a bit once I got in my truck. Got down there, brief stay- learned that Robert overslept on accident today and other trivial happenings- but departed pretty quickly.
Walked out to my truck, safe in a black fleece jacket, and parked one empty space away was a gray Chevy truck. Very pretty.
I have a love for Ford and Chevy trucks exculsively so it would seem.
And in the Chevy truck, as a was walking up, was some guy digging under his seats.
Nevermind. Went ahead and unlocked the door, opened it and glanced up- young man, brown hair, somewhat good looking, not much my type but hell, who am I to be picky?
Again, nevermind. Checked myself and got in, aware that he had seen me for the first time.
He started his truck and sat there. I started mine and, in buckling my seatbelt, got another look at him while he was open-mouth- I kid you not- surveying my truck, perhaps- this I speculate- trying to equate the girl driving with being the owner of such a vehicle.
He was probably slightly older than me and good looking, again. His vision got back up to me and rather than flick my eyes away nervously, I kept the gaze, eventually breaking away to shift into reverse.
He did the same in a hurry and began to back out while I sat waiting, looking busy swapping CDs or something, and- I am really not kidding you- all the time he was backing up, he looked at me, or maybe Layla, with devote interest and I turned away to smile. Such a little girl.
But once he had started, very hesitantly, to drive off- very slowly- I watched him quite obviously... until he stopped. No reverse or anything, he just stopped.
Shit- what I thought and maybe even said. I started back just a little and stopped, then turned my attention back to the Chevy to see what would happen next. After a pause, it drove a few more feet and then stopped again. This time I did say "shit" and smiled still looking at the other truck.
Maybe, could be, no way... and in the end I didn't find out. I left the parking lot a back way, and as I passed the Chevy, heading the other direction, finally he let off the brakes and started slowly driving away.
Why? Totally unsure of myself.
I thought maybe he would pop up at some stoplight. Nope. I didn't think so.
What then? I would have been cool, almost unresponsive, speaking only in quick but vibrant glances, stares, facial expressions only- read me; what do you think you see?
I would have hidden my smile as much as possible, tried to remain occupied with my music choice, identifying the location of various unknown objects in the passanger seat, floor board, dash board, console, visor, wherever. anywhere. shit.
And from these actions and the response they acheived, I would have enough material and satisfaction to write a fucking post about it.
Yes all that, without saying a word, is enough for me in the area of relationship advances- for now.
Bla. Enough.
Came home, read my writing out loud to N and D which was uncomfortable, went for a drive tired from the reading for some reason but still good- listening to the CD Lee burnt for N a while back- and came home.
Now, everyone else has gone to bed and I sat outside wondering why my thoughts weren't running around a usually dominate subject- the change is good.
I felt free of it. It isn't dominating me. Thankfully.
--
For later: thought about not displaying emotion and the constant cloud.

Quote: Sanity

"It is much more comfortable to be mad and know it, than to be sane and have one's doubts." - G.B. Burgin

Laying on Pavement + Writing in My Hacienda

OKAY! It is 11:05 pm and let's see what I have for you:
Uneventful day... had to go get my coffee.
I wrote something today. Its not anything long or wonderful, or even positive. But I like it and I am glad to know I still have that part of me somewhere in there.
I will put it up here later.
10 pm comes around and I go out for a cigarette. There is that moment of staring into space, kind of down thinking about stuff I shouldn't be thinking about (not drugs or alcohol) and then I got up.
Laid on the pavement.
Then I came inside and felt much better.
---
So I started thinking about being a writer because I have very little to do in the evenings, you could say.
I started thinking about writing in my little hacienda and it was all a very suiting place. Well, I liked it.
It was the occupational fit of a dream to the relationship fit of the dream I had back in Arkansas. That dream, where we were happy and eager... nevermind though. They seem to be of the same subconscious material.
Damn this coffee is weird- too much creamer, too long in the fridg.
There is that.
EERRRR.
I am getting called back.
I'm not sure where this Anonymous stuff comes from...
AHHHHH I AM GOING CRAZY!
I tell you with complete honesty that this friendship drives me mad. It isn't him- Lord knows if he had more interest in me... I would probably have less in him.
Don't quote me.
I am going to pour out this coffee, leave the poor snoring dog in here to sleep in peace, go be the concerned friend, and hopefully lay down to sleep content tonight.
---
Unconscious: n.
The division of the mind in psychoanalytic theory containing elements of psychic makeup, such as memories or repressed desires, that are not subject to conscious perception or control but that often affect conscious thoughts and behavior.

Decorating the Door + Incarceration

What do I want to say?
Hi. Sorry I have been kind of a flake recently. Nothing bad.
Finished Wuthering Heights. 3 Days. Very nice. Enjoyed it a lot.
Layla got washed yesterday, thanks to N getting my lazy butt out of the house.
I don't know, I guess I have been pretty peaceful.
Today is D's birthday (also papa's) and I spent a good hour decorating the door in from the garage with hearts and shit. Ahh I love it. I'll get a picture. You will see what a little girl I am.
Thinking about going to LR and saying happy birthday to papa. Thing being I would like to be home in time to spend the evening with D: he is cooking tonight.
My photo essay has been at a standstill for a while now. I need a scanner. If anyone would like to donate one to me, I would be very appreciative. No, just kidding, don't do that.
As for him, I am aware that any time I want to, I can call and kick something up.
I don't know... I hate to possibly disturb my peace. It just doesn't seem appealing to me, yet. My brain has been pleasantly occupied with contemplating Wuthering Heights.
I am enjoying the distance. I am not driving myself crazy.
That being said, I am thinking (once again) about continuing with Incarceration.
When I first started that, it was so overwhelmingly in my head. It was good, it scared my room mates, but I thought it was good. I was very much in it. Then I felt I might have something really interesting; maybe not to the general public, but I would get a true, deep satisfaction by getting it down.
Make any sense?
There is that and I am going for now.

Having kids + Knowing your wants and needs.

For all my alone time, I wonder how much I really know about myself- particulary my wants and needs.
Because that is useful information, and I should have (had) plenty of time to think about it.
Maybe what N said is right; that people who are busy manage their time to achieve a fuller benefit from it than those with a large excess of time.
Well, of course on some level that is a general truth. I think it applies also to this.
An example, first:
Out to eat at a Mexican place is Tulsa, Oklahoma Kristin, Linda and I started talking about getting married and that whole realm of the future. Kristin said something about having kids and I turned, curious, and asked if she wanted to have kids. She said yes, that it had always been part of her thoughts about the future... not now, but sometime in the future, eventually, after she finishes her education and starts a good career.
Reading my look, she asked if I wanted to have kids. I stammered. Don't I? I always did when I was younger.
I start trying to tap into my own head, sitting there with a tortilla chip in my hand, my hand in mid air suspended, shit Kelly... Well? Well maybe, not now or anything but maybe eventually.
Then, to myself, as the conversation shifts away to something else; do I want to have kids?
More later.

My New Purse

This will be my new purse: so to those who thought my current one is massive, HA! I will beat that yet! I love it or something like that.

AudioBlogger: Attitude

AudioBlogger: Testing: 1... 2... Fuck.

