A blog. The very idea. Who would have thought 20 years ago that the very diaries girls my age strived so hard to conceal under their mattresses would soon be open to the public around the world? That in striving to maintain our secrets, we would post them for anyone who cared enough to read. And yet, we still feel a sense of privacy. Or maybe, a sense of justification in that we dont hide who we are and what we do as we have in the past.
Oh, but I go on too long. I suppose there's simply no way to describe the horrific content that is about to be stowed away in the pages that follow.
To say that my life is easy, to say that my life is simple would be abomidable. Far from it in fact. To say that I'm a reasonable, practical, or even mildly logical sort of person would be blasphemous. What a lie! I'm arrogant, I'm conceited and impossibly in love with myself.
Make no mistake. You're going to hate me. Or maybe, you're going to love me. But in the end, you're going to know me as you most definetly dont want to. For who in the world would wish the knowledge that follows upon themself?
I'll tell you now, if you have any intention of reading the information that comes with but a click of a button, use descretion. I'm rather uncouth at times and refuse to edit my content. I'm a sexual person and a rediculous amount of my thoughts involve such. I'll tell you about my life, my hatred and contempt, my contentment and my joy. I'll tell you about my sexual encounters and all the raunchy details that I wouldn't show even my best of friends.
All in all, you're going to know me. The real me. And this is the Miss Adventures of Camaro, in a nutshell.
January 13, 2004
Well, here goes. Do I start by introducing myself, telling you my age, my height, my sexual preference and all that jazz? Do you want to know my favorite colors, my favorite movies and music? Or do we get down to the hardcore information that I'll soon dive head first into?
Very well, perhaps I'll start with the basics. For what story can ever end if it never truly begins? My name is Camaro Camden, local party girl of Las Vegas and yes, I'm blonde and yes, I'm beautiful, and yes, my bra size is...... Ah, but I wont go there. I want you to love me. Is that vanity? Oh, I assure you it is. But I want this to be perfect. I want you to know me completely and in that knowledge, I want you to fall desperately in love with me.
Yes, love me. That's what I thrive on. I want the infatuation, I want the blind, throbbing desire. I want all of it now. By God, lie to me. I want it to be powerful and sexual and terrifying. But I want your love all the same.
So there's where the story begins. An 18 year old bent on being loved because somewhere deep down, she doesn't love herself. I wonder how stupid I must sound. Oh, poor kid. By God the hormones still have her and here she is, whinning to any God forsaken schmuck who was fool enough to read this far. But its not like that, I assure you. So many people view the world as a horrific ball of despair. All pretty poet words for the "Shit head society" that thrives and molds us.
But I think the world is beautiful. I think I'M beautiful. But does it go skin deep? Sometimes I wonder. I find myself thinking that maybe I'm rotten inside. Ah, but here I go, selfishly expounding on facts and opinions that you haven't even established for yourself. Let me start from where I think I ought to.
I was born in Washington. I've lived damn near everywhere. Alaska, Idaho, Texas, Kansas, South Dakota, Connecticut, Iowa, Vegas, and a few others I forget at the moment. I think people feel a sort of pity for me when I describe my childhood, in all its pathetically limited summary. But dont sympathize with what you dont understand. I'm blessed you see. True, I never grew up in a certain house. I've never had friends for much longer than 3 years at a time. But I had myself. And I grew to know that person.
Now, I'm not so sure.
But lets skip ahead some. I'll go back, as unproper as it is, and expound further on my childhood as the mood befits me. But for now, I haven't the patience for such. I want you to know me for who I am now, not the being I was then and somehow transformed into. Know the beauty before the beast. Love the monster I became.
When I was 13 I had a boyfriend. Now, this was a special boyfriend, the kind I blindly devoted myself to, oh, that sweet kind that made you swoon with but one thought. The puppy love boy that you wrote a thousand times about again and again in your diary. The boy whose name appeared in bathroom stalls and littered your binders and school books religiously. Oh Johnny. By God, the infatuation. I love to poke fun at highschool girls who insist that they're "in love" with their prepubescent man-whore boyfriends, but perhaps that's all out of bitterness.
I loved Johnny in that immature sense. Johnny was the first boy I ever hard core made out with, journeying in the back of a car through the most haunting parts of Connecticut's back roads and terrifying the younger passengers with our sloppy smacks and licks. By God, it was brilliant. I've forgotten the feeling of first love. No wonder I fell so hard. But I did. Johnny began to ignore me and if the theory that "absence makes the heart grow fonder" has ever been doubted, I am living proof of it. The more he distanced, the more I longed for him.
He denied me to his friends, wouldn't sit near me, wouldn't talk to me in public. Oh, but online, he was all mine. "I love you," "I need you".... God, how stupid those cliche words sound to me now. But I was the perfect boob for them at the time, hypnotized by the exchange that had fucked over so many of my age.
The day came when I decided to confront him. Oh, by confront, I suppose I should make it clear that I was most sneaky about it and hid behind my friend's screen name, insisting that "Camaro wont take much more of you ignoring her." Of course, I had counted on his predictable "I adore her".. "she knows that" so when faced with the "I could care less, I've found someone else"... the idea of a bloody razor blade lying on the floor of a bathroom didn't sound quite so appalling.
And so my heart was crushed.
Until of course, I returned a few months later from vacation, sporting a summers tan and a bleach blonde hair. Oh, but how forgiving Johnny was that he'd lost interest in me due to my "Flat chest" and "scrawny body".... And like the fool, like the perfect idiot, I melted under flattery, letting myself be called his own, once more.
You can imagine how long that lasted. Just until another crush of his decided to give him the time of day and then "oh I'm sorry Camaro.... I just found someone hotter than you. I love her. And she loves me too."
Suicide. The perfect desert after a day of salty rejection.
So there it is. Should I have begun so depressingly? I'm actually a rather positive person. I think I'm obsessed with beauty and have yet to find a single person that doesn't possess it. And here I go, scaring you off with my confessions of self loathing.
I'm sorry. I only mean to explain myself. Or rather, justify in the most shameful way, why I am, indeed, the image of a man hater who despises the path she follows and yet, does nothing to halt its progress.
For now, I retire to my own thoughts, ashamed that I've admitted so much and yet, confessed so little. But really, how else could I have started but with the truth?
Until our next adventure, I adore you. I love you. You're mine forever.
January 18, 2004
Have you ever wanted to cry? I mean, just REALLY cry and just let it go like you hadn't in what seemed like years? To feel that orgasmic release that only a good, self pitying weep will allow?
I'm there.
I'm past that accursed pride, past the self denial and perhaps even a bit of self hatred. I just want to cry. I want to be a girl for once and just cry and cry and cry. I always thought that every word in my blog would sound so poetic and very....... aristocratic. But here I am begging for the excuse to sob. I truly am PMSing worse than ever.
So sad that I've always brushed PMS off as every woman's excuse to be unaccountable for rash and uncouth actions. Its never really been like this before, you know. I've always been in control of everything. A control freak just like my father. But now? I'm simply swimming in an ocean of depression and I know that tomorrow will be different and I know that I'll get through it all but again I say, God, let me cry.
I hurt someone today. Oh, very how very cliche. I do it all the time, unknowingly or completely on purpose. But today, I just felt like being a bitch. And I was. Of course, I took out most of my hormonal fury on my friend Joe, calling him words that if said to me, would have caused the deepest pain. I called him stupid, dumb. I asked him when he was leaving (for good) to Hawaii... said that I was basically looking forward to it. Why did I say those things?
He is ALWAYS there for me. He comes to work to visit me, every night he wants to hang with me. The guy wakes up every morning at 6 to go to work until damn near 8 or 9 at night. And here I am, selfishly insisting that he doesn't care or spend enough time with me. I'm so damn selfish, it scares me. I'm negative and rash, and thoughtless.
And I feel so crappy right now. I guess I just needed to talk to someone. The bloggy isn't such a bad thing afterall. I wanted to sound so god damn smooth, every word well thought out and suave. But I guess life really isn't that way, so why should a diary based on it be so?
Besides, this blog is for me no? And right now, I feel like being an unintelligent boob. I want to call Joe and tell him how sorry I am. How careless and cruel what I said was. Had someone rolled their eyes at me all night, called me names, spat sarcastic remarks at everything I said..... I would NEVER want to see them again.
But Joe is just different I guess. Stronger perhaps. And here I am, being negative like my dad, only focusing and dwelling on all that he isn't, not what he is. I swear when he does leave......I cant even think about that. He's like my best friend. I adore him. Maybe part of me loves him when I realize what a good soul he has within him, the one that I overlook so easily. I dont know how I'm going to say goodbye to all that.
But hey, I got my wish.
I got to cry.
Love Camaro
January 25, 2004
Oh look, everyone is pissed off at me. Hm... must be one of the 365 days of the year. Oh, certainly this isn't an EVERY FUCKING DAY OCCURANCE!! Oh God no! My word as my bond, people just NEVER get mad at me for stupid ass, childish fucking reasons.
Joe, that retarded piece of shit I label as a boyfriend, (call it whatever you will, its probably nothing like you think it is) ,completely ignores me tonight. "Oh, babe I thought you were just dropping by. I didn't know you were going to stay. Here, let me ignore you while I work on my website for 30 minutes." Uh, since when do I just "drop by"? I would NOT go out of my way just to "drop by".. Please. Its Saturday fucking night. I'm supposed to be going out, drinking my mind away, making friends, making an ass of myself and fucking up my teen years. What does that asshole want to do? Work while I "drop by"?
I dont think so. Fuck him. He calls me up "babe, whats the matter?" just cuz I wouldn't give him a proper goodbye. Uhhh.. let me think. While I entertain your fucking friends, you sit on the computer, playing video games and working on your family's mining company. Lovely. Just what I wanted to do with my weekend.
So I informed him that he's utterly stupid, his free time is spent on utterly useless and retarded things and that I am so pissed at him, for both our sakes, he'd better take a fucking break from calling me. Oh, and if THAT isn't bad enough, I get home, glad I came home early so that I can talk online to one of my best friends. Low and behold (and keep your pants up on this one kiddos) she's mad at me too! By God, Hell has become a popcycle. That just NEVER happens.
Please, she'd take whatever excuse she could to be mad at me. She fucking thrives on it. Ask me why? I dont know. She even tries to pretend that she isn't when duh, I've known her how long and 8 out of 9 times she's got a tiff with me. Oh Bunni, please. Lets fight like old times. You know.. for all that "old times" sake. Just belt out stupid reasons for hating me. Just tell me how inconsiderate and thoughtless I am. I like it. Makes me feel human all of a sudden. Not the playful, happy ray of sunshine I might be if I wasn't surrounded by self centered asswipes with chips on their shoulders.
I swear, if only I were completely alone. Oh, you think that sounds stupid. Kiss my ass! It'd be fucking wonderful. No one to bring you down on happy nights. No one to make you feel like you aren't good enough, smart enough, strong enough. No one to put you second to rediculously stupid things, make you feel like you aren't worthy of number one priority status. Oh, if only there were a mix between Bunni and Joe. That'd be fucking lovely.
An overly obsessive person as opposed to an incompetent weasle who'd play a video game over having obscene amounts of sex. Oh, the result would be gorgeous. An attentive, thoughtful creature who bends to my every whim and eats my shit with a smile. Hm,.. kind of reminds me of my exboyfriend.
I really ought to marry him. After all, it is the 6th time he's officially proposed to me. The offer is looking rather tempting right now. But no. After all, I am a selfish, spoiled, horrible piece of work without a brain in her head. But its ok. After all, I've got boobs and blonde hair. I'll just pass off incompetance to those.
Love Camaro
January 30, 2004
Well, I finally did it. I broke it off with Joe for good. I told him (and I quote) "I'm tired of this bullshit Joe. I'm tired of being your fucking entertainment before you go. Why am I the one who's always supposed to call? Why dont you take any initiative yourself? You wonder why I say that you dont care about me, this is why. Dont call me, dont talk to me, I'm through. I'm going to find someone who makes me happy. So you have a nice life."
I'm really numb to it all now. I keep telling myself, hey, its one guy, its one stupid, insignificant relationship of my life that was bad from the beginning. And it was. Its been hell the entire time. When we're together, it feels good, happy, somewhat content. But when we're apart, I hate him unlike any other being. I realize what a creep he is. I finally open my eyes and see him for what he is. An immature, scared sociopath with no regards and no interest in other people's feelings. I thought I couldn't form attachments. This guy is the epitome of no commitement, whether he wants one or not. His entire life he spent with a family that was detached and cold, parents that isolated him from the world he might have known.
And he moves, every year, maybe to escape the people he came somewhat close to caring about. He moves, he leaves, and he says goodbye to whatever or whoever he leaves behind. "I was in love with this girl," he tells me. "But I knew it was for the best that I leave. I needed to focus on my life.".... In love? I dont think so. So quickly he was to move on from "in love" that within 2 weeks, he didn't even give her a second thought. Love isn't like that. Not that I'm any expert.
Ah, but aren't I just the typical girl. Trying so hard not to be the loser in the situation, trying to detach myself from any memories or emotions I might have unwantingly developed. And its true. I really dont care for him all that much. I think that makes it easier, plus the fact that I've had quite a bit to drink tonight and really couldn't care less about what stupid ass things I'll regret in the morning. But I did like the routine of never feeling lonely, of never having to be envious of other girls and their petty, week long relationships. I think its really the routine you miss the most.
