Monday, July 4, 2016

Back from falling off the face of the Earth

Water splashes on the rocks behind me, as I lounge in a recliner on the dock. The sky is black, littered with stars... Ok, that is an exaggeration. The stars are scarce, and the fireworks that once colored the horizon are now dwindling. Mars stares back at me-- a tiny, red marble in the sky. Jupiter is to my left, with a slightly yellow hue.

Across the darkened lake, a myriad of colored lights from boats and houses disturb the blackness that would otherwise be lost to a great emptiness. It is like sitting at the end of the world. Even though I have seen what is out there, from this space and time, it is nothing.

Sunday, January 20, 2013

Ask and Ye Shall Receive

Slightly annoyed with my family right now. I sometimes feel like I'm the only person aware of the happenings in this household. Of course, I'm being melodramatic, because honestly I don't really give a flying flip, but it just goes to show how things are run here.

Example: The printers in our house have been broken for about two months now. When I first noticed this, and became frustrated with this, nobody gave a shit. I was talking to myself. And so, I gave up, because no one else seemed to care about the printers, so why should I? I could always print from work.

Now the tables have turned. My sister is back in college, sure. She needs to print. Sure. But instead of asking me to help her with this issue, she has a secret pow-wow with my mother in which she complains that the printers don't work.

I actually hadn't even noticed the printer had been relocated, until my mother asked why it wasn't working. "Why isn't the printer working?" She asks me out of the blue this morning.

"I don't know, I told you guys that it wasn't working months ago." I reply.

"Oh, well if you get a chance, your sister needs you to help her fix it."

Um... Can she not ask me herself? She's currently upstairs playing her guitar, so excuse me if I don't want to stop everything I'm doing to go fix a printer. Yes, I'm doing stuff too. Reading for work & attempting to write a book, but, yes, let me drop everything to work on your problem!


I'm a bitch that way, I guess. But if she isn't going to ask me herself, and she needs to get mom to ask me, I find that insulting. Truth is, she probably just made one subtle off-comment about the printer not working, and my mom being who she is takes the driver's seat on the issue and starts hounding me about the matter. Except she doesn't come out and hound me as much as she does so covertly.

As I'm sitting down, deep in thought  she comes out and says, "Well, what does the printer cable look like?"
or, "I guess I'm going to go downstairs and look for the printer cable."

Seriously? Can you not let your 21 year old daughter fix her own damn problems? Why is it your job?

I suppose I'm just being hyper-analytical after our last big blow-out. It happened the same as last time. I wake up on a Saturday morning, and after a week's worth of work, I am mentally and physically exhausted. I choose to lay around and relax and this notion is supported. "It is ok if you take it easy, honey, you work hard all week." She says.

In her head, she feels I'm a lazy, useless, individual that doesn't do shit.

So I relax, read, check my facebook, and lounge around. But around 9AM, the questions begin. "Aren't you going to go to the post office? Don't you have some deposits to make?"

No, if I cared about the flipping post office, I would go. My mail will still be there Monday, I really don't care. If I had something to deposit, I would have done it Friday. Really don't care either, because it isn't like I'm overdrawing my account or anything. Everything can wait until next week--this is my veg-time.

Ok, so mother gets all huffy and decides she cannot wait and goes out to the post office, then she gets back from doing that and becomes irritated that I haven't cleaned this or that. So rather than say rationally walking away and finding something else to do, she either does it herself or starts getting passive aggressive about it. Yesterday she told me I should clean my bathroom, which, I had already cleaned three days earlier.

"Oh. I didn't know that."

Well, why did you think I should clean it then?

So she cleaned up the frying pans and dishes from the breakfast I had made. She didn't care about that, though, because it was nice of me to make breakfast and that was her way of helping. And she cleaned the entire bathroom, because it was stinky from the dog. And the next thing I knew I was the worst scum this planet had ever seen, because I was just "relaxing" while she was killing herself cleaning.


Ask for help, you'll get it. I might not drop everything I'm doing to come running and help, but seriously!

I know I'm not perfect, and that I can be lazy, but I don't take my shit out on other people. I don't think I do, anyway. Maybe I do? I don't know, but I'm getting sick and tired of being on the receiving end of people's shit.

The other day I came home from work and Sister was listening to music. Normally I do like to have a few minutes of quiet time when I walk in from work, but this has been a bone of contention for her, so I let it slide. I made one silly joke about the song she was listening to and she jumped right down my throat. What did I say?

"Oh, this might actually be a pretty song if it didn't sound like he was singing, OH Mamamamama to his mom.It's a little creepy."

Well, boy did I hear it after that! So much for lightening the mood with humor!

Then, when she pulled a bunch of burnt tortilla chips out of the oven, I tried one and immediately inherited  the batch. I actually got scolded for attempting to try a not-burnt one from the second batch, "You already picked your serving!" She tells me.