Quote: Things they don't teach you

"I've been making a list of the things they don't teach you at school. They don't teach you how to love somebody. They don't teach you how to be famous. They don't teach you how to be rich or how to be poor. They don't teach you how to walk away from someone you don't love any longer. They don't teach you how to know what's going on in someone else's mind. They don't teach you what to say to someone who's dying. They don't teach you anything worth knowing."
thiefofblue Neil Gaiman quotes (English born American Author of the The Sandman, b.1960)

This is more from a thought process I was working on earlier in writing.
The question is, more or less, what factors effect how much I attempt to communicate with a person?
The idea revolves around my lack of motivation to call friends and family while I was in Arkansas- specifically Kristin, Cindy, and Lee.
Fuck, I don't have the energy to do this right now.
I don't know why. I don't know why.
I do not fucking know why I don't have the energy, why I do this, what makes me so fond of communicating with people who will never reward my efforts as oppose to those who are always loyal, faithful, caring.
More over, I don't know why I whine about not getting affection from certain people when, during the times I receive heartfelt messages, I am cold and forgetful.
So maybe he is right. No, more likely than not he is right. I shouldn't worry so much.
Worry? What the hell does that mean? DICTIONARY!
Yea. I read over the stuff I wrote in Arkansas and can't help but going "damn! that was a good place, where ever that it is my head, I would like to be back there because it seemed to be rather sane and rather good" despite bla bla bla of the trip and bla bla bla going wrong while bla bla bla happened.
Maybe its as simple as: I get down out here.
But then remember: I am more myself when I am here.
And add the therapy/parental phrase: Shouldn't spend so much time alone.
The simple minded friend tells me: You think too much. Don't think so much.
And I think to myself: what a dick. I'm gonna go write some bullshit now.
The kind reader says: you may have some creativity in you.
So I feel: maybe I have something after all.
Then I infer: you're not as much as you think, or at least you never will be to me.
To which I querry to myself: what do you think of that? feel? perceive?
Lather, Rinse, Repeat.
Eventually I say one of the following:
Fuck it, I'm gonna have a cigarette.
So be it.
Shall we dance?
Why me?
Time to drive.
Time to sing.

And then I realize it doesn't really matter.
But hey, it kept me busy for a while.
Run away.
Don't move.
Etc.

Scenario: "Some Man Happy"

Him: You are going to make some man very happy.
Me: Yes... well, I will tell him you say hello.

Today's Postcard

Ants in Truck + Postcard

I didn't write yesterday, huh?
Well... fuck, what did I do yesterday? Sunday. I think I stayed in bed for a very long time, missing my entire morning. Because I am a shithead.
When I did emerge, after taking a shower, I asked N if she would take me on a drive. She said yes. We drove for a while and then went to her office and scanned a picture to check how usable it might be for my photo essay. It will work very well I hope.
Came home.
Uhh... the only really memorable thing is that I got pretty ticked at him for a little while. I said something about not wanting to bother him so he can tell me next time when he wants to see me.
He, very stupidly I might say, told me that I worry to much and if I didn't worry about it so much I would be a lot happier.
Yuck. Very stupid.
But there was just that evil grin that crept onto my face. I was still tired, I didn't do well waking up and my bed was very kind to me.
My reply: about what?
Meaning, what is it exactly I should not be worrying so much about that will, if I decrease my amount of worry, make me much happier?
Going through my head: I am just handing out shovels. You can dig yourself a grave.
Then I got in my truck and headed to LR because I didn't want to be in my house.
When I got on the freeway, I saw a single ant crawling on my phone. I grinned because I thought it was quite appropriate.
Got there and, at a stop light, got the chance to look around my truck very carefully.
Ants. Everywhere. There were fucking ants all over my truck. I just watched them. I was not happy. This was a real problem. My truck, my safe place is infested with ants.
Mother fucker.
On the way back I started getting pissed and slapping at the ones stupid enough to come near me.
Damn it. And on the freeway, I would watch them crawl around my dashboard out of the corner of my eye. Stupid assholes.
Off the freeway I responded to the message telling me he would explain another time; I said: good choice because this day is quickly turning fucked up and its
Just send the message, damn it. Fuck me. I sent it like that, unfinished.
--
He expressed concern and I countered indirectly that I can quite take care of myself (my happiness included) and do not need the bullshit of this or any man, boy, cherub, what-the-fuck-ever, to hold my damn hand. Even with ants crawling all over my truck, I can still quite take care of myself. Let that be way fucking clear.
And though I may ask for company, for assistance with a smile during my down times, it is always my responsibility to buck up and act like a big girl. End of story.
The help that I ask for is not for someone else to solve my problems, for someone else to lead me kicking and screaming to a "happiness" that is false for me. I will find it and if I don't then I may try looking where you look and may even see what you see. But it will not be real to me.
During my time in Arkansas, I told N that no one here will ever change as a result of conflict. She countered with a question: who, ever, changes as a result of conflict? People may change later, upon reflection of a conflict, but it is not the conflict in itself that causes a change unless that conflict is with one's self.
Make any sense? Well, whether or not it does, I am adopting that principle in this post.
You can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink.
Nevermind. Where was I?
--
I get home and then drive, I stab at his false concerns and he can't remember what it is he just said. Fine. I am fine.
A solution has been found, for now I don't really give a shit. I was in a good mood and so everything was dropped.
I made coffee and boiled eggs last night. The first because I was going to take a shot of it at 4:30 am when I woke up for dream recall and the second because... because.
There was that.
But at 4:30 am I didn't really give a shit about remembering my dream, about the world of creativity locked in my subconscious. I wanted to sleep, so I did.
---
This morning woke up, saw the pest dude come and got in the shower, lunch with N.
Worked on the postcard above and finishing it, returned to The Scarlet Letter.
Picked up D at 4 pm; he had to drop his car back off for more work.
Read. Drove Eep.
Because I am a damn saint, sent him a message asking how his day was. It was bad and me? Mine was good, how bad? Real bad and still bad.
That's where we are right now.
Bla.
Postcard: you will recognize the picture for a previous post. The idea came from a little card that says "Design Your Own Postcard" and the stamp is from the late 1800's. Nice.

Ugh. I wish I could write in better spirits tonight... I am getting there.
Day was simple. Went to LR and that was fine.
Came home, showered, long drive.
I know later I will regret not putting more details but there isn't much to say.
A simple notion had been floating in and out of my head all afternoon and, in the evening when I was on my drive, happy, and prepared to be unshaken by rejection, I asked him if he would like to come over. He replied yes, if I'd like he could come by after work. I said sounds good and gave him the gate code.
Then I went to the gas station to get something to drink- there was some guy sitting outside, smoking a cigarette and talking to another man standing beside him. He made firm eye contact with me when I pulled in and turned off my lights. For one reason or another it made me nervous or something. After sitting there for a few moments, making firm eye contact right the fuck back, I figured it might have something to do with my parking so I backed out a bit to straighten up... but I looked at him and then just left. I don't know. I can't explain it.
There was that and then gradually he informed me that he wasn't going to be coming over for this and that reason and I was fairly annoyed.
Let me explain, though: I was not upset that he wasn't going to be coming, because I had figured that to be the more likely possibility from the moment the notion first entered my head. I was dissapointed because he would have prefered to inform me of this change of plans at the absolute last minute. The invitation should have not been accepted if it was never the plan to actually come. That, my friend, is what got me down.
Now from there we have three possibilities: the first is that he accepted, started feeling the weight of needing sleep, and decided that he really needed to head on home after work. The second is that he never had the intention of coming and merely accepted to please me, then cancelling because it was a relief of duties. Third is that he accepted and was good with coming until a more pleasing invitation came along that required him to skillfully drop his plan to come here. The third, in short, is that I got ditched.
You might expect me to meditate over these scenarios and decide which seems the most likely and the most hurtful. Start causing pangs of reaction in my stomach.
Not so much. I am tired and my thoughts are drawn back to my dad.
Last night Amanda got a divorce, I saw Matt C. again... I don't know. My heart isn't here.
This evening I considered... I considered what Kristin said, about us going to college together. Maybe not seriously, but it was in there.
No. Maybe my heart is here. Maybe I just want an escape from this pit I sink into because I know that when I got on that plane, even when I got off, even for the rest of that day... I felt differently from what I feel now. I wasn't this far down. My world wasn't so much shaped like a coffin. I wasn't so down. There was a mind set I had that was extremely beneficial to me, even if completely unnoticed by another soul in the world. I wasn't so down.
And then I forget that there are possibilities, changes... you get "normal" back and "comfort" of an immediate sort. Then what happens?