Just the, leaving on your phone all day, just to see that one missed call was his. Just to hear that stupid, childish message he blars out. Just to call him later on and hear that fun invite to a movie. But it wasn't really like that was it? It was never good. There was never any sort of solidity or contentment. It was rocky and doomed from the beginning and I knew this all along. But loneliness is a sorrowful friend and not one I wanted to be visiting again so soon.
Oh well. As much as I'll be sad about this (and I quite imagine I will) I do better on my own. I've spent too much time away from my number one, and I think its time to get to know me again. I think if any other girl had been experiencing what I had been putting myself through, I would have told her with conviction that she needed to be good to herself and let the asshole go. Thats right Camaro, keep telling yourself its for the best. Keep assuring yourself that you aren't really going to miss the person he was or those lame jokes or the happiness you felt when you hugged him. Thats all an illusion a hormonal, lonely mind gives you while blinding your eyes and your mind to the bastard you stand there holding onto.
I've been denying it for so long. No, thats not true either. I've just been ignoring it all this time. I knew from the beginning I was with a complete prick, through and through. I KNEW it. But I kept with it because I was lonely and I was horny. But eventually, after everyone had seen, after I'd finally given up myself, I had to break it off.
I'll be stronger, I'll be smarter, I'll be firmer. But most of all....... I can be me again. And that's the person I've missed most through this all.
Love
Camaro
February 07, 2004
So it begins. Yet another war with that tyrant I call a father. Oh, how extremely hormonal I sound, like some gothic freshman moaning and bitching about how their parents dont let them "express" themselves freely. I sound like every two bit kid who has some stupid, meaningless little tiff with the people that gave them life, always thinking that THEIR problems are worse than other peoples. Always pitying themselves because of them.
But its not like that. Yet again dad insists on butting in on my life, and while I make no claims that this is abuse, he has been sneaking onto my computer and trying to find out what I've been doing. Ok now. Lets get this straight, if it was YOUR case, you'd be appalled. You'd want some privacy right? Or hmm.. is that too much for a FUCKING 18 year old to ask?! So what if I write erotic and explicit sex content in my stories.
I do. I love it.
Is it not better to write them than enact them myself? True, I may not go out and join a mass orgy, but I sure as hell will write about them. Does that make me so evil as to need watching over? And thats the worst that I do.
I write what I feel. If I feel horny or dark.... than guess what? That's what I'm writing. For an adult who moved out and then was BEGGED back by her family, guilt tripped into moving into a household she despised enough to leave, you'd think a little privacy wouldn't be too much to ask.
I just feel violated. Very.... degraded. I feel like nothing is sacred anymore, nothing is truly mine. There are things I write that I never release to the public, there are things that mean too much for anyone else to see. There are things too dark to be shared with the world. And now? Those things aren't mine anymore. Just further proof that my father needed to prove his point about me. That what dad? That I express myself differently?
That, rather than go out and watch two guys have sex, I write about it? I live an active social life... probably too active at times. Why couldn't he try to budge into that? I have nothing to hide.... No big secrets. The only thing in my life that I dont want others seeing is my writing. Not because of the content so much.... but because of the meaning behind the words. Its the last thing in this world thats sacred to me. The only thing I have left to hold on to.
After a thousand moves, you begin to let things go easier. Writing is my only outlet for my insecurities, my questions, my beliefs or lack thereof. Its my strong hold and right now? I feel like its all just been broken. For the first time in SUCH a long time, I really dont feel like writing.
Love Camaro
February 29, 2004
And again, Bunni is apparently mad at me. ::::checks watch:::.... Yeah, it was bound to come. Why, its been about an hour since the last time!! She's over due!... Last time she was mad at me, its cuz she had a dream that I abandoned her. ::Throws up hands:: I give up.
No, that's not true. I ought to give up, I have every right to give up, anyone SANE would give up but I wont. No, if I dont stick around and take the punishment, than who will? So I sit there and listen to her while she bitches about people not listening enough. I hear her day and say nothing about mine.
She insists that I'm an inconsiderate person, makes me look like a monster on her blog. And yet, not once in our conversation did I say anything about me. She complains that some guy talks about himself ALL the time and never asks about her... Wake up call dear!! Welcome to my world! And for someone who is so intouch with the way that everyone else fails her, not once has she said anything about my stories I sent her. Not one thought, not one word. Thats like showing someone a piece of my heart and having them go "oh."
I just wish it was easier sometimes. I had REALLY wanted to talk to her today. Things have been so hard lately, just everything. Nothing is happy, nothing is secure and warm. Every day I'm given another reason to break down and cry. For a best friend, it seems like every time I talk to her, I become more and more isolated. I just wanted someone to talk to... and she left. And normally, I wouldn't think anything of it at all. But the sheer fact is, is that had I done the same thing to her,... she'd be mad at me.
I guess I'm just lonely. Seeing her name on my buddy list, I suppose I just expected more than what she offered. I guess I just didn't want to hear about this stupid Thomas guy she has such a thing for and who apparently let her down. There's a surprise. Bunni could pick apart the pope. She could find something terrible in anyone! And she could make Jesus himself doubt whether or not he's a good person.
But I'm just being bitter. I'm just sad that she's gone and sad that I'm alone once again. Its not like me to be this sad. But lately, I'm so afraid of everything. The future scares me. And I know its selfish and I know its wallowing in pity, but I'm so scared of what will happen to my family. I have to leave. I have to move away to some place else. I can't live here with my dad in the same house.
And I used to think that by staying here, I was protecting my family from him. But rather, I'm giving my mom an excuse to be weak and stick with it. If I leave, she'll follow. But the time away from them will kill me. Thats why I'm afraid. Because I have to be strong for three people, not just myself. And I'm so scared because I have no one to make me feel like I can actually do it. Just a friend who snaps at me and then signs off like a little bitch.
Sigh*... I'm done ranting. Sad that a blog is the closest thing I have to an actual friend.
March 1, 2004
Another tale of sorrow. What a gorgeous way to start a sob story. And here I sit, alone, and sad, and abandoned by the person who always accuses me of doing that very thing to her. I hope that you never read this. Bunni. Tina. Whoever the fuck you are. You say you love me a thousand times, but I hate you now. I dont care how much you tried to justify it in your own mind. I NEEDED YOU! I FUCKING NEEDED SOMEONE! Anyone. I just needed someone to make me feel like I'm stronger than what I am.
A dozen lives lay on my shoulders and I'm trying to save every one before I save myself. I miss being able to cry. I miss being able to feel and to care about myself over others. I miss God because now, when I'm alone, I'm really alone. With him, I was always more than human. Now? I'm just a girl trying to save a life thats dying every day.
I wish that I could make my mom strong. I wish that I could make her dependent on herself and I wish that I could make her see how beautiful she is. I wish that I could make her happy, I wish that I could be everything she's always wanted me to be.
I pray that my brother is safe whether or not I'm there to protect him. I pray that when he grows into a man, he'll never remember the things my father did. I pray that he'll see cowardice in so called "domanance". I pray that he'll be beautiful inside and always innocent. I pray that he'll be strong and that he'll remember that I loved him more than anything I've ever seen in this world.
I pray that God forgives me and that He remembers me in some way when I go. I pray that He remembers that although I could never live up to the standards I ought to, that I loved my family with my whole heart. That I never gave up on them and that I fought when any one else would have let them go. I pray that God gives me the heart to forgive my father, and that I forget his flaws and remember him for the good that must have been there at some point. I pray that God knows that I love Him and His son, even though I'm too weak to show it. I pray that He knows that I dont pray at night because I dont feel worthy, rather than simple negligence. And I pray that he knows when I cry its because I miss Him so much.
I pray that Bunni forgives me for being whatever it was that I wasn't. I pray that she finds that happiness somewhere that has eluded her for so long. And I pray with every fiber of my soul that she learns to forgive herself and to truly see the beauty inside. I pray that she'll always be strong and that she'll remember the good times with a smile and the bad with a tear. I pray that she never feels weak because she cries but sees it as a gift that not everyone receives.
But mostly, I pray for the strength to do what I have to do in these next few months. Pride set aside, I'm human and I'm asking for the strength to save my family. Give me the courage God, to make the right choices and to be true to myself and those who I love. Give me the strength to miss my friend and yet to feel no animosity in that she left when I needed her most. Help me to believe in myself once again. Give me the strength to love with my hate and hate with my love. Give me the strength to avoid someone who I need and to be strong enough so that I can.
Help me to love her enough to let her go.
March 2, 2004
Days pass so slowly when you're sad. It's like you look out the window and you wonder to yourself if anyone out there is feeling like you are at the moment. And then you curse yourself for being on the verge of such misery that you would ever wish such a sadness on anyone else simply because you're too afraid to be alone in it.
So many things to cry for, and yet I sit here dry eyed in shock of it all. I miss Bunni. Maybe not to the degree that I ought to or maybe not even to the degree that she wants me to, but I do. I miss just having someone to care about, to think about, and to pray for if even I couldn't pray for myself. I always thought that maybe if I stuck it out, I could be with her through it all. That if I was strong enough, she would stay and I wouldn't have to say goodbye. But life isn't always what we wish it was. Sometimes even the strongest have to let themselves cry over something.
I wonder if I'll ever be what she wanted me to. Is it a crime not to love someone? Did I lose her because I couldn't feel like she did? Or maybe, I lost her because I didn't feel at all. I wish that my heart was as strong as my pride and that I could feel to the extent that she does. But then, I'm tired of prayers and wishes.
They wont send her back and they wont fill the emptiness inside me. In a time when I needed to be at my strongest, I feel like every day I lose more and more of my heart to the sadness. Its like one of those diseases that works slowly, cruely, eating away at everything until theres nothing left. Loneliness can be a disease you know.
But I know I'll get through this. I just wish it had all come at a different time, but then, these things never do. Bad times come in great waves. And the good times are small ripples. And I feel numb to everything right now.
Its a great idea.... to be universally loved. To be able to do anything for anyone and be exactly what they need you to be for them. But I guess I thought I was. I was always there to listen to Bunni. I was always there to be her friend and to feel pain when she felt it and to defend her to anyone who couldn't see the ingenius or her writing. And defend her I did. I still will. I think Po expected anger, or even rage. But I've ceased to care about either of those two. I want to mourn for the loss of Bunni but then, in my heart, I know its stupid.
I didn't do anything wrong. And thats the truth of it, hard as it is to accept. I will never judge myself or feel like I wasn't enough. Because I would have gone to the ends of the earth for her if she'd needed me to. I am a good person. And I cant feel guilt because someone doesn't or cant appreciate that. I was a shell to her, thats why she's gone. Because I couldn't be who I was with her anymore, not out of contempt or old grudges, but because I loved her enough to forget myself.
I sacrificed my true emotions so that she could heal herself. I stopped talking about my life so that she could live her own. I stopped telling her when I cried or how I felt because I knew she would only hate me for that pain. But I can't feel guilt because I was strong enough to hide the secrets that needed to be kept away from her. How was I to know that she would see that as being inconsiderate? Theres so many ways to look at situations. Theres the part of me that says that she's a very sad person, who is making a terrible choice. And thats true. And theres the larger half of me that wants to laugh at how rediculous she is, how incredible stupid she's always been. I want to tell her what a horrible selfish piece of work she is. How everything I did was out of love and because I wanted to protect her. And how she saw evil in the purest of intentions. I want to tell her how much I swear to God every night I will NEVER be like her, never make people feel like they are NOTHING even when they try their best to be.
I want to tell her what a terrible friend she is to me. I wish she could see the things she's done and that, even though I'm the bigger person and will never call her on it, she's hurt me so many times. I want to tell her that she never realized how much she hurt me because she didn't care to. She wants to focus on how SHE feels and on how I fail her with no regards to the other side of it.
But I think mostly, I'll never tell her any of that. She should know. But she doesn't. She always insists that I'm not a good friend and yet, where is she now? When I'm sad beyond comprehension, when for the first time in years I'm beginning to wonder if suicide is such a bad thing, where is she? I'll miss her for a few moments longer until I realize that I dont need her at all.
Maybe it was God that sent her away. She was like a little demon, constantly bringing me down, making me feel weak and vulnerable. Making me doubt whether or not I was a good person. But now she's not here to trip me up. And I'll be strong for it. And I'll remember what it was like to believe in myself, to love myself, and not have anyone trying to convince me that what I saw in the mirror and saw in myself was ugly and hateful.
I'm about to sacrifice my love for Vegas, my love for my job, my love for fitting in somewhere after years of being isolated, so as to move away from all this and bring my family with me. I can hardly see that as something a terrible person would do. If I can learn to believe in myself once again, than maybe...
God willing, I can save them.
Laura Rocks
And you would think that all that would stop me. But it doesn't. And more than ever, I'm determined to get my identity back. Whats in a name? Pride for one! Hard work and sacrifice for another! Three years worth of long hours and dignity!