I did? I thought I was just trying one, I didn't realize it was an eternal commitment--otherwise I would have waited for a better batch of chips. When I asked to trade a few burnt ones for a few not, I was considered rude for not asking the right way. Apparently my request was too one-sided, and it wasn't fair for mom to get burnt chips... Uhmmm ok?

So they ask me how my day went at work, and when I explain, I'm lectured about how "unclear" my description was, and that I confused them and that I needed to speak more clearly. I got crap about the vegetables I brought home, because I didn't put them away BEFORE I started searching for cough syrup. (Oh, yes, I was sick as a dog, couldn't breathe or talk, or think) I got crap about the whipped cream I didn't put in the fridge (that they left on the counter, so I assumed they wanted it out for their own strawberry shortcakes) And I got crap for not drying the dishes, even though they told me not to because I was all germy.

Umm? #@(*&@#*!(&

Are you shitting me?

Every single thing I said or did was nitpicked into a negative conversation, and finally I just said fuck it and went upstairs to take a shower.

I might be lazy, I might be forgetful, but at least I'm not intentionally bitchy.

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Dear Officer, What Did I Do???

I am always wary of public-postings of my run-ins with the law. They are few, harmless, and quite frankly, hilarious, but as a teacher I have a reputation to uphold, and the way things are so easily misconstrued on the interweb, well... I'd rather just not.

However, this blog is a reminder to take things with a grain of salt, so here is the story about my rebellious behaviors.

Today is Father's Day, 2012, and last night my sister and I went to a concert. Jukebox the Ghost. I'd never heard of them, but my sister really loves them and wanted to go, and despite the fact I'd spent the day hacking up a lung with my cold/flu/sinus whatever, I had promised her months earlier that we would go together, so I chose to suck it up and go.

The first crew was pretty amazing. I had no idea what they were singing about, but they were culturally diverse and very talented. The guy with dreadlocks played the trombone and guitar. The lead vocalist played base, trumpet, could whistle, and I'm sure he had a handful of other talents incorporated into all of their songs. It was pretty cool to watch them play all the parts. They were called Bright Moments, if you're into that stuff.

The next group also had a great sound, though they stuck to the basics. They also played so loud that I couldn't understand a word they sang, but you could tell they were very charismatic. Unfortunately, the more my mind struggled to understand their lyrics, the more it wandered, and I was soon off in my own little world. I wondered if the two lead singers were involved romantically--maybe they were married, or in love like Johnny and June. Or maybe the geeky looking guy that reminded me of Reid from Criminal Minds was secretly in love with the girl, and was hoping to save her from falling in love with the other guy, because he seemed very cocky and arrogant, even if that was just his stage face. As you can see, my mind should not be left idle. I tend to overthink and create crazy scenarios in my brain.

Well, after plotting out the band's entire future, I decided I didn't quite care for them, which was slightly disappointing considering I really liked the music. I also made a mental note to check them out online, if I could remember their name--I really couldn't understand that either. It sounded French, and the venue was very loud. I'm sure I'd see it somewhere before I left, though. Regardless, I found them resembling certain people I've met throughout the years and will not loose sleep if I never see them again.

The third band was very good, obviously--being the main attraction and all. My mind still wandered, though, as I started imagining what their lives were like off-stage. What were they like? Did they have girlfriends? Kids? Were they nice people, or did they have star-complexes? Which lead me to thinking I should write a book about a traveling band, only to realize I know absolutely nothing about bands or music. I'm so lame that way. In fact, as we waited for the bands to set up, my sister mocked me for my inability to do a schoolyard trick that involves locking your hands together and wiggling your middle fingers about. Seriously, what kind of trick is that? Don't we frown upon the middle finger anyway??

Well, like I said, I had a good time at the concert, especially since I wasn't the only sickling in our crew. In fact, had it not been for the occasional cough and whatever came rising out of my lungs with it, I probably would have forgotten I was sick. I was tired, but it was late, and at least my nose wasn't constantly running.

Yes, so, the concert was fun. The drive home wasn't.

Driving around at midnight is a very awkward feeling. None of the streetlights work as they are constantly flashing; the city is dark and empty. Me and my overactive imagination get the best of me, yet again. Well, it started long before the drive, I suppose. My car has been acting funny for a while--though all the mechanics I've taken it to have said it has passed all its tests with flying colors. The day prior, though, the check engine light was on. A week before that, the battery light was flickering. That paired with the feeling like it is occasionally about to die on me as I'm driving, makes for quite a tense commute. But what do you do when you know something is wrong and all your mechanics say things are fine??

Regardless, before we'd parked for the concert--as we were driving around for probably a half hour TRYING to find a spot to park in this city which I barely know--my battery light flickers a few times. Great. Whatever, I have my triple A card.