Short: Him vs. Her

How are you when you're with her rather than him?
There is no comparison. It can still be akward but because of distance not misunderstanding. Decisions are made because we want to see one another.
Its difficult to explain... I know that last night, at the bookstore, I didn't have to think about what I was doing or saying, how I was reacting. When I said 'I don't want to leave you guys' it was the genuine truth- not because I knew I wouldn't see them for a long time, I was afraid this might be the end, I wanted to latch on for however long possible...
See, after all these years, I am sort of accepting the truth that we may never be NOT best friends- that she isn't going to dissappear off the face of the earth, that not talking for a few months means we love eachother less.
On that last night when I said I didn't want to leave, I didn't mean "don't leave me when I walk away tonight, get on a plane tomorrow, don't be gone from my life, don't stop caring about me" because I don't worry about that. What I meant is "damn, I wish I could stay all night and laugh with you guys because this has been really fun. Damn, you guys are great."
They were the perfect pair to spend my last night with.
With him, I am always expecting this time or this message to be the last one. He is fragile to me, our friendship is paper thin.
Still, it is not fair to compare my feelings towards these two- one I have known since I was in diapers, has always been my best friend, we toured a college together, and I really enjoyed seeing her. The other... can't touch that.
The first is what I would consider unconditional friendship. The second is more a game.
However, my time with the first recently is helping me very much with the second.
That's all I will say for now.
LR and I will post more later.

DMV + Brief Movie Daycamp + Reminder.

Went to the DMV this morning and you are not going to believe this: it was actually quick and easy. How about that?
Did that, got a paper license to carry around until my replacement gets mailed.
Done. Nail it.
Didn't even have to retake my picture.
--
Then back to the house and some last minute details about the daycamp movie- I wanted to drive myself to the movie and he wanted to pick me up. Hmph. Fine.
Then there is the always amusing, never failing problem of the gate code. Bla. Can never remember the stupid thing. But he finally gets in and picks me up.
How shall I describe him? A shade darker in disposition and slightly more serious. Nevermind though. My observations on him are next to useless, at least in the regards to his mental state.
So we went to the movie and got in and... I liked it. It wasn't of the caliber I expected but Rachel McAdams did a beautiful job in my opinion.
Did that and it was pleasant.
Walked out of the theatre, he made the comment that he had gotten three calls from the same number with a stern/concerned look on his face. Asks me if I can wait for a minute and I say of course. He walks across the theatre to take or make a call and I peel out a piece of nicotene gum, stare at the arcade games, and just sort of publicly meditate I suppose quite pleasant as well.
He comes back and says he has to go. Quiet, nice, concerned "okay" is the response.
It wasn't anything I did, was it? said as we walk out into the daylight.
No, no not at all. is the reply
Okay.
We walk for a while, silent, and then he starts to cry, still walking at pace.
I give him a hug and then another because I don't know what to do but I felt it would be wrong to just walk, head down, in silence.
Here, we will walk on the outside. i say, pulling his arm gently
No, its okay. This way is faster. he tells me and takes himself back from my hand.
Okay.
Then more silence for a while.
Then telling me that he will tell me what is going on sometime, someday. Okay.
I say I am sorry I didn't bring my own car.
Its better this way. I've found that its better to have friends around when you are down. Okay.
By the time we reach the parking garage, he has taken an active part in repressing from my view, if not from his own mind, whatever is weighing on him.
For a multitude of reasons, I am happy to assist- supplying conversation and eye contact, hopefully of a most trivial nature.
Get to the car and I ask if he wants me to drive. No. You sure? Yes. Okay.
Drives me home- we talk about fights and odd sleeping arrangements.
Get to the house and he says goodbye, see ya, take care.
I say thanks, yea, bye.
Close the door and that's it.
Go inside and... sing, actually. However sick it may sound, I sang. Then I put on music and started dividing the parts of my photo essay for easy scanning.
And I put on blush, mascara, and lipstick- none of which do I ever wear except when I am playing around.
Talked to N and D for a while in the evening, telling various Arkansas stories.
Drove. Friday night, lots of people with their windows rolled down, ready to make comments about the people in other cars with their windows rolled down too.
Came home. Wrote this. Now I am going to smoke.
Goodnight.
---
Actually- don't let me forget to write about the argument in Arkansas; about the emotional reaction I had to it.

Photos on my Floor + Swollen Mouth

When I said I was going to start my photo essay, I meant it.
My floor is covered with pictures and still more stacks laying around here and there around my room. Its getting large. I like it. I stood on my bed this afternoon, listening to music, looking down on the progress... it will get there. I am fairly stalled until I go up to N's work on Saturday and start scanning this stuff- then I will be able to cut and paste without harming any important photos, those that do not have negatives. But I am hoping that only the editing process will be done on the computer; then it will be printed off and I will finish up, scan the whole thing again and get it up here.
I like it. I really do.
Other than that, I went to Costa Mesa to see Evelyn at 1pm.
I know it is probably because of the way I present my trip back to Arkansas to listeners, but it seems the general consensus is that I should be a lot more down on my time there than I am, I want to be, I will permit myself to be.
That is, I relay the various situations that occurred- the problems with communication, privacy, and understanding that took place... and Evelyn seemed to think I should host a unshaken resentment about the whole thing, that I should be upset with my father, etc.
Of course this reaction is based on a 10 minute conversation, one that cannot accurately tell the change of events or what is an appropriate emotional verdict concerning the whole thing.
Simply I understand from other people's reactions I should be having a more negative view on my trip. However, I know that it is impossible to have a thorough knowledge about the subject without having experienced it. Therefore, I think I am the only one able to come up with a logical reaction to my stay in Arkansas. In this case, I tend to disagree with the majority and think that this was a good trip- I say trip rather than vacation, you can understand why.
There were issues and arguments but I am not nearly as distressed as I appeared to my hosts or as wronged as it may sound to those who hear about it.
Too complicated again, huh?
Even before I left Arkansas, I thought of everything as being, on the whole, a good experience.
There was manipulation, arguments, tears, no doubt. And I know that comes off very strong when I talk about it all.
Because it is so much easier to describe and more fascinating to hear about than my time with Kristin or Lee, about visiting my grandparents and just thinking that I like these people, and driving around in this place I had always been a passenger.
Enough. I will write more about it all later because I still have many notes.
--
He and I are still going to the movies tomorrow. I have an appointment at the DMV first to get a replacement license- my old one has still never turned up.
Somewhere in the late afternoon, waiting to show N the start of my project, I started biting the inside of my mouth. Serenity now, please.
Don't think I don't remember the pain those first few days in Arkansas, when my lip was swollen so badly and seeing myself in the mirror I thought how much I looked like a hurt little girl who got punched in the mouth. I did the whole warm saltwater trick, just like I remember my dad doing, and I knew while it was sloshing around in my mouth that it wasn't going to help. I went to bed that first night in the dining room and the lamp on the cardboard box next to the bed was very nice and gave an orange light which was nice, considering, and my bottom lip was swollen and I couldn't leave it alone. Damn was I tired; I had been doing damage the entire week before but after I left the scuba place crying, ashamed, shocked at myself... then I did the worst, just tore the hell out of my mouth. Arrived at the house, able to conceal my failure that evening and even its effects on me emotionally, mentally but not my poor mouth- that one effect betrayed me, despite my efforts to hide it as well, to carefully control the movements of my mouth, talk as little as possible, gurgle water never warm enough to dissolve the salt.
That is so easy to forget among the other, more scandalous aspects of my little "vacation" and also because it is remarkably simple to forget things that caused you pain.
Goodnight