So I'm setting it straight. I'm picking up Bunni Girl in Cali.. and we're going to visit Xing Li. Of course, this plan was devised immediately when it dawned on me, while sleeping, that he only lived less than four hours from me! SO! If you have anything you'd like me to say to him, just let me or Bunni Girl know.
For now, this is day one of the plan. I have yet to inform him of this decision, as I dont intend to enact it unless he refuses to set up my account and give me my name back. But when I do, you can be assured I will inform him that I'm bringing a sleeping bag and a friend and by all the stars in the sky I WILL camp out in his front yard if thats what it takes!
Ohhhhhhh... So you all think I'm crazy Huh? WELL GOOD! I AM CRAZY! This is the result of having your life flushed down the shitter, too many meds and NO SLEEP! But by God XING WILL give me back my name because I will LIVE on his front yard until he DOES!
And yes, Xing loves me. He just doesn't know it yet. Hey, maybe he isn't married and I can convince him to put NC17 back on ffnet. Course, that might take some uhhh... thorough convincing but I'm certain that one way or another, I WILL meet him and take him to lunch! haha.. ok, enough of my crazy ramblings.
This is day one of the plan. Take note. I'm absolutely out of my mind and WILL not be stopped until I'm Camaro once again.
Hell, maybe I'll even marry the guy and become the ULTIMATE Queen of ffnet! Muahahahhaha I will RULE this site, and when I do, NC17 will be the ONLY fics allowed! Bow down and worship your future Queen! Because I WILL change the face of fanfiction writing forever!
May 3rd, 2004
Day three of the plan has commenced with the wonderful news from Xing himself that indeed, I am NOT welcome to see him. Would you all like to see what his highness wrote to sweet, kind little old me?
Camaro,
Any attempt to contact me personally will not be welcomed, fans or
otherwise. Don't waste my time.
Xing
Sweet little number ain't he? By gum, does anyone else feel a little tinge of animosity or is it just me? hahaha.
Ah well... I'm still going and whether he likes it or not, I'm GOING to meet him. and will, as I mentioned to Bunni Girl... probably be well acquainted with his lawyers by the time I leave! Either that or his foot. Either way!
So.. If I personally get cavity searched by the Alhambra California police, we'll all know it was for a good cause.
But, I have responded to his all wise and wonderful self.
Ahhhh Xing! Take it easy handsome... You seem like you could use some fresh air and a little company. Besides, I'm not so bad once you get to know me. And regardless of what you say, I'm still coming and I'm still going to try. THAT way, you will at least know that despite your rather dismal outlook towards me, you have fans that care enough about you to risk your animosity and "warm welcome" simply to have lunch with you. That being said, I'm ignoring your meaness towards me and I'm coming to visit you! So ha!
I'll make sure to email you the day before so you know when to have the police there! ::wink::
Love
Well cant a girl try? haha! Why does that man have to be so damn impossible! Cant he just STOP being a computer for one God damn second and be human again? Why doesn't he just bloody well get used to the idea?! I WILL marry you Xing you, you... You horrible, beastly man! Whether YOU like it or not!
For now, this is the future ffnet Queen signing off. And this..... was day three of the plan.
Love
May 21, 2004
I cried today. Why? Because I’m a girl damn it! I can do that. Of course, Lilly, Ghost and Venus were there to hold me through it, be my support when I feel like I’m gonna fall. But words cant stop the tears. Its like I told Lilly. Words can break a sprit, but only time can heal it.
“This fic is VERY boring. I barely got through the first three chapters without wanting to kill myself, or perhaps kill you for writing it.
Get off your high horse, you're not a brilliant writer, as most of the idiots on this website aren't. There is no depth, no emotion... no MEANING. It is pointless and unfathomable. Finish your better fic first i.e. Monster, then maybe you can work on this. Currently I feel that Monster should be your priority, it has far MORE potential than this. Good luck to you on it by the way. As for this, don't bother, it's definitely not your best and has some very serious flaws.”
A nice topping on a cake huh? Man… its like, I have to be something for everyone. I cant be human! Oh no! I have to be the unbreakable Camaro, the girl who doesn’t feel, who doesn’t cry, who doesn’t know what it means to feel so much pain she thinks her heart is breaking. It wasn’t so much the flame; I’ve dealt with worse. In fact, on the scale of flames, this one was hardly anything.
But I guess it all came crashing down. The stress from this entire month, losing all the material possessions I put too much emphasis on. Everything that was concrete came falling down in pieces around me you know? Everything I loved that could be broken was destroyed.
What I drove. My name. My identity. Who I was. Who I could have been.
Reading that flame it was like, I sat back, twisted my fingers together and thought to myself, “If I can’t write, if I’m truly not brilliant, or talented, or special…. What am I? What use do I have in this world?”
I believe that God gives us each a gift. Something within us that other’s don’t have. A special gift; a talent that we show the world each day, making it something better than what it was without us here. I thought writing WAS that gift. But sometimes, even the stupidest words can make us doubt that. I read that flame and it was like someone had taken my heart out of my chest and spat on it.
It was like “Am I really just a waste of space? Of what good do I do this world?”
I’m so scared you know? About moving to South Dakota. About leaving my family, my baby brother behind. I think to myself the worst things you know? That my dad will kill him, break his spirit like he did mine and my brother and sister. I don’t want Alex to know that. I don’t want him to grow up like I did. To sit in bed at night thinking that dad was going to come in and tear you out, beat you with his belt.
That fucking belt. I believe in disciplining children, but the fear I felt, still feel, when someone drags a belt off their pants. Its like that indescribable fear, the kind that you don’t even react to, you just sit there.
I’m afraid of moving. I’m afraid that leaving Alex will be my biggest mistake and when I see him again, he wont be who I knew. That he’ll be hard and cold and bitter inside like I am. That he’ll see the sadness in this world and know what it means to be lonely, and have a secret hatred that no one else can understand. I don’t want him to hate his father like I do. To have that anger inside even on good days. To think of violence when his dad hugs him, remember times where the fear was like an artic wind on your insides.
I moved away a while ago, when I was 17, out on my own, thinking I was so fucking brave. Till I realized that I’d run away, and like a coward, left my little brother alone at the mercy of my father. So I came back. 18 years it took me to finally stand up to my father. 18 years of being afraid every day that he was going to beat me too hard this time. 18 years of being afraid of men, of hating them, hating myself. 18 years of absolute fear.
I don’t want that life for my brother. I want him to be happy. To see this world for all the beauty that it has. To see the beauty in himself and be proud every day of the boy he is and the man he’ll become.
I talk to people about it, like I’m some God damn hero. Like I can actually save a mother who’s too afraid to leave her husband. Like I can save a beautiful little boy when I live a thousand miles away.
I’m no hero. A real hero would stay, and protect them. But I’ve done that so long, its like I forfeited my life, my future. I can’t live when I live for everyone but me.
That flame really did me in. I don’t know why. It was pathetic really. But all of a sudden, reading it; everything came crashing down around me.
You know why I got outta that car, when I was dying in the smoke and fumes? Because I was in there, looking out the window, feeling my body die, smacking my hand against the glass, thinking to myself “I cant die yet. I have to see Alex again. I have to say good bye to him.”
My hand was against the cold window, blood pouring down my arm, and I kept seeing his face. I kept thinking that if I could only just live a little while longer, that I’d save him. That I’d protect him just a little while longer God. And I got my little while longer, but where will I be? I’ll be too far away to protect him.
There’s really no words that can heal a dying heart. But there are plenty of words that can kill it. What do you say to a grieving person? Do you say it’ll get better, like you’re a God damn fortune teller? Do you say don’t cry, when by all accounts they ought to? Or do you tell them to heal, to move on, to keep going, only to find out later that they did, and came into a worse conflict?
Its hard to keep writing, putting your soul into words for people to tear apart. They always hurt, always sting, always break off little pieces of our spirit.
Only, I’ve been in the game too long. And there’s only a little bit more to take off you know? If little pieces of a heart are broken, can you heal them? Can you replace them? Does your heart rejuvenate? No. There’s only a little left to be taken, and what are you left with then but the emptiness of an eternity of failure.
A broken spirit and a grieving soul, I suffer in silence, too damn proud to admit, to accept that I’m human. I’ll last a little longer until I begin to understand that this cause I’m fighting for is a worthless, fruitless plight of a dying spirit. That all I’m fighting for is useless in the end and all I’m left with is the knowledge that writing a story, putting your real life experiences into it, your heart, soul, mind, sweat and tears means only that in the end, its “VERY boring”.
You intrigue me, your vicious, cold responses, your hatred towards me; so strong that you could discard your own heart enough to openly mock and degrade my abusive father and suffering brother. God, this impulse makes me want to touch myself, this sudden sick, sadistic infatuation with you.
You’re strength and wickedness almost the equivalent of my own. You make me so unbelievably horny, I don’t even know what to do with myself! Oh God, but I could think of a few things.
And I know you understand what I mean my precious beautiful one. You feel it too, or is that presumptuous on my part, seens how in order to read my journal you had to click on a link entitled “Camaro Fanatic”? Call me a sadomasochist, but I want you, in that worst way.
This sick hatred, torn between the desire to scream at you for what you’ve done and this euphoric obsession with your hateful, miserable little self.
Thin line, don’t you agree?
Your strength, your anger, your raw fury at what I say. Checking back every day to see if I’ve responded, I think you share this intrigue. In fact, I’m willing to bet you know exactly what I mean beautiful. I’ve never had someone like you, this sick fascination in that you treat me so God damn terrible it makes me hot.
My twisted little friend, my savage, uncivilized creation coated with a temperment that matches my own and a “too-far-ness” attitude that out seeds even my expectations. You impress me, intrigue me. And I know you read this, and I know you feel the very same surprise I encountered at this sudden epiphany. But I know somewhere inside you, you realize that there’s truth in what I say.
Ooohhhh… that horrible little mouth of yours. I LOVE it!! There’s just something about being treated like shit that makes me so unbelievably horny. So don’t stop. I want it! Oh GOD tell me I’m a bitch! Smack me around. Break me. You know I want it rough. Make it hurt precious. Keep coming and so will I.
Mind's Eye
Within madness doth one dwell,
Watching ashes turn to dust,
Giving to insanity,
Whisper to us all,
Alright alright "oh god", I'll take you seriously this time. I have every right to delete your review as THAT particular one placed private information about my family that only people that specifically GO TO MY WEBSITE are welcome to read. Did I delete the others? No. Do you sit and stare at all of my comments day after day and keep them? No. So why would I want to look at yours?
That information about my father is not to be exploited or mocked by some pitiable fool like you. And I do apologize for my impertinence towards you in thinking so brashly that you were an unintelligent person.
You're not.
But you are a fool to keep this up. Not only that dearest, but you're a damnable, miserable person. You took it too far. It was fun and games until an over dose of meds and some serious pms upset me, leading YOU to believe that in some way, you really, truly and sincerely hurt me. The only emotion you've caused me is amusement and pity that this generation is so far fucked that they would take someone's personal life, personal struggles and disadvantages in order to hurt them over WORDS.
I dont know you. I dont know anything about you. I dont know where you live, or who you know. Who has hurt you, how your family life was. But even if I did, I would NEVER NEVER in this world have shown that information to others as a way to bring harm to you. Because I'm a woman.. and I'm classy, and I have self respect, something I can see in your heart you're struggling with.
I do pity you. And I do think you're afraid of me "oh god". Not because of the words I say to you, but because of who I am as a REAL person. Feeling doesn't make us weak dearest. Crying doesn't make us weak. But thinking that it does... THAT is weakness.
After what I've been through, I reserve the right to cry. I have EVERY right to be upset and to fear the future. And to feel animosity at what you said about my story. It was uncouth, it was uncivilized, rash and rude. And I have every right to defend my story as what you said was pathetically misplaced.
But I wont sink to your level anymore. You're beneath me. You are. And you know it. YOU. KNOW. IT.
I think everyone who reads what you wrote knows it. Because you're a coward. Everything about you is cowardly. That you EVEN have the gall enough to use "God" in your name is cowardly, because IF YOU knew ANYTHING of God, you wouldn't treat another person so wickedly. Again, I pity you. Alot of people pity you now.
And you obviously have VERY limited knowledge about viruses if you are truly convinced that a simple email address and REAL name would cause you one. Its not the virus. Its that you're a coward. Why dont you just admit it?
If you want to keep this up, fine. I dont care, from this point on, I'm going to take it as I HAVE been taking it. As one big joke. Because honestly, up until the point you put that journal entry up there, that's what I had been viewing this as. I've been on this site for a long time and I've dealt with plenty of flamers, most much better than you.
To me, its a game. A challenge. A way of proving for the millionth time that yes, I am a bitch. But you know what you said about me wasn't true. I'm not worthless because I can write stories that touch people in a way that you cant. And I'm no coward because if I was, I would have taken my stories, my email address, my name, everything off by now in order to avoid you. I'm still coming with more than you are.
Kid, seriously, stop this nonesense, insulting Americans and the like. Its childish because of the pure fact that you are TOO AFRAID to leave your email address and too ignorant to know EXACTLY how viruses are transmitted. In this aspect, I'm alot more knowledgable than you.
Look, this is all I ask. Show me that you aren't a coward and that you have any concept of what you're talking about. You say my stories suck, then show me one of your own that rivals it. You say you aren't a coward and an ignorant fool, prove it to me.