Rotel + Missing Med + Dale

My day was normal.
Stayed up until about 3am, dancing around to music, surfing the net for lyrics, making rotel, chopping up celery, and messaging with him. It was all good.
I like being up at night, I really do. It can be a very creative time for me.
Have an idea for a new project- a photo essay and that is all I will say until I get a little further along.
So did decide to take my pills around 2am and as I was getting water I felt I was short on something- probably the seroquel, in which case I would not be getting sleepy in the near future. After a moment of consideration, I spat out the pills into my sink and surveyed them- it would be more destructive to take too much seroquel than too little and I had to be sure I was correct about what I was taking. Yes, in fact I did not have my seroquel. Damn, my thought as I added water to the sink and watched one of the capsules dissolve. Hmph. But its night and I am good at night, efficient and soon I was medicated and cozy in my fucking awesome bed.
Said goodnight to him and went to sleep.
Morning peanut butter sandwitches because I am a dumbass. All normal morning stuff, showering and reading etc, and went down to LR at just after 2pm. Took a box to the storage unit to waste a little time, putting off sitting with the new caretaker while papa was seeing a doctor- skin cancer on shoulder removed today.
But I did go after that and met Dale. Dale is 28, philipino but has lived in California for many years, went to college in Irvine and majored in criminology only to find out he didn't want to make it a career. Now he is a nursing student. He is engaged to another nursing student but in no rush to get married, other than the normal pressure of getting older.
Now, he is also funny and couldn't help but make conversation since we were in the room alone, even though both of us had a book in hand.
I lit a cigarette and he joined me. God, I can't describe him. He is nothing like Robert, who is very quiet and reserved, making minimal comments about himself.
At some point in time, if not currently, Dale was a stoner... at least that's what I think. Fuck, he may still be now that I think about it. Who knows. He does.
Dinner went well... we were all laughing which is good.
Left. Home. Shower. Here.
Now I am going to start my photo essay.

Back From Arkansas: down to LD and confidence burst

I got back from Arkansas at about 4:30 pm yesterday.
The flights were... fuck, uneventful. Out of Arkansas, dad waited with me and saw me off. That flight was quick and I think I looked out the window the entire time.
Out of Denver sucked ass. We landed at 11 am and there was a flight to Orange County boarding at that moment. Went to the desk and asked if there were any seats available, the answer was negative. Damn.
So it was 11 am and my plane was set to depart for OC at 2:30 pm. Damn it.
The airport wasn't that bad. It was busy and whatnot, but I didn't panic for some reason- I think because I had populated my mental image and, thus, was prepared for the worst.
Roamed around the various little shops, specifically in The Body Shop, where I bought N some lotion. Got some food- pretzels, peanut butter crackers, and a strawberry nutrigrain bar. Yum. Planted myself near the gate, ate, and played some fucking game on my cell phone that I am absolutely addicted to. The area starts getting really busy. No panic. What the hell?
Well, long story short, the plane was delayed an hour which meant that I had a 4 hour layover. Bla.
Some little Asian kid came and peeked at the game I was playing. I told him what the objective was and let him help me out. We did pretty good. His parents looked relieved, probably that I didn't glare or bite or something like that. I told him our final score and that it was really good- we got sixth place! He said cool! I said okay, now I need to make a call and he said okay, and sat with his family in the row across from me.
Then I read because I didn't want to be friendly or talk anymore- that is, I was avoiding playing that damn game.
Okay, get on plane and it is just fucking busy- pretty big plane. No panic. Why didn't I think of this before?
Sitting next to a mother and little girl. The mother explains, as the child yells something about Disney music, that her daughter has headphones on and will be talking loudly for a while. I smile and say okay. The girl yells and her foot keeps finding its way into my leg as she scrambles trying to get up higher and see the safety video now playing. Her mother is all grace and, at first, I think this passive method of discipline is working because the girl calms down... I was so fucking wrong. It works and all but... ugh... it is not the calm but persistance that is effective.
I read and ask for more pretzels with my ginger ale. Then, for a large chuck of the flight, I watch Monster in Law to pass time more swiftly.
Starting to descend, I am getting closer to shooting a glare at that kid which would, hopefully, freeze her over for the remainder of time we are situated 6 inches apart.
As we land, I mean the last 30 feet to the tarmac, I start thinking that I am back in California, back home, fumble across the list of people I have to see here and, among them, is him. When I fumble upon his name, there is a stab of emotion in my stomach, very briefly, that is identified at once: I miss Kristin. I wish Kristin was here. My substitute is only that and I have a better idea of exactly how much I have lost by staying here, by leaving there.
I called dad right off the plane, asked him rhetorically why in the fuck I live out here, why I leave all of them to come back here.
Then I saw N and we waited for the luggage which took a while.
Left the airport, stopped by a gas station for a lighter and drink and I got Subway. Smoked a cigarette on the way home. Got there, the dog came out, left my bags in the Jeep. Went inside, warmed up my food, N walked the dog, I went out to get my bags and saw the sign on the door, written with a black sharpie on the back of a Molly Maids pink paper, which said "Welcome Home Kelly" and I smiled because I was glad to be home. So I wrote a note back, "Thanks! Glad to be Home" and taped it underneath. N came back and saw it and smiled.
Ate my food, D came home and said how good it is to see my smile. I gave N her lotion and D his Country Bob's Steak Sauce, showed them my Ford stuff and they went out to eat.
Took a shower in MY shower and played dress-up in MY room- tried on my new skirt which I love, the jumpsuit which I enjoy, and whatever else.
Talked about my trip for a while in the evening and then drove. Ah, driving again in California... how I love the higher speed limits and, oddly enough, the stoplights: which give me enough time to look through my CD case and make any changes before going again. Yea, I like that.
Came back, read, slept. At home. My bed rocks. I have a door.
---
This morning I made coffee and read some before showering and unpacking- laundry as well. I tried to turn the broken bracelet from Kristin into a keychain... not sure how well that turned out yet.
Somewhere along the way I messaged him and we started communicating. Oh yea, I was trying on my skirt again and dancing around, sent him some random remark. Bla bla bla.
Got restless and went to mama and papa's. They received me wonderfully. I stayed there a while and, commenting positively that I would be back down for the entire afternoon of tomorrow, left.
In walking back to the truck, I noticed that my hubcap for my rear wheel on the driver's side was missing. Fuck. Well, it is missing. And I thought about being pissed about it, I got so far as cussing in my truck, but I smiled and laughed at myself too. Bla.
Home, cold pizza, N and D went to the grocery store, I took a shower and put on my skirt again. I was having a hell of a time tonight. More specifically, I have found a black tank top that looks very nice with my new skirt and I have been putting on that outfit every time I have a moment of boredom. Thus, actually, was my reason for messaging him in the first place: I want somewhere to wear this fucking skirt. Seriously. It would be fun.
Drove late evening, in spite of my missing hubcap. Layla is so damn dirty and I love her anyway. So fuck everyone else.
By default, he has consented to go to a movie with me on Friday, if it is in the early afternoon. I, having made my ideas known in a moment of confidence which has since past- a moment that I was very much behaving like Kristin, with the expressing of my ideas for a meeting in a clear and kind manner- started to destroy my earlier comments and shrink into my little, familiar hole.
Maybe I will get that confidence back- I will go put on that skirt again here in a moment.
Which is where we are now.
That's it for now.
Goodnight.

Isolation 101

Since I am being regarded, for better or worse, by my tendency to isolate, I have decided to once again record the reason for this pattern.
I understand that viewing my preference, people come to the conclusion that I am merely anti-social, that is the basis of my actions, and its a negative practice.
Yes, you could correctly say that I am anti-social, but it is not the foundation for my seclusion. It can best be described as a side effect. Anti-social has a fantastically negative connation. But if it pleases one to call me such, then I cannot very well object.
Now, why do I do this? Why would any young lady want to do this?
I like me. I like me best when I am by myself- when my true personality shines, without filter or outside influence. There seems to be another, more destructive tendency in me that shadows my isolation when indulged: for the sake of having a "relationship" whether friendship or otherwise, I am known to adopt certain charcter traits from the other party and confuse myself about who I am.
This is a problem for several reasons.
First: any relationship that develops by this method is not fair to either party; for me, I am still just as much alone as before and for the other person, they are dealing with a fine actress who aims to please, an actress that will cause a lot of trouble.
That "trouble" leads me to my next point.
Second, the relationship is fated to fall apart: I have sold a reflection of the other party and earned myself friendship... not by any noble means. That is not to say that everything is bullshit because its not.
Eventually I get tired of holding a mirror; I get restless and measure the differences between us, my want to be appreciated for me as a whole is irritated more by my lack of understanding at who I am, who I was when this all started, and what I have just adopted for the sake of companionship. I start fights- I reveal in small, angry displays the truths of who I am with the aim of pushing anyone and everyone away from me, primarily (so I've been told) to see who is going to stay.
Most don't. Why would they? People are, I believe, generally good. Most have held on till it would have strained their sanity to go any further.
And I sit and lick my wounds, sniffle at another failed relationship.
---
So there is that brief look at my history. Most of that is fairly irrelevant. I will probably put a summary in the final paragraph and you could have saved a lot of time just reading that. Oh well.
---
To the current:
I isolate because when I am around other people, I confuse the shit out of myself and others: I lose sight of who I am, what I like, want, need, feel.
I isolate because I am the purest form of myself when I am alone. During those times, I like me best- I believe I have the most to offer to the world.
Isolation is more a self-examination, study than self-reproach, fear. I want to understand so I can kept it- believe in myself so I can show it.
When I am around other people I avoid thinking about anything constructive: I can dive into a relationship, build up my expectations, and focus on what I think I told myself I might want. And I do. I very easily start relying on the relationship for my strength.
I want my own strength- more accurately, I want to remember its there.
I want to think about some things- I want to drive places and see, by myself and without influence, what I think and feel.
I don't know where I want to continue my education, I don't know what I want to do for a living.
I'm not sure.
I don't know how I feel about marriage, about romance, about kids.
And I don't want to just do what someone else is doing because I hadn't thought of anything better.
I want to think.
There is the idea that I am wasting my youth by spending it alone. That may be. I won't discount it. But I'm really not alone.
Very rarely do I feel alone. It is quite possible that tomorrow I will decide to go make a friend. So be it. Isolation may be my current mode of existence but I am rather hopeful about future relationships. I have a feeling that I have a lot to offer people.
Then no, I do not feel alone. I don't feel boring and I don't hate myself.
I get frustrated and lost when I give in- while I am still searching, I cannot think of myself as wasting my youth.
Someday people will see that I smile most of the time, dance to Steve Miller Band in my room, make some narly coffee, am really rather goofy, love for people to read my writing and enjoy it, am astounded at the power of non-verbal communication, and love... I'm not half bad and, alone, where I have no excuses or weights, I don't create and trip on my dramatic moods.

Incompleted Email to N. About Arkansas

Part of an incompleted email to N from last night, before the argument.
---
From Her:
You did a great job. I feel absolutely sick when I think about the work you put into that. I hope that your dad appreciates it.
---
My reply:
Sick? Interesting reaction to have. Better than angry I suppose.
But it was my own choice- it kept me from twirling my hair and smacking gum at the house behind a sheet.
Dad appreciates it as much as he can appreciate anything related to me. I am just glad that I am able to find out information on my own- that I am not dependent on someone who would prefer me ignorant. That being said, I do love my dad. I really do.
Not telling me the asking price was quirky but tolerable. And, actually, so is his not standing up for me... it never crossed my mind that he would- he never has before.
Fortunately, everything that has occurred here and all the comments that have been made have their purpose. I have had to defend myself when I feel attacked and deal with the fact that I alone hold the responsibility to do so. Oddly enough, this responsibility has resulted in my stifling a lot of half-ass retorts. Save them, I suppose.
I have to get myself around, which is something I hadn't done before- I can drive very well around here now, especially 265, and I am learning the traffic patterns.
I ended up getting closer to some people I never thought I would- grandma and lee- and cutting my losses when possible with those people I don't have the energy to try with... for now.
Basically, this trip I have had more opportunities to see what my life would have been if I had stayed in Arkansas instead of moving to California. That's it. These are the roads I would drive, the people I would live with, the isolation I would put myself in every day, the schooling that would be painful because there is no independent study, the stunted relationship I would have with adults because... because in California, I am not accustomed to being condescended to.
In California I can learn when I want to learn, work hard, see people I love, and NOT. BE. JUDGED.
One could say that you and David have had more time to understand and accept my personality. Duh.
But I don't think that those four years, if spent here, would have acheived much more than what we have now, maybe it more problems.
I would hardly write, if ever, without you to share it with, to encourage me.
---
So the largest of my trip served not to make me dislike this place, these people... but more to strengthen my appreciation of you and david.... and mama and papa... and of course CJ... and randy the sobriety shark... the other fish are kind of assholes but them too.
Because I'm fucked up, if that means I'm not normal, and if normal means being like someone else's kids: I cuss and smoke and like to be alone and some times I am very quiet and some times people make me tired. Some times I cry and some times my feelings get hurt. Some times my past resentments are more entertaining than my company's conversation.
And damn anyone who doesn't think I know these things about myself- damn them if they
--------------