As far as me being insane and twisted, absolutely! As I was called yesterday, I'm very open about being a "sick, compulsive pervert". hahaha.. But I enjoy it. And I'm not afraid to show others who and what I am.
Whats your excuse? All you've given me so far is insults and exploitation of my private life.
...
And I've endulged you thusfar by even answering to all that. But give me something to go on. If you ARE better than me in any way, shape or form, give me something that might actually prove it. Then and ONLY then will I take anything you've said into account. Because thusfar, I am completely and totally aware that I am a far better writer than you, more intelligent, better at insulting, smarter, and I have MANY MANY more friends.
What can you bring me to change my mind? Honestly, I want to know. Insults and joking aside, I am curious about you simply because of your detemination and stamina so far. Give me a reason to believe that you are actually human and have something more than a foul, nasty heart.
Love
ps. You're reading this. You clicked on "Camaro Fanatic" in order to do so. What does that tell you?
I'll tell you what it tells me. You're obsessed, addicted and intimidated.... as you should be.
Sheesh! Where's the prosack tranquilizer when you need it eh? Damn woman wanted to have an orgy with me! cripes! Well, that's ok. Who doesn't?! Hell, I want myself! LOL!!
Poor thing. Lets all take a moment of silence for the memory of my most desperate flamer ever..... "Stop that laughing! I hear you over there!"
ahem*
Done? Ok. Oh, before I drop the topic, I believe she wanted everyone to know that she's british (::crickets chirp::) .... ahem* AND she hates us American fags! Lets all take a bow for being homosexual loving Americans!
Ohhhh there there oh god! ::pats:: Dont be sad, we're just havin' a little fun here. Us brain dead, reck neck Merican's! ((does a little jig to banjo music))
Besides, you obviously wanted a hobby(sense having balls or a brain or talent seems to have evaded you)and I kept you busy in your ((snicker snicker)) "busy" life!
You say AMERICANS ARE PROUD? Look at YOU Miss Thinks She's Something! Why dont you freakin put up a blinking neon light "I'm British!" OOhhhhh THATS impressive.
But I gotta ask, just WHY are you so damn proud of being British?...I mean.. come on. You guys talk retarded, you walk like you've got a bottle of KY jelly wedged in your ass, you say ARSE (and you say we're hicks! pfft), and you call french fries CHIPS! Damn girl, WHAT is your defense?!
LOL!
But I'm not gonna go insulting someone's back ground or country because I'm not a shameless asshole like some people. I'm just going to say that yes, I won. Determination, stamina, and just all out skill baby! Thats right bitch, take your wannabe stanky ass, turn it around walk!
I'm Camaro, get used to losing.
Love
By the way, you never did leave your email address. Hm... Guess we know which of us won this little disput. Pfft, what a waste of time.
An idea occured to me today, actually regarding you 'oh god'. I can't deny that you still intrigue me, though still a coward in my mind. The fact that you're so vicious towards me and my friends for no sane reason, its unusual.
That you attacked my story with no apparent incentive. I dont understand your intentions is all. Did you WANT a fight with me? Was that what this is all about? Getting a reaction out of Camaro?
Its not unheard of. A few of my flamer turned friends informed me that they simply wanted attention, to be on the bad side of an author like me. But for some reason, I dont see that as your point.
Surely you have msn messenger, aim or aol as a means of contact, unless of course you ARE as uncivilized as you make yourself out to be.
Talk to me next time you're on. IcedCamaro or TheVegasQueen on aol. Or TheVegasQueen@hotmail.com for msn. If you're too afraid to leave your email address because of viruses, surely you're aware that they cannot be transmitted through an IM.
Talk to me darling. I want to understand you better. No animosity or insults intended, immaturity thrown to the wayside, there's something curiously familiar about you.
This will be my last entry for a while as I'm going into surgery tomorrow. But dont worry! hahaha I'm absolutely fine and I didn't mean to scare anyone. Unfortunately I think I made Bunni a little nervous with my drugged up, static phone call, but I'll make sure to set that straight soon enough.
I simply need to have my appendix taken out, a very routine procedure I hear. Although, the way of finding it all OUT didn't seem too routine as they put a catheder in me (for those who have strong stomachs thats a tube about the girth of your pinky shoved into your piss hole.. quite a fun little idea I assure you).
8 shots, 2 IVs, probbed up my hoo-hah. Ugh.. NOT a fun day.
The worst news is, is that they've found an enlarged ovarian cist that they reason COULD (not is but COULD be) cancerous. So that will have to be checked out as well.
To oh god, I know you're reading this and I want to say, lets take a break for a while. I know its asking alot, but just give me like.... say... a week, and we'll start up again eh? hahaha.. You're not going to believe this, but during my hospital stay, I sadly missed our little verbal brawls.
So until then, I love you all, even you oh god. Strangely, insanely, oddly enough, I do. I wish I could give everyone a big hug you know? But for now, I just wish you all the best.
Love
P.S "Oh god" says hello everyone!! :)
Suicide. Is that what I want? Is that the underlining of it all? Why I sit in my car, flirting with disaster, driving along and thinking to myself, just what would happen if I didn’t stop at that next stop sign, or stop light? Why I smile, thinking of all the scenarios that could happen if I keep going through that busy intersection, filled with busy cars glittering under the street lights and stars you cant see in Las Vegas? Wondering if the tragedy would be to die……. Or would it be to live?
Is it the reason why I smoke more cigarettes in a day than I can handle, lighting one after the other just to feel the familiar burn in your throat, your stomach lurching with the one warning you get that one more will send you into the grips of the nearest porcelain throne? Is that why we drive so fast, exceeding, doubling, tripling the modern day speed limit just for sick thrill and not actually out of the need to be someplace? Why we kiss our dash boards, flying through yellow lights and daring anyone else to stop us in our paths?
Its not death that I want. I just want to be reminded I’m alive.
They say you can only taste life through near death, and yet, I’ve never been close. Through the car accidents and trips to the Emergency room. Through the shoot outs in Connecticut that leave you kissing the dirty, decrepit ground beneath your lips, breathing in the toxic waste from fumes and oil leaks. Through the blissful boughts of drugs and weed laced with the ironic title “angel dust” that you ignorantly smoked, not even caring who gave it to you.
Or when you leave the recent club, smiling in your rear view mirror at the strange man that had been staring so long through the pounding music and is now tailgating you home with his brights on. Walking so innocently to your door, unlocking it slowly as you know he’s sitting in his car across the street, watching you do it. Do you have a reason for leaving the lock open, waiting up at night with the fresh air of a cracked window, seeing if he’ll choose tonight for one of his sick, sadistic fantasies to be reenacted?
Am I a satistic? Throwing out empty cartons of cigarettes, envisioning your parents on one of those heartbreaking commercials about the dangers of smoking. Is it why I take my hands off the wheel, daring them to stay in the air as the car rears into oncoming traffic?
And they tell you that you need help. It’s a revelation suddenly, as they say to go talk to someone, anyone, a therapist their first choice. And you wonder to yourself, why? So I can sit in a lemon scented office with someone who doesn’t care, informing me of all the ridiculous things I already know?
Is it why I transform so often, hating my friends, treating them ruthlessly just to be reminded that I can have them back the next day, feelings healed or not? Saying words I don’t really mean, spitting out swears I invented with a creative, twisted mind? Simply to know that the next day, they come crawling back, at the heels of the meanest, most vicious bitch morphed by a world that reminds her daily that life could end at any moment?
Hey, better to be on the side of the devil then in her path.
Do I present myself so meanly for the thrill, constantly reminded by those simple fools that yes, I am a bitch, and yes, I’m perverse and wrong in so many ways? Is that why I dare so many flamers to take me up on the challenge, orgasmically inclined when one of the fools actually bites back? Is it why I start shit with random people on the streets, walking in neighborhoods a white girl has no place in, shouting out creative phrases just to see if that one big whore will be the one to put me out? Why I slap 6’5 boyfriends in the face for telling me the obvious, staring up at them and wondering if they could be just like my dad?
Is it why I date 6 or 7 men at a time, wondering if any of them would actually get jealous enough to give me that one good thrill for the last time? Wondering if HIV would last 7 years in my system before escalating to AIDS, or if I’d be one of the lucky ones that only gets the realistic three or four years of freedom.
You say I’m sick. You’re right. But then you look at the statistics, seeing the amounts of suicides, cutters, killers. And you’re reminded that in the end, what is life but the few cheap thrills we encounter on the way to death?
I close my eyes, smiling, wondering why it is I stay out alone at night so often, walking the worst parts of the strip in the worst kinds of outfits; you know the ones. The clothes that offer anyone the invitation for a sick desire, that earn the occasional “how much”, from the dirty men in the low ridding pick up truck that backfires. And I smile, winking sweetly, mouthing the short phrase “not for sale”, like I’ve suddenly reverted from a human being into a garage sale item.
I have to laugh at how depressing I sound, though I’m in an insightful, good mood. I guess, I was just wondering if I was the only one.
Love
My first real memory was of my father. No. Not that sweet, Kodak moment where he’s holding me, looking down with all that fucking pride people always rave about. It was more like, there was the familiar belt, he had a hold of me, I was running while he beat my legs.
Do you wanna know why? It’s a good one. I REALLY had it coming. Because we’d rented movies and dad said he was too tired to watch them. So I suggested that he go to bed, and the rest of us would watch. Is there a continuation? Something I left out? No. That’s the story. That’s why I got beat.
I was such a monster.
I remember when I was a little girl, we lived in Kansas in a big yellow house with this AWESOME tree house in the back yard. I don’t know why I mention it really. I guess it must have some significance because I can only recall that it was a safe place for me. I have fond memories of it. In fact, I think it’s the only safe place I remember from that age. 3.
I would read this big hardback book with Carebears in it. Where the frosty, evil guy somehow casts snow all over the town with a snow machine, trying to freeze everyone. I don’t remember him really having a reason, I just remember I always compared him to my dad. For no reason at all, spreading misery to people. Cold and withdrawn. Not a friend in the world. Someone to be feared and pitied at the same time.
I was a sweet kid. I used to cry when I’d kill bugs. I always said I was sorry and thought everything was my fault. I’ve felt guilty my entire life for the most trivial things. I remember when my dad would beat me, I always kinda blamed myself. He’d tell me “you made me do this” or.. “if only you’d….”.. So I was always under the impression that “if only I hadn’t” I wouldn’t have gotten beaten up. I was gullible and weak by nature, trusting by instinct and loving because I didn’t know any way else to be.
Things change.
I got bitter the older I grew. EVERYTHING was because of me! No matter what I did, the ONE thing I did wrong, I’d get beaten for. I’d be so good all day. I’d hug my dad, I’d tell him I loved him, but if I did ONE thing even slightly less than what he expected, there came the belt.
When I was 7 I forgot to brush my teeth. It was on the way to church that he asked me and I felt ill immediately. I sat through church, watching the preacher, glancing at the other kids there and thinking to myself that there was NO way this was normal. It was like mortal fear. Two hours of torture, a drive home so quiet and awkward I could have vomited.
That day, my dad brushed my teeth for me. And for a week following, I couldn’t eat or drink without crying. My gums were severely damaged, a nerve system in the front injured (which caused sudden amounts of screaming pain) and the gum skin was basically sanded off. You know how much blood it takes for you to swallow before you feel sick? I do.
Eventually the skin of my gums began to overlap my teeth, because they were so swollen. My smile looked deformed and I was forced to mouthwash with warm water and salt in order to get the swelling down. I couldn’t drink too hot, and I couldn’t drink too cold. Either extreme was unlike anything you’d ever think your teeth could make you experience. Shooting, stabbing pain. I had just cried to my mom, holding her hand and trying to understand what she meant when she said “it’d get better”. Because “it”, wasn’t.
My dad used to ALWAYS beat my mom. Its strange when you get to the point that you knew exactly what was happening just by the pitch of your mom’s screams. “Please Ron. Please.” Please, kind of like the same thing you say when you want a sandwich, not when you’re begging for your husband to let go of your throat. He always pinned her to the ground, straddling her and smacking her pretty face back and forth.
He always does that. He has to get you to the ground. To prove that he can. That he’s the dominant one, and you’re beaten. So you’re nothing. Even when you’re a three year old girl. In his mind, there’s a point to be proven.
He hated my brother Jared. He always accused him of being gay because Jared loved me so much. Because he was so soft spoken and kind hearted. A quiet, shy, sweet boy with no interest in fishing or being macho. So when we’d get in trouble, he would use our love against us. If Jared was in trouble, I had to bring my dad the belt. If I didn’t, he’d use it on me AND Jared. The same went visa versa. He knew our love for each other, and he killed us with it.
So rather than bring the belt, I’d always say no. I think when I did that, I got beaten twice as hard as Jared for not obeying. I remembering being hit with that belt. It was agonizing. He’d make us lay over the couch, wait until we weren’t expecting it; you know. Like a movie that has things pop up when you LEAST expect it will. When you’re at the point where you kid yourself into thinking maybe its not coming at all. But it always did. Like being branded or something.
So hot, it was cold. So painful, you couldn’t even scream. You just opened your mouth, looked at the ceiling, held your hand over the wound and prayed that was the only one. It usually wasn’t, but I still prayed maybe someday it would be.
When I was 5 my brother Alex was born. I hated him immediately because I’d been the baby for so long. The old, over done storyline used by one too many TGI Friday episodes. I don’t know why I hated him. I just did.
You’d think that having your wrath divided amongst a wife and three kids was enough to suffice a horrible temper, but it wasn’t. Alex learned that before he was even a year old. I can still hear him screaming sometimes. That gut wrenching, blood curdling scream that makes your insides cold. The kind of scream that tells a million stories of brutality and cruelty. Helplessness at the hands of something bigger. My dad didn’t ever like crying. Some of my more earlier memories are of him saying “what are you crying about baby? You want me to GIVE you a something to cry about?!”. Alex was less than 6 months old when my dad decided he wasn’t going to cry anymore.
He would hold his hand over my brother’s mouth, smothering him while he cried until I can remember he turned purple. He would just scream into my dad’s palm, trying so hard to breathe in air that he wasn’t going to get until my mom would start bawling for dad to stop. Then he would just beat the baby, thinking in a twisted, sadistic mind that maybe the kid would stop. That a six month old would understand that sort of concept.
I remember we couldn’t even take him to church with us without people asking, “what are those bruises from on his cheeks? Did he fall?” I learned to lie really quick. Dad never even had to tell me to. I just knew from instinct I had to do it. The family secret, and it was all our faults.
Alex hated church because he knew what would come with it. If he made a peep, he was taken into the back. My sister told me not 6 months ago what that was like, as somehow, I don’t remember it at all. She told me that her friend had seen Alex go out in my dad’s arm, looking all smiley and happy. And when he came back, he looked like someone else’s baby. Her friend had looked at Erika when Alex’s little back was exposed, gasping and saying to my sister “Erika!! What’s WRONG with your little brother’s back?!”
Turns out, you’re never too young for a belt.
When we lived in Alaska, I remember that I starting realizing something was wrong. That this “secret” wasn’t a common one in families. That there was something different about our family; something dark. I’d go over to my friends house, see how their families interacted. I can recall one time, I’d spilled juice all over the table at one of my friends house, an unforgivable sin where I came from. Her dad had gotten a big towel and reached over me to wipe up the spill. I had ducked, covering my head with both hands and cringing.
I can still remember just the way he looked. That’s all I had to do and he knew everything. I can remember that man’s eyes, when he realized how afraid I was and what exactly caused this reaction in me. Sometimes, words cant always say enough you know? Sometimes one little move can tell you a thousand stories. I was never invited to that house again. People are like that. They don’t want to realize the truth sometimes. They want the pleasant fiction, that families like mine don’t exist. That the man with the little unusually timid girl is a perfectly good father and would never lay a hostile hand on her. Better to cast it away than feel guilt at knowing and NOT doing anything about it.
More often then not, people want sunflowers over rain puddles you know? You cant blame them. I guess if I had the choice, I’d pick the flowers too.
I had a dog for 13 years named Star. She was a golden lab mix, the most BEAUTIFUL dog in the world, and my best friend. My parents bought her for me about a month before I was born. She was mine. My best friend till the day she died. That’s something you never get over, but that story isn’t for right now. I merely brought her up because I realized something later on in life. My dad treated her better than he treated me.
As she got older, she got sick sometimes. She was slow and sometimes would urinate on the carpet. But my dad loved her all the same. This brought about some irrational jealousy on my part. Why did he love HER unconditionally and not me? What was so WRONG about me?!
In the religion I was raised as, we weren’t allowed to celebrate ANYTHING. No birthdays, no Christmas, no Halloween. Nothing. I came to grips with it, I’m not complaining. Human weakness cast me away from that religion, not disbelief. I remember sitting at school though, and all the kids would celebrate their birthdays. Try to keep this in mind the next time you’re at school and think to bring cupcakes. Because I HATED it. I was never allowed to eat the cupcakes or cookies or whatever. When people brought me Christmas presents, I gave them back. I would sit out in the hall when it came to B-day parties or whatever. It was hard.
It was also the reason for a lot of my frustration and misery as a kid. My dad was never balanced. I wasn’t allowed to have friends as a kid either. He always told me it was because our religion didn’t allow me to hang out with “worldy” kids. Which is true TO AN EXTENT, but not to the point he put it. I would go to school and if someone called me their friend, I was to inform them that I was by NO MEANS their friend, just their “associate”. I didn’t have any friends when I was young. In the end, I realized it wasn’t our religion. Dad didn’t want me to be close to anyone. It was a danger when I was, because THEN, kids have a habit of “telling secrets”.
That’s why I’ve lived in over 15 places. We never stay anywhere longer than 2 years. Its dangerous to live anywhere long enough to form friendships or attachments.
One of the worst times my dad ever beat up my mom was one of the best times in a way. It was the first time any of us kids ever did anything about it. My brother had been taking the brunt of my dad’s depression all day long, my dad (as I mentioned) hated him more than anyone. At this point, we were on the move from Alaska to South Dakota and lived in a red school bus (if you’d believe that). Now for once, my mom chose THIS point to tell my dad to knock it off.
We were presently parked in a Walmart parking lot. My dad threw a hamper on my brother, grabbed my mom by the neck, threw her into the bed in the back and started beating her like I’d never seen him do before. He was going to teach that woman not to EVER talk to her “head” that way. I can remember seeing his back and her legs flailing as his hand went back and forth, back handing her head this way, smacking it that way. I could even see little splashes of her blood when his hand would come up from hitting her.
I was bare foot and for no reason at all, I remember all us kids ran out of the bus. I could still hear my mom screaming and the bus was rocking back and forth. Erika, my older sister, had shoes on and out of no where, she started running. At this point, I think she was maybe 13 because I’m five years younger than her. She was running towards Walmart, and without a word, I knew what she was going to do.
“Run Erika!” I was screaming as I tried to put my shoes on. “Go get help!”
Help came too late. My dad came out smiling when Erika returned with a manager.
“Is there a problem or something?” the guy asked. My dad had laughed and said something like, ‘oh, just a fight, no big deal.’ Apparently though, my sister had said it was a little more than that and the guy had called the cops. As soon as the guy had left, dad told us all to get in the bus. We sped all the way to a restaurant where he hid the bus behind and made us all go in. My mom was bleeding everywhere. I still remembered the way she looked.
Her eyes were both black and almost swollen shut. Her lips were bigger than anything I’d ever seen. She looked like some sort of cartoon character, except for the napkin she kept dabbing over her bloody mouth. Dad was saying the same old thing. “I lost it because YOU disrespected me. I’m your husband. I own you. Don’t you ever talk to me like that again.”
Wanna know something else? He said he didn’t do it. That all that blood, those bruises. He didn’t cause them. She did them to herself. Because there was no way he could have caused them with just a “little tap”. Later on in life, I discovered that most wife beaters use this tactic. A strong sense of denial and unaccountability for their actions. They justify what they do with blame, pointing the fingers, or denying that they actually caused it at all. In other words, its NEVER their fault. One of the greatest symptoms of all. Utter, and complete denial.
I knew suddenly, that in a way, this was a good day. Because for once, an unspoken rule had been broken. My sister was ultimately hated from my dad, but it didn’t matter. I saw what strength was that day. It wasn’t my mom, cowering in the corner of a restaurant and nodding when my dad said it was her fault. It wasn’t my dad, who had dominated a naturally weaker being and intimidated children less than a fourth his side. It was my sister because for once, she’d been brave enough to show us all (even my dad) that it wasn’t going to go unpunished forever.
But it did for the most part until the day I turned 12. There were so many times, but I forget them. I don’t remember so much about my child hood. Strange things you know? I don’t remember the first time I shaved my legs. I don’t remember the first time I wore makeup, or my first crush. Just strange things most girls record religiously in their diaries. I never had a diary though. Dad would have read it.
When I was 12, I converted a pair of my sisters jeans into cut off shorts, mistaking them for mine. Like a stupid ass, she’d went and complained to my dad, knowing the concequences, but in a cruel heart (and yes, sometimes she was cruel) doing it anyways. If your read the forum, you might have heard this before, but I’ll elaborate anyways. It was a crucial time. It was one of the last times I took it from him.
He grabbed me around the neck, literally lifting my body off the ground and shoving me into the wall. I was choking, saying a thousand “I’m sorry’s” a minute, like he would care, like he would stop when he’d never before. “I wont do it again daddy, I’m sorry.” I’d been dropped on my side, landing hard and holding my arms around my body as I prayed to God he’d stop this. Prayed like I always was supposed to, according to mom.
“Jehovah, please make it quick. Make him stop. Make me stronger.”
It was repetitive after a while. It felt stupid saying after so many times of not being answered or seeing those dramatic results you always watch in movies. Miracles. Never got mine. Oh well.
Dad kicked me in the gut. You know that feeling you get when someone punches you SO hard in the stomach and you hadn’t seen it coming? Its so horrible. He just kept kicking me. Like I wasn’t his daughter! Like he was in a bar fight with some guy that’d tried to kill him or something.
Then he’d kicked me onto my back, put his foot on my chest and pressed down to the point I swear I heard my rib cage cracking. It was so much pressure, I felt my bones against my spine or something. I was just holding his foot, trying to push him off, praying and begging all at the same time. He was merciless.
Sometimes people say there’s no such thing as evil. And that there’s no way a man could hate one of his children. In those moments, I saw both in my dad’s eyes. I was the enemy to him. And no prayers were going to save me from him. So he kicked me again, basically told me I was nothing and that he’d kill me if I ever did that again.
I’d crawled to my room on my hands and knees. I shared a room with my sister and we’d had bunk beds. I’d held onto the bar that connects them, crying and it was as if something broke inside me. I thought it was my heart or something. Maybe, in a strange, metaphorical manner it was. Maybe it was my spirit. My innocence. But mostly, I think it was the girl I had been. That naïve, gullible, guilty nature that had led me to believe for so long that I was the problem.
I realized right then and there, when I stared at the girl in the full lengthed mirror, that HE had a problem. That I’d indulged it because I’d forgiven him so many times. When I was a kid, he’d give me candy, tell me that he was sorry I made him do it. Now? I promised that I would NEVER forgive him again. I still haven’t. I emerged from that room with a different view of my father. Not the fear of displeasing him, but the fear of letting him get away with what he’d done to me.
I was the first of us kids to put the fear of God into my own father. But that, as I’ve said before, is for another day. This story, is about how I grew from that girl cowering on the floor beneath her enraged father, to the girl who went “to war” with her dad; calling the police several times and threatening. Eventually, threats went from empty, to full, to not threats at all. Action.
But for now, this time is finished. And I’m ready to say goodbye to the girl of that time, and hello to their 12 year old that eventually, got revenge, though not in the way you would expect.
Yesterday I watched a 17 year old girl die while I held her 13 year old sister in my arms. There'd been a crash and the older one just didn't make it. So you can imagine that cut into my work night, though I still managed to drink 5 jack and cokes (thanks entirely to my boss) and 3 shots of vodka.
Luckily, it wasn't enough to keep me rolling for too long and I drove home safely sober, or I wouldn't have at all. There are so many deer around these parts that I must have counted something like 30 just on my way home last night. Still trying to deal with this death thing but its not real to me.
See, I never really believed that when a body dies, you can feel the soul leave. The 17 year old had been trapped upside down in her car, though talking, saying things like "where am I? What happened? Was I in a wreck? Where's my sister?" But I guess she must have stopped pretty soon because I looked up, holding that 13 year old, who was bleeding something else all over me, and I knew she was gone. It was a strange sensation and I dont know what to make of it, so I make lightly of it.
Its an odd thing to watch someone die. A cruel call of mortality if you ask me. And I kept thinking at the time, this little girl is Alex's age. What if it was him having to watch me trapped in that car, torn up like something that'd been caught in a factory machine? It was pretty damn horrible.
But you deal, or you join the ones who die. And hey, we're all going out eventually, might as well do it in a blaze of glory. Or in a red firebird as seemed to be the car of choice yesterday.
Went to Deadwood South Dakota last night, around 30 minutes from where I live. Drank a few at my bar before we went, and then? haha, had the best time I've had in years. Got fucking hammered, went to bar after bar, never had to spend a penny cuz you know idiots in bars suddenly become lottery winners once a hot chick comes their way. hahaha
Towards the end of the night, blazed as I was, we insisted on going to a dance club, so my boss (yes, my boss) takes us to one where I tear it up like I used to in Vegas. The floor fucking cleared so me and this other guy could free style it up. It was really awesome.
I got mardi gras beads from someone, though I dont remember who! (dont really remember getting them point of fact, but I woke up with them on so I'm guessing someone passed them over at some point) made out with three guys and one HOT... I MEAN amazingly hot chick! She was really something else. Tiny frame (which normally isn't my choice but hey, I'd had a few) short, dyke hair, beautiful lips, sweet face.
Ahhh... and she could dance too. We were the only chicks on the floor that apparently could and they certainly made room for us once we made it pretty damn obvious we didn't give a fuck what they thought and had no problem making out with each other WHILE we danced! My boss (along with my other 6 co workers) were dying laughing! hahah it was great.