Sneaky little bitch, I am.
So a few days ago I asked my father how much he was asking for the house. He refused to answer. I was shocked, amused but shocked.
After explaining the above mentioned reaction to him, I then let the matter drop- that is, I did not poke and pry and make him feel guilty- I did not mention that I am his daughter, I lived in that house, and I had been working very hard to get it cleaned up to sale on my summer vacation. I also did not mention that the asking price would be available, without qualm, to perfect strangers, making it kind of ironic.
Lastly, I did not mention that the for sale sign in the front yard stated, among other important phone numbers and such, the web address for the real estate agents.
No, that I most certainly did not mention that little piece of information.
The next day I went back over to the old house, alone, and knelt on my knees in the front yard, a few feet away from the sign, and wrote down every single word- agent names, phone numbers, website- with a special kind of quiet rebellion- quiet resentment, perhaps.
Then, for a few days, it was not possible for me to use a computer or I forgot when there was an opportunity.
Until today.
And today, boldly and quietly, I got out my little notebook, went to the address, searched around various listings for a while, and then found what I was looking for.
I know now how much the house is selling for and I have no shame in telling you- $259,000.00
Will I confess knowing this to my father? Probably not. At least I do not having any reason to for now.
The victory is much more private than that. Its more of stating my independence from anyone for knowledge- that no one person could forcefully keep me ignorant against my will.
I am being too complicated, I know.
Fine:
"The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it."
But I am no saint and I believe in balance- I have already sent N the site. My quiet rebellion just keeps spreading.
Maybe I am an asshole for looking up this information when it was denied to me by a parent.
Fuck that.
I have bleached grout, mopped the laundry room and shop floors, washed the windows several times, cleaned the backsplash in the kitchen, swept the downstairs patio, vaccumed every single floor in the house, loaded and unloaded trucks full of boxes and trash... and I am his daughter, and I lived in that damn house for years.
This only brings into focus another sharp contrast between my mother and father: when my mother and stepfather were putting the house up for sale, I helped to stage it- though it is a much newer home needing far less work. Even if I hadn't assisted in cleaning up, as the daughter and confidant, both my mother and my stepfather allowed me to participate in determining the asking price- this included telling me how much the hosue was purchased for and the price range they were shopping in for their next house. Whenever there was a lull in the market and we had to determine how much to reduce the price, I was included in the decision.
I did not properly appreciate that because I did not have any comparison.
Now, I do.
I am

Less than a week left here.
Still thinking about that fucking skirt.
I am not sure how shitty I look but I know how shitty I feel- I want to wash my face more than anything else- and it has me paralyzed in this office. Fear.
A couple of times I have walked to the door and started to reach for the door knob before I hear the voices of salesmen milling around outside. Bla.
Doing this to myself really, really pisses me off. So in addition to being paralyzed, I am also irritable. And yes, I should probably just stand up and go in the bathroom- just next door- and get the fuck over it.
Okay. I will do that now

Textbook Bitching

From E-mailing with my mom:
-----
This is one of the common defense mechanisms- I ran across it doing some weird ass research for my own sick, menal benefit in some way or another.
Point is: Defense Mechanism. Straight from the Source.
--
Help-Rejecting Complaining: the individual deals with emotional conflict or internal or external stressors by complaining or making repetitious requests for help that disguise covert feelings or hostility or reproach toward others, which are then expressed by rejecting the suggestions, advice, or help that others offer. The complaints or requests may involve physical or psychological symptoms or life problems.
--
Who the hell do you THINK I would be THINKING of??
Mama. Of course. Like a book.
When I read that I could just see us sitting in Ladera Ranch, her waving around a cigarette to exentuate the complaint and you sitting on the couch, with your arm supporting your head and that "here we go" look on your face, listening to her rant- the first time you give advice, she usually pauses for a moment, draws in a breath and says "well," before ignoring or denouncing your advice, going back to the original complaint again.
The second time you give (the same) advice, she is usually taking a dramatic puff of her cigarette and stares in front of her while she exhales, then says "Honey, I don't know" and turns her desperate attention on you, mainly ignoring and somewhat denouncing your comments. You sigh, and remove your head from your hand, bury both hands in your shirt at your lap, trying to contain them from causing any fatal damage. Still, steadfast attention and only slightly more exasperated than at the beginning- of course, you were prepared when you walked in to get the "sad clown face" so its just more stunned at the fact that the situation- her methods, reactions- will never change- here we go again.
The third go-round, she tries very hard to ignore both your expression and logic, sticking to an outline of the most dramatic points in her complaint- this is where things are repeated in threes- she talks now with her eyes and arms for exentuating the absolute insolence of other human beings, primarily.
When you say, once more, the line of advice, you become as much descriptive in telling her the various options as she is of refining her complaint to the insurmountable details.
Its usually here that she begins to interrupt you- logic starts to penetrate as she is forced to view her choices at length, you sitting dutifully playing your part. Her gears start clashing and she shuts down to survival mode.
She interrupts and you shift a little and set your mouth to communicate to her that you were, in fact, not done with that sentence.
Survival mode gives way to the semi-genuine depression- she takes great care to avoid responding to you as you speak, devoting her attention to slowly putting out her cigarette and moving around the ashes.
You finish up with, "Mom?" or "but its up to you- you have to decide" and she wipes the remaining, non-existant, ashes from the arm of the chair and looks at you.
Quiet for a moment, hoping that the expression she is showing will sink in.
It is replied to, momentarily, with a look of adament, serious belief in what you just said. That sinks into her but her look doesn't, to her knowledge, penetrate you. Damn.
You lock eyes with her for a second, that stern look on your face, fighting logical fire with irreverant fire, and then look down and start speaking more about the courses of action you will take once a desicion is made so she doesn't feel quite so alone, quite so burdened. Fuck you, you decide.
"Honey, I don't know" but you have been strong enough in your manner and logic that the story becomes stunted greatly.
She'll usually look at you like a puppy and shake her head to say how truly unsure she is- make the decision for me, can't you see how confused I am.
No, your not- like fucking stone, you don't speak much of options but of who you will call if she chooses this and what you will do if she chooses that.
Almost always it closes the same: You think about it or Just think about it.

But when she is alive, she is alive. An avid story-teller and very good at it. Sharper than us all in an old-school scholar way- you see that she could have, would have become something really remarkable if she lived in your generation, or my generation. Sly humor that emerges in moments most unexpected, truly a treasure, maybe more so because that really fantastic wit is so often hidden.
The smile that I sometimes find unnerving and chronic... other times I think that in the sweetest possible way, she is asking me with a look: whatcha doin? whatcha thinkin'?
The guilt trip to stay, always, never leave that is so tiring on some nights... others it makes me feel really nice to have someone love me enough, enjoy my presence enough, to appeal to me to stay with that "noooo" at least when she is smiling.
When I shine, she returns the favor. When I listen, I hear some great things. And I like her. Aside the complaints and whatnot... and aside the fact that I can't possibly understand what is like to stay home all day every day... she's really a cool woman, smart and witty and loving, especially in the evenings if you just pop up randomly...
If she weren't around I would miss her: today, here in Arkansas, I do miss her. Complaints and all. God knows there isn't another woman like her- an eccentric mix of brains and worries (self-induced, perhaps). I get a kick out of her.
That must be the trick... its worked damn well for Papa all these years.
And with his personality, humor, etc. there would not be much difficulty in finding a better girl, if there was one- there wasn't. There isn't. How fantastic a thought that is.
So I watch and talk shit but... I would really like to give her my best- or a consistent line of something not moody and isolated- something.
Enough.
Love you and hope you have enjoyed or rolled your eyes at this.
KT

Unrelated: That Damn Pill.