Other than that, not much news. Mainly just been living my life to its fullest potential, racking up my chick number to one that could make damn near any man out here jealous or impressed. And for now, thats that.
Went to a gay pride protest on Tuesday against some homophobic monster who plays Saint-wipes-his-ass-with-bible-pages who uses the name of God in order to promote hatred against gays. It was fucking fantastic. While that sick butt fuck sat in his happy little church with all of his gay-free-followers, 50 of us came with picket signs and protested the fucker like nothing else.
It was the first time I openly fought for something I truly believed in, and I even was on the news for a good few minutes sharing my views on the biological and sociolical proof of the "gay gene" and how IF research shows it truly DOES exist, it could be the missing link we need to get gay marriages passed.
I mean just think, IF we could prove that you are BORN gay rather than as a series of personal choices and preference, than descrimination against gays would be shown as NO different than prejudice against a person's skin color or the way THEY were born. Its a stone age view that I believe will soon be rectified once America can PROVE itself the land of the free.
Other than that, I'm doing a commercial tomorrow for my bar. My boss called, apparently voting me the best looking cocktail waitress (hahah, not an achievement when you consider the "competition") so yeah, that ought to be fun!
Alright, so I have something of a drinking problem. No, the counselors put it more prettily, I have "problem drinking". Not an addiction, simply that my drinking causes problems, sometimes for me.. sometimes for other people. Ho hum. I guess walking to my car already maxed out on alcohol would have been the first foreboading experience as a sudden thought came into my mind that tonight, I just might not get away so cleanly shaved as I always do. Again, we'll put in a "ho hum" for the sake of sounding exactly as I did last night. Paranoia never one to keep my abrasive side at bay, I waltzed quite confidently to my car, roaring the beautiful Camaro engine and tearing out of the dorm parking lot on a one way trip to the local club/bar The Hyve.
There, I proceeded to drink .... and drink... and well, hell, lets just say DRINK some more. Puking was my ultimate blessing as I so quaintly walked into the empty bathroom and let loose on the stained, too short porcelain ass freezer. From then, I simply walked right back out, drank more and danced like a fucking fiend, teaching every white boy what it is to REALLY let loose like no one is looking. They still suck.
A strange thought came to my mind, and I say strange simply because I'm not the most responsible person. That thought was to stop, drink water, dance it off and wait to head home. Course.. If I hadn't this whole butt fuck funny scenario might not have happened but in such cases as this, I simply lift the middle finger to fate and call the shots. And call upon the shots I had, but from then on... drank simply water.
Driving home proved no difficulty and by this time (2:00 AM) I had sobered up. Or so, I thought and most sane people would have, but that's off the topic. So here was Camaro, driving on her pretty little way, sighing sweetly at the promising bed that awaited her not even a block away. Cops... God, they can be such assholes. Turning left, apparently I'm not allowed to go into the right lane, but must continue my course on the left.. Which, sucks because anyone and their mom knows that normal people dont do that but whatever.
I got pulled over. Long story short, he made me blow (against my wishes I might add) and as the legal limit is .08 (the equivalent of a beer and a half), I blew a .09. Cute huh? The saga continues. He proceeded to make me do every sobriety test known to ass clown cops in the Midwest and admitted, that though I passed them with relative ease (as if ANYONE can stand with their foot up and count to 30 SHEESH) that he was going to take me to jail.
Finding this entire situation absolutely hilarious, (seens how if the ass muncher had caught me MOST days of the week I would have melted the plastic on the breathalyzer barrel) I jokingly asked "ok, well, if you're going to do all that, do I at least get the handcuffs part? hehe" Surprise folks? I did. I MOST CERTAINLY got the fucking handcuffs. And for the sake of irony, cops drive worse than any high, drunk, tweaked out twinkies I have EVER come in contact with. HOLY SHIT.
Now when most people would have pissed their soggy underwear at this point, I was simply laughing. I mean COME ON! We have rapists, murderers, molesters, pedophiles up the ass crack and this blow job is getting ME... the college kid that blew ONE tiny bit higher than the stupid legal limit. God bless the US law enforcement agencies.
So of course, getting to the jail (which might I add, makes prisons in Korea look like a stay in the white house) they wanted blood. It took three of them to hold my hands as they did, as... (for no apparent reason at all) by this point a little bit of nerves had taken over and I developed a rather embarrassing fear of needles. Now, if you think that cops aren't compassionate, you're fucking right. And being called a pansy, while adding some comedy to a rather entertaining moment, hardly seemed politically correct, Officer Cum Stain. (I call him this simply because someone apparently hadn't the courtesy enough to inform this
"compliment to police agencies everywhere" that he had a massive toothpaste blob on his mouth. Or WAS it toothpaste. SOMEONE wanted out of a ticket!)
So as the story continues, there I was, a fake ID in my purse (fucking obvious by the way Officer Old Jiz!) and a woman going through my purse and investigating all of my identification cards. Yes kiddies, Camaro was fucked. Heh, or was she? Clutching my stomach in a believable fashion right as she grabbed my fake, I bent over insisting that the nurse had taken too much blood out and I was going to vomit right then and there all over her shiny black cop shoes. She quickly pushed the fake to the side, forcing me into a chair and pushing my head between my knees. "BREATHE!" She insisted. And that I did, free of the worry of getting caught with a fake, which, for the sake of classic close-call fun, would have landed me in that hell hole for three whole days!
"So," I giggled, still enthralled with this situation despite the jabs of reality taking over. "Do I get to wear one of those hot, orange jumpers?!" "ohhh no," they said simply. "Its brown for you." Despite this disappointment, I was not to be deterred in my quest to simply see the beauty of this situation and the things I might learn from it. If all else fails, simply laugh. I swear it works wonders in situations like these, although adding to the suspicion that you're a ridiculously drunk teenage girl in denial of where she is exactly and the consequences thereof. Fuck it though. There was no getting out of it at this point so I simply savored this curious turn of events and asked again if I was going to be blessed with those kinky shackles on my feet.
Of course, this earned me some "lord we got a drunk bitch this time" looks and a raised eyebrow or two. "Uhh... do you really WANT to wear them?" they asked, probably expecting some sort of scene from the exorcist at any moment. "Of course!" I answered self assuredly. "If I'm going to be in jail, and this being my first time and all, I want the entire experience!"
For once, they truly denied me my desire to be shackled. And by the way kiddos, jail isn't really like it is in the porn movies... Another lesson learned through this.
Time came for finger prints and mug shots, turned into a fun, frisky session of "Glamour Shots" as I smiled and held my hair up, looking positively out of my mind inebriated (keep in mind though, I wasn't). The jailors had to laugh at my antics as I posed and took light of every situation they thought would spook me into obedience.
And as promised, I was taken to a jail cell, told to take off all my jewelry. Only problem with this one folks? My bracelet doesn't COME off. Its tied into so many knots that its permanently part of me. "Ohhhh no worries," Spoke the evil trio from hell's ass crack. "We'll simply CUT it off." This is where all humor left the room and I said in a very aristocratic way "THE FUCK YOU WILL!"
FYI- my bracelet stands for gay pride, thus, shant be fucked with.
After my couth outburst, I was locked in a tiny cell, no windows, no bars. Like one of those little rooms on silence of the lambs, with a square hole in the door the only outlet. Exnay on the cool padded walls-ay. And pad on a block of concrete your supposed "bed"... or what I'd consider, a lost Chinese art form of torture. Combined with a metal toilet seat that sent shivers up the most private of parts, I was certain that even the bloody nazi's couldn't have been so inventive.
I didn't sleep a wink, too tired or too hungry to do anything but lay there and again, find the hilariously of this episode.
In the morning, I was to find yet another inconspicuous form of cruel and unusual punishment. Jail food. Heh, as if its even worthy of the title "food". I'd be too ashamed to put that shit in a fucking trough. By this time of course, the 5 foot by 6 foot room was caving in on me and a sort of insanity took place causing me to utter a few "son of a BITCH"'s here or there. The guard, spurned on by my possible insulting, came to my rescue right about the time I began to dry heave from extreme claustrophobia. You might think this would be rare, but he assured me in a much kindlier way than I was used to being dealt with, that this sort of thing happened often when people were locked in the "FISH TANK". 0.0 nice word for it. And they say there are rules against cruel and unusual punishment. Those types have obviously never visited a Deadwood holding cell.
But just when you'd think that my incredible, unbreakable spirit was nearing its breaking point, I was moved into a female quoridor where I was to meet three amazing, INSANE women. Lori, a once-upon-a-time looker if you ask me, had dry, burnt blonde hair with roots that made the 80's dial up and ask for them back. She'd been in there for something like 20 days and had 24 more to go. "Guess blowing a 2.6 wasn't the greatest idea after crashing the Sudan into the Deadwood welcome sign." (And you all think I'M odd for finding humor in all this!)
Audrey, the most extreme of the trio, was positively the craziest woman I've ever met. And I say that with the utmost respect. Looking at 7 years for burglary (aka, her version of stealing back a truck that some "heinous bitch" had taken from her) 4 DUI's, 2 years warrant for arrest and driving while not being allowed to have a license for 15 years, well, you'd think her thriving bad luck would have gotten her down. And yet, Martha Stewart's grandest day would have paled in comparison to her attitude.
I think she laughed more than I do. With crazy, brown hair that went everywhere it ought not to, she had this wheezing laugh that just hearing it made you crack one. And her obvious loathing of the judicial way of things she called "The System" made all of her outbursts even more comical.
"Here judge!" She would yell, sticking out her ass and spanking it.. "Punish me now!"
Her greatest joke of all was that she'd had 4 DUI's and never been treated while Lori, who's DUI count was a probable 2 to maybe 3 had been in alcoholic treatment 7 times, going on 8. The most marvelous part of my day being when Audrey discovered a newspaper article on 83 year old men going to treatment for cocaine addiction.
"Where the fuck do they do their business?!" She exclaimed in her trademark laugh. "They make drug deals in the nursing homes?! Well, shit! Maybe by the time I'm 83 they'll let me go to treatment!"
She then proceeded to mail the article to her boyfriend (which by the way, featured pictures of 83 year old men that looked like mashed balls of play dough, or beef jerky left out for 13 years in the hot sun) "Here honey," she wrote at the bottom. "You said you'd wait forever for me, and since I'll probably resemble this by the time I get out, I hope its worth the wait!"
I guess the most amazing part of my entire experience was being around these three, the third being a quiet, kind Indian girl who slept most of the time but smiled just about as much when she was awake. Despite what they were going through, or what faced them, Audrey insisted there were no room for tears.
"I've cried enough for seven years in the pin," she said. "but I always figure there's no such thing as laughing enough for seven years, so I'm making up for time I might lose. I could cry, hell, I could cry anytime of the day. But I'd say it takes more strength to laugh and see the humor in it all."
I guess I feel that way in the sense that I'll probably be working my ass off just to fucking pay the fines for all this (deeming I dont get out of it, which, knock on wood, I hopefully will) and yet, I refuse to stop seeing the humor in it. And the inspiration in it. I hope to God that I never, like Lori, end up going to alcoholic therapy 7 times only to fail repeatedly. And I hope to God I'm never faced with any sort of prison sentence, let alone 7 years. But I do hope to God that if I ever am, I can retain the sort of strength and courage that these women did.
I hope to God that I can always see the humor in things.
"If you dont see life as funny, you're not living it right!"
Ok. Now, I'm not a huge druggie. I've tried certain pills, marijuana, some other unmentionables but never anything extreme ya know? I mostly just drink and make a ruckus with that avoiding the others. Last night however, Camaro decided to try shrooms. Now, for the uninformed, shrooms are a hallucinogen mushroom that can cause (duh) hallucinations, visions, etc.
Being with my friend Ashley and my ever-so-drug-induced relatives, (drinking being involved as always) I decided to try some. It was a bold move, I admit but curiosity will always be one of my greatest downfalls. So I only took enough to give my body an extreme high effect, not induce actual hallucinations.
Now, you may see me in a few years on one of those shit sad commercials pleading with kids about the dangers of drugs and yada yada, but I have to say, honestly, it was the most hilarious experience of my entire life. No debates, no discussion. The single funniest experience I've ever had.
So there we are, out in the middle of the woods, I'm waiting for the stuff to hit me, of course all paranoid staring around me and wondering "hm.. wonder if I'll see anything cool." bugging the shit out of my aunt, asking when its going to effect me. Of course, it doesn't for nearly an hour, though I was getting little shocks here and there of slight paranoia mixed with feelings of uneasiness when told we were going home or when a person moved away from me. I could slowly kind of feel myself feeding off the energy of others, case in point, when other's laughed, I could sense the mood of their aura rocketing with excitement and humor, thus erupting mine.
I think when I finally realized the effects were taking place, I had put my fingernails against the window, letting them slide down and taking droplets of cold cold water with them. I was so entranced with it all, completely mezmerized by this mundane phenomenon that it finally struck me.... Oh boy, here it comes.