Funny thing. Ironic too. So obviously I had to write it.
Seroquel is the medicine that makes me very sleepy. It is extremely expensive- about $10 a pill. Therefore it is the medicine that most requires me to go to college and maintain a steady job for insurance coverage.
It is also, because of this dominant side effect, the medicine I rebel against most strongly. That is, recently I had been attempting avidly, sometime with success, to overcome the exhaustion chemically induces about 30 minutes, give or take, after I swallow the perfectly round, perfectly white pill. Enforced sleep is not necessarily beneficial, in this instance because of the strength with which it hits, so I take the pill and fight it off, almost always defeated before I am mentally willing to concede.
Anyway, a few days ago I ran out of Seroquel. This had two notable repercussions: insomnia and withdrawal.
Insomnia is not really unpleasant for the most part- it is exiting for me at times, very productive at others, and even mentally clarifying- I like to write and do so better, perhaps, in the middle of the night.
At about 4am, though, at times even earlier, I get headaches that are quite irritating- they are caused by lack of sleep, I suppose, yet their presence prevents me from easily obtaining the cure. That aspect isn't so pleasant.
Mornings, then, become difficult; I sleep very late and always dislike having lost the first half of my day- the hours still quiet enough to ease me into a good mood which would see me through the day. So that's not fun either.
Then there is the withdrawal. The only positive is that it gives me a solid excuse for being and acting like a total bitch. However, chronic headaches and dragging my half-dead, completely bitchy self around all day... well; it eclipses the positive rapidly. As long as I was unmedicated and in withdrawal, I would compulsively grind my teeth without thinking- every muscle of my body was tense like all hell.
All of that sucks and it sucks every waking moment, in between doses of IB-Prophen. Looking back I realize how miserable all of that actually was.
So not having my lovely jackass of a pill is exhausting, unpleasant, and there is no escaping into sleep.
Already you may notice some irony, anomalies. It gets more amusing.
Turns out there’s a problem with the insurance; they are refusing to pay for this particular medication. Happy fucking birthday.
After paying for 7 pills, each one about $10 you will recall, I sat down sorting my medicine and, adding the Seroquel to my daily candy store, I actually genuinely smiled. What the fuck?
That night before downing the nightly load, I gently examined the white pill, picking it up apart from the others, and smiled again. And when I started feeling sleepy, I was happy, relieved, and ready to depart whenever it gathered the strength to take me off.
Tonight I didn't take it. It’s almost 2am. The chemical sleep last night refreshed me. Since I have more days left here than pills to bring me sleep, I felt the need to conserve, prevent the last few nights from being complete hell. I have now come full-circle in my sentiments towards this damn, beautiful, fucking white pill.
How about that?
This pill which is a burden to obtain, stunning in expense and now denied by insurance for coverage, induces stress by being a necessity- it brings me frantic frustration by being so small, clean, and lifeless in existence and yet dominating me without mercy.
But when the truth of withdrawal- or the panic of separation- begins, the pill becomes attractive, giving me liberation from unceasing tension and bringing a calm, simple, easy sleep rushing right to me and me alone.
Of course, it was what made me feel like shit in the first place, true, but when one cannot remember relaxation or what it is like to have a happy night’s rest, one doesn’t give a flying fuck where the cure comes from, right?
Also, I feel slightly annoyed when I consider the following: while my feelings have changed, withdrawal and insomnia arrest me, my mind jumps around like a fish out of water, that fucking stupid, wonderful pill remains completely and totally unbothered- happy, emotionless, without nerves to receive pain or a conscience to feel guilty for messing with me.
The entire reality of that pill is only relevant, to my continuing astonishment, after begins to dissolve into my blood. That is the first time, through me, that pill knows life. I pity myself for having such a powerful, incompetent opponent.
But, then again, there is one more piece of information that must be added:
The person who is writing this is a drug addict, an alcoholic. My most lethal opponents are lifeless substances that curb my sense of reality.
That is, of course, besides my most absolute and most capable enemy: myself.
But that is another post all together.

Smooth Transitions After Midnight: Noteworthy

I know you think I'm a shithead for going this long in Arkansas, of all places, and not posting my situation. Sorry.
However I have been keeping a very nice journal on a notebook of graph paper that I am quite fond of for some reason. I am considering taking pictures of each page and loading it up here. You would enjoy that very much, huh?
Some of the entries are simply outlines that I intend to fill out for posts. See, I haven't forgotten about you all.
---
Actually today this will be brief. I wanted to put this information here rather than write it out, not really sure why.
I have been messaging with him fairly regularly while back here, mostly late at night during my withdrawal when insomnia was a real problem for me.
Last night I was being a dumbass and skipped my seroquel on purpose, under the idea I would save that nice pill for the extra night this week I would otherwise be without- I figured the sleep would be more needed then, right at the close of my stay here in Arkansas.
So last night I geared up in advance with the knowledge it would be around 3am before I could start considering sleep as a possibility.
The time was not wasted- I did some reading for a while and began my notes on the now finished "Lost Horizon" before I got too far into "A Separate Peace". That was good.
And I wrote by hand, which always takes some time. I will put that piece up here in just a few minutes.
I am trying not to get detail oriented about this.
But I am very pleased with our conversation last night. Not that there was anything important or impressive about the subjects. It was simply that we followed one another very well- when one of us would change subject or mood, the other made the leap easily. It is interesting to think about in retrospect.
I let go of my usual "compliment me, love me, respond to me, read my mind and say what I want you to say" bullshit and he laid off the mock confusion, pretending to be an idiot, Mr. Hyde aspect.
Off the bat you can see that things would be better. I am really surprised by the comparison to our usual pointless, kindergarten ramblings. Somehow, with every switch in subject, there was no jarring, no catching on the former matter- it was a smooth transition from one thing to another.
Moreover, I have the feeling that every word of every message I sent was understood.
And it just sort of occurred that way, there was no intentional or expectant comments. I was writing and quite interested in what I was doing which kept me occupied...
Sorry that this didn't turn out how I'd like.
---
Basically I am glad and still hold no expectations.
---
I am also coming around to the whole idea of really, truly not wanting a relationship. That is, I am starting to honestly admit I am not capable of having a good relationship right now, not something totally healthy.
There's a lot of shit I've got to work out.
That isn't to say if this extremely charming, funny dude comes along I couldn't convince myself that I am, in fact, quite ready for a relationship and, in addition, the perfect girl for this guy.
Such is my sickness.
---
The post above is a modified version of what I was writing last night. Enjoy.