What commenced afterwards was a series of one gut-splitting laughing fit to the next starting out with a trip to Wendy's that almost sent me flying through the drive-in window to beat the mother loving shit out of the Wendy guy. "I wants.... a um chicken sandwhich, no toematoe (thats just how i said it, which sent me into another embarrassing giggle fest) What does the man give us? Three day old chicken nuggets, dryer than my gandma's pussy with french fries that they probably gathered off the floor behind the fryers! Seriously, they were the NASTIEST thing I've ever tasted, though I ate the entire bag by myself (as paranoia became more apparent and I would have taken a chunk out of anyone who came within 10 inches of one) commenting that they were indeed, as old as water.
"And on the third day," I blathered, holding up the remains of a sandbox nugget. "God created chicken nuggets", certain that I, of course, had previously eaten the "adam and eve" of nuggets. My cousin, a sadistic pup to be sure, was flying around corners at triple the speed limit, nearly killing us all. You might have imagined that of all things would kick me out of my "the world is hilarious" stupor, but no. And it wouldn't have been a bad way to go if you ask me. Young and beautiful, laughing my ass off on the way out.
Sitting on my chair at my aunts house, deliriously protective of my dirty, ass crack nuggets I proceeded to laugh until my TMJ jaw malfunction was acting up and my stomach was burning with the overusage. Try doing 500 sit-ups and then you'll understand.
I could elaborate, but I think you all get the idea. All in all, it was great and I'll be doing it again.
Catch you next time The Wonderful Adventures of Camaro!
I think I'm getting old. Last night I had the most fantastic sex dream about Gale Harold, (a TOTAL sex machine from Queer As Folk).. Course, I THINK it was him, or more just had the personality of his character. Whatever the case, I woke up, realizing it was a dream and feeling more lonely than I can remember for a long time. It wasn't the sex, I dont even think we really HAD sex. I think it was just the feeling of having an equal. Someone I was mentally in-tuned with, someone sexy and daring who I was physically in love with, and just the feeling of having someone next to me. Or knowing that I could hug them or kiss them at any moment and there wouldn't need to be some over all reason for it.
I haven't had a real boyfriend in 3 years. I wont let myself. I cant emotionally BE attached to someone so there's no point in obligating myself. I like the feeling of walking into a party, grabbing random people (men or women) and kissing them. Just pulling them close and latching on, feeling them at first resist and then fall into it helplessly. I like the power I have over mass amounts of people and the weakness that allows them to fall prey to a pretty face. I like the fact that my over all confidence makes even the most amazing people easily obtainable, not to mention my mind and soul enough to make even stubborn people fall in love with me.
But this is where I'm beginning to feel like I'm old. No matter how many people I can get, no matter how many lips I kiss or hearts I tame... It doesn't account for anything. Most people can count how many people they've kissed. I gave up when I was 14 and got over 70 that I could name, not counting the ones I couldn't. And I'm 19 now and you can imagine that number is.... unfathomable at this point. Dont you think that would in some way.... add up to something? Give me some sort of ... pride or something? And I guess it does to a point, but then I see these people SO in love and I wonder if I will ever have that.
I want to kiss a man and REALLY let myself fall into it. Just relax, put my arms around him, have him pull me close and fall so deeply into it while I lean into on my tiptoes. And close my eyes and just swim in it.. like a beautiful dream. The majority of my kisses involve teeth and sexual innuendo described with my tongue. They're not love kisses. They're "you're a convienciance and I know I can have you."
I want the feeling of a guys face against mine, his five o' clock shadow against my fingertips as I relax into it.
But then I see the other side to it that holds basically no temptation at all, and thats the part that includes absolute obligation, heart to hearts, emotional breakdowns and the inevitable break up that leaves me on the rebound for the nearest sexual outlet and him a mental wreak that calls me up every day for three years afterwards bitching about how awful I was to him. Can you tell that I'm bitter? hahaha. So all in all, I want love just to know that I can FEEL love. But I dont want the packaging that goes with it. But then, I suppose there's the other side that tells me the right person wont be a burden.
Is it possible to go a lifetime without ever finding one person to fall in love with?
I wanted to vomit. (<----Though this could also be attributed to my massive hangover, we won't go into those details.) What happened to the pissed-off-ness?! What happened to the "I'm gonna get this ho!"? Why no cursing? Why no sentence fragments and sailor-approved swears? Why no random acts of violence?!
I'll BLOODY TELL YOU WHY! Because flames now are no good! They're predictable and boring. I could tell you word for word what their replies will be, what swears they'll use, what part of my personality they'll attack next. And why can they never tear apart the content of Monster? Why? I'll tell you why on that too... Because NONE OF THOSE FUCKERS HAVE EVEN READ it. And if they have.. they can't insult that because it's too ingenius. It's too flawless and magical. So instead, surprise surprise, they attack me.
And it used to affect me. It USED to fucking inspire me! Now they're all so... petty and pathetic. I used to get REAL good flames ya know? Something challenging and fiery.. something that could actually awaken an amount of anger in me. Make the incentive to write even more powerful and my words even more strong and angry. Make me harder and more resolved to prove them either right, or unfathomably wrong. I just mean.. I'm no longer inspired or challenged by the people who flame me. I used to be able to literarily fight with them and then gain inspiration from our dialogue. Hell! I used to take ACTUAL exerts from flame wars I've had and use them IN my stories!
I used to get angry or at least be challenged enough to prove that I could outwit them, use bigger words, more intelligent insults. Now? I don't even feel the incentive to humor them. I don't have the patience nor the drive to even carry on with it. It all seems so pointless when you consider that they present neither the intelligence enough to challenge you nor the talent enough to supply you with interesting dialogue.
I'm just no longer surprised.. I've been through too many flamers to be impressed. I'm numb to all insults.. and while that "not caring" part is appealing.. I'm also not inspired by them. I don't feel enough anymore. I used to at least get mildly ticked off by them... now, it's like "ehh.. another flame. blah blah blah.. same thing as always". When I get pissed off, or I'm FEELING a lot,.. it's portrayed in my writing and makes it magical in a way that being dead inside never could. I mean, sometimes, the feelings are so intense that people can read a paragraph and tell me what my mood was that day!
But now, I long for my silly disputes with that asshole "oh God". At least THEY were LITERATE! At least THEY could still get a rise out of me, make me pick up a God damn dictionary for once and give it a peek. Now? Sigh* Every flamer is a poor man's "oh God". My horrible, wretched, Satan spawned bitch... My near equal. And now, gone like the wind. I miss the days of half dreading, half anticipating their replies. That cold hatred and animosity that could put me in front of a screen for hours, jamming the keys a thousand miles a minute to create priceless works of pure anger and emotion. Everything I wrote at the time was harsh and evil, yet so.. SO strong.
Now, it's dead and lifeless. Flimsy and limp like a 13 year old's dick after seeing his mother naked. "oh God"! Come back to me my love! You disgusting, filthy British whore! Tear me a new one, for fucks sake--I NEED YOU! You left nothing in your wake but a line of wannabes, taking their turn at making fools of themselves. But none are as unpredictable and shameless as you. None can make me as orgasmically pissed off as you could. Sniff*
So now, I'm left only with memories of your wretched, awful, FOUL little self and retards that couldn't make a dent in me on their best day. Shadows and echoes of a wonderful time. I miss you "oh God". Come back to me someday.
Love,
by Patty Hansen
You had your eyes open a little while ago, but now you just want to sleep. I wish you would open your eyes and look at me. My child, my precious, my angel sent from heaven . . . this will be the last time we are together. As I hold you close to me and feel your tiny body warm against my own, I look at you and look at you . . . I feel as if my eyes can’t hold enough of you. For a human being so small, there is a lot of you to look at . . . in such a short time. In a few minutes, they will come and take you away from me. But for now, this is our time together and you belong to me.
Your cheeks are still bruised from your birth – they feel so soft to my fingertip, like the wing of a butterfly. Your eyebrows are tightly clenched in concentration – are you dreaming? You have too many eyelashes to count and yet I want to engrave them all in my mind. I don’t want to forget anything about you. Is it all right that you are breathing so rapidly? I don’t know anything about babies – maybe I never will. But I know one thing for sure – I love you with all my heart. I love you so much and there is no way to tell you. I hope that someday you will understand. I am giving you away because I love you. I want you to have in your life all the things I could never have in mine – safety, compassion, joy and acceptance. I want you to be loved for who you are.
I wish I could squish you back inside of me – I’m not ready to let you go. If I could just hold you like this forever and never have to face tomorrow – would everything be all right? No, I know everything will only be all right if I let you go. I just didn’t expect to feel this way – I didn’t know you would be so beautiful and so perfect. I feel as if my heart is being pulled from my body right through my skin. I didn’t know I would feel so much pain.
Tomorrow your mom and dad are coming to the hospital to pick you up, and you will start your life. I pray that they will tell you about me. I hope they will know how brave I have been. I hope they will tell you how much I loved you because I won’t be around to tell you myself. I will cry every day somewhere inside of me because I will miss you so much. I hope I will see you again someday – but I want you to grow up to be strong and beautiful and to have everything you want. I want you to have a home and a family. I want you to have children of your own someday that are as beautiful as you are. I hope that you will try to understand and not be angry with me.
The nurse comes into the room and reaches out her arms for you. Do I have to let you go? I can fell your heart beating rapidly and you finally open your eyes. You look into my eyes with trust and innocence, and we lock hearts. I give you to the nurse. I feel as if I could die. Good-bye, my baby – a piece of my heart will be with you always and forever. I love you, I love you . . . I love you . . .
Patty Hansen
I want to say one thing that does make sense, that does seem to "sum up" the source of sense I'm dealing with at the moment and that is something that holds dark connotations yet contains the baring of my existence thus far: my parents are getting a divorce.
I wonder why the word looks to ugly even now. Maybe that's social brain wash, the idea that the very deliverance of one's existence can seem so socially unaccetable, so socially shuned. Somehow though, if the chapter of my life, such as it is, was ended, I would sum it up, gravestone and all, that my parents are getting a divorce. I wonder lately how often I've wanted to be able to hear those words come from myself. Like, how many times, how many times have I wanted to just... fucking write that? How many times have I wanted those fucking words printed, right here, right now, written for everyone and anyone to see, that my mom is finally the woman I wanted her to be for 21 years?
I hung out with my dad the other day. Not because I had to. Oh, God. I wanted to. And I think there's a very ill feeling I hold even now, my subconscience and the girl I've always been, looking at me and saying "Fuck Tara,.... how? Why? Do you forget? Do you want to forget? Are you really so fucking desperate, so fucking BOLD AND SICK AND PSYCHO FUCKING PATHIC, to let yourself forget now, to WANT to forget now, years of SHIT that you told yourself you'd never forget? Would you forsake a lifetime of hatred, a lifetime of PROMISING FUCKING PROMISING yourself that you would NEVER forgive, never look passed a hundred days of that hatred, that will for vengence?"
I make myself ill. I make myself wonder why I would forgive, or at least overlook so much shit. How desperate for self exploration am I to completely forsake myself just to know my father.
But I tell myself, who are you? Who ARE you Tara? Your means of self sustain is through bitterness and corruption of ideals, an existence bent on anger and frustration at someone you know you'll never have real vengence on. But what is vengence but the inability to allow for ultimate forgiveness?
Sometimes, I think the one idea compells me through my days lately: to error is human (or other) but to forgive is divine.
I didn't want my past to define my present. So I wanted to know my dad as someone other than my dad; to see, to know the man behind the monster.
Can I live forever seeing my own father as a monster? Or would I only end up summing myself up as half human, half monster? I think maybe I'm selfish. I'm so desperate to know myself, to put a source to my every aspect, that I would sacrifice my own loathing for the prospect of knowing part of my genes. God I'm drunk.
God, I'm always drunk. I don't know a sane time when I wasn't. Alcoholism holds the same negative connatations as divorce, but what are both but escapes and a means to dealing with the undealable? Sometimes the only sane times in my life are when I escape the ultimate reality of it.
So I went out with my dad, and we watched the new Superman movie. Superman finds out that he has a son. I forget what he says exactly, only summed up in the promise that he would never be alone, would never see the world as Superman had seen it, as isolated as Superman had. And I wanted my dad to be Superman. I wanted to know that kind of odd protection that lets a kid sleep even deeper when their parent is known to be watching over them.
My dad is insane. No. My dad... IS.... INSANE. Chemically imbalanced, sociopathicly, depression-induced insanity. When I was with him, it was more of a lapse from reality than any drug could supply. In his world, everyone walks around as logically-challenged, deranged mental patients. My dad world is chaotic and hopeless, a soulless void of God where only white straight, woman despising males hold the most basic intelligence and the rest reign free to crush logically ideals in their pitiful existences. I sound as fucking crazy as he is, just trying to sum it up.
He's so... hatefilled that it made my own look pale and pointless. Yeah, I remember. I made myself remember tonight, telling my friend Trevor the gorey details of kid-stuff. But for the first time, I can honestly say, talking about it didn't really hurt. The old sting was gone and it was as if I was telling a really horrific rumor about someone else I had heard. I was numb to it, having had to know the man behind the monstrocities. And I hate that I understand, or more so, that I took the time to.
What kind of monster would put a baby's head underneath water for over a minute just to make it stop crying? The kind of monster I know now.
So where do I go from here? I don't know. I think I sustained myself for so long on the idea that I hated my dad, that I wanted to live my life forever not knowing him, that now that I'm faced with the decision, I can't even imagine turning away from the prospect of knowing who I am, through knowing who my dad is. My mom wants me to live with her and I believe I will. She needs a dominate role in her life, someone to make decisions, to deal with money and bills business, to control her to some extent and to run things until she understand that she IS woman enough to do it.
Imagine me, reading back through hate-drenched admissions and not recognizing that girl. And then, I wonder, if that girl, would recognize me.
Well, a lot of shit. A lot that I can't say just yet. A lot that I can't come to terms with myself yet; shit. Shit.
Let me maybe start from the beginning though: Trevor. Me and Trevor were great friends, in fact, best friends for a few months there. He had been in love with me previously and despite my better attempts to quell that, continued to be so. He would rant and rave that it was fine, that we were just friends, that he would settle for that just so long as I would remain in his life. But let me kiss a man in a bar; Trevor was gone stranding me there.
It must be true to some extent; Men can't just be friends. In the world of a man, a woman has little to no use outside of the bedroom. Or at least this is where I've come to conclude the situation. So I met Jeremy, the other side to the story and despite the shallowness of my tail thus far bare with me.
As soon as Jeremy was in the picture, Trevor was gone. He decided the greatest means to punish me for my apparent inability to let him in my pants was to return to his useless stupid, self absorbed and utterly meaningless existence as a Jehovah's Witness. He completely abandoned me as his friend. I would ask him to come with us, to come with all of my friends out and about. But then in the world of a man precisely what IS the point of a good time if it doesn't involve a willing pussy at the end of the night.
Fucker.
So it was me and Jeremy. Which is fine. Do I see him as my soul mate, no. Will we ever get married, no. Do we have jack shit in common and even talk these days without screaming at each other, no.
Despite that- we used to have fun. We became a couple because we wanted to. Because I was going on a year and a half of chosen celibacy, because he was handsome and hilarious to be around, and because we fit well together.
He truly is handsome. That is something that will never fade for Jeremy. He is beautiful. Clear blue eyes, tan skin, body built like a brick shit house (which I don't even know what that is-- but he's built like one) and blonde tipped hair.
Only, he's older than me, nearing his thirties. Which would be all fine and well except it seems, as things often do, that things were inevitably going to change. He stopped wanting to go out--- EVER. His idea of a "fun time" was sitting with his psychotic sister and watching movies at home. Great. Gee. Swell.
This isn't even the tip of the iceburg for me. So I find out--- low and behold-- impossibilities of impossibilities-- I'm pregnant.
Pregnant.
Pregnant.
Holy shit. Only I can't have it. Even if I wanted, I can't have it. Not that I would have wanted it. But I couldn't. Even if I wanted it. Jeremy doesn't know the "can't" part. Still doesn't. He wanted me to have it despite my insistence that I wasn't going to. I don't know why I couldn't tell him the truth.
Why I still can't.
Why I feel fucking ill just looking at this screen. I haven't told anyone really in real life. Somehow I thought it'd be easier online to write this. But it isn't. Just looking back at the words makes them too concrete and they scare me. Because it's too honest. Too shameful
And it is shame. Don't let anyone ever tell you that abortion isn't just another word for shame because, even if other options elude you, you still feel shame. I think I cried for three days straight. And then I dismissed those tears because I thought that they were only there because I was hormonal, not because my heart was truly mourning anything.
And then I felt even more shame for trying to close myself, to cut myself off, to feel nothing because it would make it all easier.
I cried so long and hard I didn't think it would stop. And maybe a part of me didn't want it to stop. Because then it would mean that I was human, that I was once whole. That I wasn't this horrible shameful monster that I felt I was. I looked in the mirrors somedays and wanted to hit the reflection staring back at me. Because I didn't recognize it. Because I didn't want to.
I think now that the biggest greatest evil in any man's life is the situation he's never had to face. The circumstances he's never seen. Because once you step out of a world of black and white, and see your body as one big gray blur, you get it. You see. You understand.
I think it was irony and karma that put me in that situation. I was so quick to judge, so quick to cut off all possibilities when it came to abortion. Because I'd never had to see it from the other side. To taste the necessary evil that it was.
I never told Jeremy why I wouldn't have it. I guess I didn't want to. I wasn't always taken care of very well. Big deal. Past is the past and it can only haunt you if you let it. Like a movie I saw once said "voodoo can only hurt you if you believe in it". Ghosts can only haunt you if you allow them back.
I don't want him to see me as a victim. I don't want to see myself that way. And maybe deeper down I felt like he should respect my decision despite all factors. I DO believe it is a woman's choice. I DO believe no man has any right to interfere. Give your opinions all you want but it is in the hands of a WOMAN that this decision lies.
He made things so hard. I guess they shouldn't have been easy. I don't think they ever could have been. But he made them hard. "How do you know you won't love it when it's born" --"Be careful Tara you have a soccer player in there"--"I'll bet it would have had beautiful green eyes just like yours". Even when I'd already made it clear I wouldn't be having it.
Sometimes "choosing life" does mean choosing death. And sometimes you can love something so much and still have to say goodbye to it.
One day I was watching TV and "Everybody Loves Raymond" came on. In the show the little girl's hamster dies. At the end they buried it and all said their last words. I remember hers.
"You were my best friend" she said. "and I know you'll always be with me wherever I go because I love you now and I'm always going to."
The day after the abortion was horrible. Because I felt-- I knew it was gone. This is the first time I've allowed myself to cry since. Sometimes I think I know its gone--because it was like I felt its heart beat inside me before it went.
It hurts every day. Because there's always shame and there's always the sense of losing something so beautiful, even if you never really saw it.
I don't know now what I believe about God. I guess I never really have. I feel now that I've lost all sense of right and wrong; of strength and courage; of black and white. I just know that I am more empty now that I have been in a long time.
And the loneliest nights I have ever had are usually when I'm lying next to Jeremy.
"Locked together in hatred."
And you stll dont need a reason to cry. Bruises come like track marks, but more proudly, and you wear them unshamed around those you,... let's call it love for we reallly love everyone in a bar, and yet, at the bottom of a bathtub, shower turned on cold, they really arent' so beautiful at all.
Soap scum smeared across your face, old makeup renching over beaded cheeks, and none of your friends to see if there is a reason you cry.'
We paint faces every day. To faces of smooth makeup over ruddy skin to faces of sober smiling to people around us. But i never do anything halfassed. Drinking is no different.
Perhaps, at one time, I will cross a room, any other room, a room of strangers and beautiful painted faces, and a very great pain will befall me. The abscence of logic and the very fantiful belief that if I continue my path, walking amonst the nothingness of humanity, that if I go, I will be missing him.
But as it stands, and I truly believe, in the heart of an arrogant, relunctant heterosexual, that it truly is a him. And that I will miss him in all the arrogance of independence and the inability to accept a man as my equal. Yet I pray for the understanding and the secret person of the heart, that bows beneath the will of fate, if nothing else, and accepts this truth.
That he is out there, and he feels the pull as I do.
Maybe its loneliness or the humanity within that causes me to believe in something completely contratictory to real logic. Maybe the cruel ticking of a silent clock. But if faith has left me with truly no more strings to cling to, let it be this.
That I await him, that in the faces of monsters, I see him. Qualities of him.
I believe within myself that miles, continents, perhaps even the very depressing space of lifetimes devide us.
But truly, if never in this lifetime, I am to be fullfilled, let me still dream of him. A farstretched galaxy, painted in the faces of those that can only resemble his traits. Or if, the balancing forces of life permit, let me find him amongst the monsters.
And let my dream of impossibility be met and let faith be restored in my soul mate.
I hate to see this life as a waste. As the years I walk amongst an isolated means of a world, tainted with so many fleshy souls that resemble the one person that could change all that. Am I alone? Or as, in the dreamlike world of a young woman's heart, and the spirit of a fighting soul, I'm not so absolutely crazy, and he really is out there.
The one that will see me as perfection. The one that will see my eccentrics as breathtaking and every flaw as simply characterisitic of a powerful female.
I only know this. He will understand me. And he.... is a he. As if I am any other way these days. Drunk makes everything ok. It's the ultimate "you're ok, do what you want, it's ok" state of mind. It's ok to miss people. It's ok to say goodbye to people who aren't there. It's ok to think that maybe, in the way of things, that makes it "ok", even if they don't really hear you. Maybe that makes it ok to think they hear you. Maybe, you think, it's as if you think HARD enough, maybe, somewhere, somehow, they'll KNOW... just know how much you wish they really WERE there, and that they really DID hear how much you miss them.
When you're drunk, it's ok to cry. Mascara tainted salt isn't such a shame when you're drunk. Black tinted water from a shower isn't so bad. And it's ok to miss people. It's ok to cry because drunk, whoever they may be, makes it all ok.
And when you're drunk.... you can miss him.
You can miss him..... so so so so much. You can miss him for as many minutes as it takes behind a shower curtain, for as many minutes as you spend, bawling between your palms. It's ok. Drunk makes it ok.
When you're drunk... you can miss him.
And you can miss the person you never knew. You can miss them..... so so so much. Because drunk makes it ok.
You can miss them. When you're drunk.
The one, that caused the other. And the one, that caused the other.
I've missed you very much. I always think about you and wonder how things are going. Have you sorted things out with your mom and your scholarship money? How bout your grandparents?
Things have been pretty good on this end. I'm REALLY REALLLLLLY tired today. I've been working like a hooker lately, trying to pay off some tedious bills that sprang up from nowhere AND save up for Ireland which is rapidly approaching.
I went sky-diving last Tuesday, which was incredible. I swear, people with chaotic, hard lives should seriously go jump out of an airplane. It is the most liberating, euphoric feeling in the entire galaxy. To will yourself to possibly die, to climb out of a moving plane to possibly plunge to your own death is one of the most glorifying feelings. It's a freedom and a humbling experience.
After you've done that, problems cease to seem like problems. Irritations yes, but problems... not really.
It's cool. The adrenaline rush is more extreme than ANY drug and after I came down off it, I slept like I haven't slept in years. Deep and thick and real. Not the usual drunk passout that relieves me of awful dreams.... real sleep.
I've started to write again like a mad woman. Not on my book anymore and possibly never again. I'm writing what I want to write now and not as a chore but as something I love to do. The old flame I thought I'd never get back burned just a little bit for me and it's a great feeling.
I can't force myself to write just as I can't force myself to do anything really.
I've decided I'm gonna forgive myself too. I've spent a lot of time this past year dwelling on the millions of mistakes I've made. And I have made A LOT. I used to think that these past few years were the worst as far as my decisions and that's probably true. But before then, my life wasn't really mine at all and my decisions were mostly calculated around a controlling, abusive father and a tyrannical bullshit faith. Right or wrong, my decisions are mine now and orchestrated only by me.
Hahaha, I feel like I'm more writing this to myself than even to you. I should probably put it in my blog just so I can reread it later and seek some sanity I'll inevitably lose.
I haven't heard from Germany yet. I know soon I will and I know I'm just being impatient as it isn't even time for them to call yet.. but damn it, so much of my life is dependant on their answer. Will I go? Will I stay? I love my job, I love my boss. I hate my home situation and I don't have any friends I'll really miss. My job is the only thing keeping me here besides the awful truth that I will be broke as shit for 13 months of my life in Germany and probably working a shitty job.
I dunno. We'll see I guess. I won't turn it down, I know that. It's just the process of it all that scares me. Thank god for the ability all humans possess that allows them to adapt to any situation. An opportunity of a lifetime and I'm shittin in my pants about it. Ridiculous.
I miss you Tina. I miss you long and hard and fiercely. I miss having someone I love. I miss having someone I would pee on to put out flames! haha I have a thousand "friends" here. I mean that. A thousand. Everyone knows me (or whatever depiction of me suits their fancy) and I don't care to know any of them at all. I've been a tad numb with regards to people lately and I don't really see it as a bad thing. Maybe I'm subconsciously distancing myself what with this possible journey I might have to embark upon.
Today a dear dear online friend asked me a silly question. But it wasn't really silly at all.
"What are your goals?"
I didn't really think. I just answered. And when I read it back later, it was the most honest, heartfelt answer I've ever given to that question.
"I want to see places that other people see, but don't see.
I want to talk to people other people won't talk to.
I want to learn old secrets and make new ones myself
and eventually, I want to take someone with me."
I'm gonna forgive myself a lot of bad things Tina. I haven't earned it and I don't really deserve it. But to error is human and to forgive is divine. Soaring through the sky is something I consider to be pretty close to divine and I am more than aware of my human status. I guess we fall so that we can learn how to pick ourselves back up again and my ass is TIRED AS HELL from falling!
I love you so much Tina. I hope someday soon we can go crawl through another cave! hahaha This time though, I hope our tour guide has gone through puberty! hahaha
See ya babe, write me back,
Tara
FanFiction.Net
Camaro
Camaro
Contemplating one's own hell.
Lightning colours behind one's eyes,
A daunting flash fucking with one's mind.
Feeling cities start to rust.
All things in life towards an end must turn,
Fuck creation! Let it burn!
The fruits of all humanity.
Collective minds are warped and bent,
Peace to slaughter innocent.
In the end we all must fall.
Fear of all the lies,
Escape it all and close your eyes...
Darren Collins
Camaro
Me
Camaro
Camaro
Camaro
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