Holy crap.
So I am going to go to college... and get a job, have money, clean my house...
Have a house in the first place.
It is all so very enivitable.
I get to spending time here and just really aknowledge (on good or desperate days) that I don't belong here, don't want to be dependent, don't want never know and not care.
Sigh. My eyes are tired, pressure, from cramming down the last 90 pages of "I Never Promised You a Rose Garden" but it is done now.
4:30 we were going to "leave in a few minutes" for dinner- its 5:07 now.
And I really don't much care.
I don't have the energy to be pissed off- we are going to die.
Me, not so soon- I think I will live to be... 40-ish. Freak accident, prior to any major, chronic medical problems developing.
But him... ah I don't know. You ask me for pity and I won't want to give it to you.
---
I'm like the walking dead when it comes to conversation- hardly ever have anything to say and hardly ever listening to what anyone else is saying. I hear it but I have no intention on launching a counter of any substance.
Any. Just. Two words I have been using a lot in these past few posts.
I'm dead. I am very, very dead.
I realize that I am a big investment, that I need to try a little harder... something like that.
No thanks. Blah.
This flavor of living- half-dead- is one of my least favorites. Anger is down there, the uncontrolable type, overly-sentimental is definitely down there...
But mainly its types of anger- irritated, easily annoyed, frustrated... those grate on me hardcore.
And then there is the zombie-like state, where I am always contemplating something of very little importance and not involving myself in the present, which would at least have the plus of immediate satisfaction. Considering that we measure my time in Arkansas by days or weeks, immediate gratification is acually a longer period than the name might suggest.
Do not confuse the zombie state with autopilot, though the two seem alike.
Autopilot is, in my mind, a grade above zombie and more trustworthy, functional, able.
That is another story.
So, based on the above rambling, the basic point is: I need to be alive while I'm here because time is running out. Even if I don't like him, if I try a little to like him, to involve myself in the conversation and be pleasant, I am almost completely positive it would be rewarding.
The most annoying thing I can do is add this stay to my list of "Arkansas trips that I made a jackass out of myself and that I now firmly sigh in disapproval" or under the heading "Time in my life that I have totally wasted being a stupid zombie" and you would be very surprised just how much of my life goes into those two categories.
Must be alive. I would love to sugar coat this, or twist it until it wrenches my fake heart and brings me to my knees. But I won't because I can't get sentimental enough about it.
As of this moment, I have no feeling regarding it.
At some point in my pointless pondering, I will stumble across this subject and in contemplating it, dig up some very poignant emotion- of the "distressed, sad" nature- and the full weight of this "little" predicament will fall on me until I stab it and move on coldly: see the fake heart and knees comment above for further description.
You are saying in your head: what the fuck are you talking about?
That my father has cancer: which has gotten worse, much worse and he, with or without genuine emotion, apologized for having a disease that will someday kill him.
At the moment there was screaming in the background, a daughter getting slapped and going ignorantly hysterical, a mother defending her reflexes and good nature... also, the medicine had started to kick in steeply, making it very difficult for me to grasp the seriousness of the situation, and spinning me right into a serious case mad giggles that would erupt when my father dabbed at his eyes, the girl somewhere in the background admitted her long-standing grudge and impending hatred, a brother coming out with "hey, hey stop it, stop it" trying to defend his mom.
And there is me, eating pizza on my bed on the floor of a dining room that smells like dog piss, trying to stay awake and keep from cracking up, totally unable to gauge a proper response.
Fuck, it could just be that I am refusing to play the part my father sets up for me to play- that is, he gives me particular comments, looks, situations and has a general reaction he wishes to acheive with this: he will make fun of his wife and step-children to appease my anger at staying there- the idea is that I will see his a like soul and feel more at ease, forget my sorrows and come play on the crazy train like a good girl. But I don't and I don't view him how he wants to be viewed.
God only knows how he views me.
Likewise, he plays by the same script- almost always- technique is always the same and content varies by argument but follows a general format. So when I am arguing, there is a pretty good stance on what kind of response to expect.
I don't know if that is true for the way I fight as well. I have been told in the recent past that I fight like my mother- something that I find amusing if not pleasing.
The marriage didn't work- common knowledge.
However, my mother was... something, something to him.
She was an era and an equal. I was too young to know it at the time and shit had already hit the fan when I was prepared to stick my nose into my parent's business.
I know what she in the pictures, in my memories, and of the current.
When I showed dad "The Many Faces" and he commented he was sorry I had to go through that and that he wasn't there for me... I could not help but laugh. I fucking laughed and played it off like I was just saying "no really its okay, don't worry about it".
Not so. For some reason, I thought it was really fucking funny.
---
Now I am going to share with you a moment from that era in my life about the person that was there:
When it became absolutely positive that TBJ was in another relationship and had no wish to have anything to do with me, I flipped- I was distraught.
This was back in the Sara days- that night, while she yelled at him on the phone for me, I slipped into the other room and with my "broken heart" downed an assload of sleeping pills.
Sara only found out right before she left- we drove her home and she swore to be silent if I would puke and call her, something like that.
On the way back from her house, driving in the car with my mom, I started feeling tired.
Very tired.
Back at the house, I laid down on my bed and looked up at the various sheets that he and I had tacked up to make a canopy. And I was tired.
But something struck me- will to live- and I thought to myself: I never want to die over a boy.
I got up and ran downstairs. My step-dad was down there and I rambled off- my words were starting to slur- that I needed to go to the hospital, I needed to have my stomach pumped, and I cried. I was sobbing for life or, fuck, more accurately I was scared- I was just totally fucking scared of dieing, moreso than living without him.
Mom came in the room and, still sobbing and slurring, I told her. She slowed me down and with an urgent, matter-of-fact tone asked me how many pills I had taken and when.
I told her, a lot, crying and hyperventalating. Ashamed.
She said that the only thing to do at this point is go upstairs and make myself vomit.
I was scared and she was too, but quietly, and she came upstairs with me as I flung myself desperately on the bathroom floor and puked.
Did she hold me hair? I know she was in the bathroom.
Afterwards I fell into bed and she told me that she was going to check on me every couple hours for as long as I slept and wake me up so I wouldn't go into a coma.
And I slept because I was tired and scared, and spent at that point.
I don't remember all the times, but I do know that she would come and wake me up while I slept. She did for the next 3 days which is about how long it took for me to sleep it off.
Then, on the forth day, still groggy, I started high school.
---
I know that then I was really sad, emotional, hurt, angry with that boy. It penetrated every aspect of my life- not because I loved him or he me but because it was a fantastic excuse to be broken and moody, etc and to dive into drugs, refuse to be faithful, still be needy, drink, run off... if all else failed I could always say: you have to forgive me, I am just a girl from Arkansas with a broken heart.
It worked. For a long time, it worked. There were many false successes from that time, many people and piercing- sex, yes sex, and drugs, alcohol, lies, hiding.
Lies mainly. I was evil; everything I said was coated with lies.
I deceived myself about my emotions. I still do.
---
'It was the passions about whose origins we deceive ourselves that tyrannized us most strongly. The weakest motives were those of whose nature we were conscious.
It often happened that when we thought we were experimenting on others, we were really experimenting on ourselves.'
---
I didn't love Jason. Ever.
For two years

This is a difficult post to write.
Not because of any debilitating guilt, but because other than when I am talking to N, I don't really free-flow enough to get my thoughts accurately down.
Basically I am finding it hard to put on a face for my father. I am just too old.
I feel guilty because I know he has some major medical issues, he just got married, he has to work all the time because his bosses are greedy, etc.
Still, when we go to Church and I am completely transperant, we work on the house and he ignores me, he doesn't answer the phone when I call repeatidly, he leaves me at the house to go out with his wife and has no intention of letting me attend...
At those times I just really have no emotion towards him. Nothing positive.
Yes, I feel guilty. I sit in the car and I just can't get myself to perk up and be nice, I just don't really give a shit, I don't want to give anything.
He tells me stories, makes fun of his wife and new family to make me think we have common ground (it doesn't work). He'll start to tear up and I have no reaction. I don't believe that he has a genuine emotion in his body. Sometimes he does a brilliant job acting and can almost convince me otherwise. Almost.
--
I am probably intimidating. He doesn't much know how to deal with me.
Of course not, what could you expect? I haven't lived here in years.
If I could get to myself, convince myself to try and be better, be nicer, more social... I am sure I would be rewarded for my behavior in the ways that these people know how.
There isn't, at this moment, enough energy. I don't have the will.
And my lack of energy and will is my equivalent to disgust, persay.
It is really exhausting to deal with him- to be here out of my comfort zone, in someone else's house, with very little control over my situation, a lot of money invested in my ticket, the "making a good impression" thing, and the concept of "love" that is supposed to be the reason for my return.
What do we know about love? Nothing.
Not in this family.
This is not a new battle. Nothing I am writing about here is any different from the arguments fought in the past.
The g