Ok, so we find a very shady back-alley street to park on. There is one other car parked, and a want-to-be-gangster waddling down the road with his undergarments showing. As he does this, you hear him holler out something along the lines of, "FIVE OF US AND ONE OF YOU, YOU REALLY WANT TO DO THIS, @$!!@!*-ers" Insinuating he is about to fight with someone. We did not see 5 of anyone, in fact we only saw one, so either the guy was @$!!@!crazy or we were lucky to be parked behind a big truck. Either way, we were stuck between continuing down the one way and becoming a witness to a murder/asskicking/psychotic break and driving around another half hour, with my car possibly about to die, trying to find ANOTHER parking spot--OR just park in the shady alleyway and run for our lives. We chose to run for our lives.

We spent a few minutes debating if it was safe to park in this alley--(1) because of the potential murder/asskicking/psychotic break, and (2) because I've already received 1 parking ticket in the area, and I just didn't want to risk getting towed. Eventually we deemed making use of this spot the better option. As we sit in the car, shady-car guy pulls up behind us. He sits in his car, making me nervous, until I say, "LETS JUST GO!" and we grab our valuables, pop them in the trunk, and quickly inspect the meter.

Then shady-car guy gets out and walks up behind us. "You all set?" He asks, and as I try to decide whether he is a stalker/serial killer/ or just interested in the meter, we decide he is just following our cue on the parking. So we as three laugh and say why the heck not and start trekking up to our destination.

"You going to the show?" He asks.

"Yeah," We say,

"How do you know the band?"

"I don't" I admit that I'm just tagging along. Sister says she's a fan and we laugh. Eventually, we realize this guy is going to a different concert, and we part ways. But in the back of my mind I can't help feeling as though he'll be waiting for us when the show is through. Or, that the backalley is going to be filled with cops, or thugs, or my window will be smashed because I left my GPS holder in the window, and my dad always says to take that down in the cities. But it's fine where I work, and that is far more dangerous--even if it is a school in broad daylight. I envision my windshield smashed, my battery dead, and thugs who want to kill us.

 I am seriously paranoid. I get that.

Well, we leave the concert in a slight rush, because if any of my horrific thoughts actually happen, I would like the people leaving the concert to be able to hear us scream. We hop in the car and quickly drive down the shady alleyway--thankful there are no people to be found. We drove around for several minutes until I was completely lost, and had to pull over to get my GPS out of the trunk. I figured it would be safe to do this in a hannafords parkinglot, but then my GPS added to the discomfort by telling me to drive over the curbs of the parking lot and drive behind the the abandoned store towards the dumpsters.


So we drove around the parking lot until I found an exit, then Michelle recalculated the route. My sense of direction wasn't too off, because I ended up bypassing a lot of Portland by getting lost. Still, I'm glad I had my GPS.

As I'm driving, through the deserted post-apocalyptic feeling city, feeling like a criminal for disregarding all the blinking traffic lights--some new blinking lights appear in my rearview mirror. I nearly die.

What did I do??

I frantically review the past few minutes of my driving--the lights are all blinking! That means they aren't working and to proceed with caution--right? Isn't that what it means?? Was there a stop sign? What did I do? Was I speeding? I couldn't have been! What?! What did I do!!?

I pull over instantly, thankful that my mother had at least returned my registration--but where did I put it? What the fuck did I do?!

The cop pulls up behind me, then pulls out, lights still flashing. Then he pulls up ahead of me and pauses before pulling out again and shutting off his lights.

What. The. Fuck. Just. Happened.

I'm shaking at this point, trying to figure out what to do next. I am actually quite tempted to take my sister's friend up on his offer to let us spend the night--but I shake it off and say, "You obviously did nothing wrong, otherwise he would have given you a ticket."

I look to my sister and she is equally as confused.

Ok, so I get the courage to drive again, pull back onto the street and continue home--being hyper-vigilant now. I continue on, until all of the sudden, I spot the officer ahead--idling at the exit of a laundromat. The second I'm about near the entrance, his lights flash on and I hit my breaks, stopping as he darts out in front of me.

I'm shaking again! What do I do? How do I pull over when I am blocked by him? Is he after me? What is going on? Is he a cop? What the hell did I do?

The thoughts race through our minds, and we eventually wonder if this is one of those fake-cops rumored about--the kind that trick you and kill you. Yes, I'm paranoid, but what the hell--really! After time freezes, his lights shut off again and he drives off.





Just go home. I want to go home.

This is why I don't have fun.

This is why I stay home.

Why am I here?

What did I do??

Ok, you are blocking the road. Just drive.

Continuing on, we spend the better half of our ride trying to make sense of the encounters and trying our best to shake off the scare. I've pictured jail time. False imprisonment. Mistaken Identity.  Being framed. Dirty cops. Fake cops. The works. But we cannot make sense of what has happened--or what hasn't happened. I'm so stressed I can barely focus. Some of the lights I noticed afterwards were NOT blinking. Maybe I ran one by mistake? But what about the second time? Did he change his mind and want to pull me over? What the hell did I do??

All the drama seems to have remained in the city, but it is dark and I miss my turn. I find myself in the dark on a stretch of land I infrequently travel in the daytime. I do my best to estimate the speed limit--it's either 40 or 50 at any given point, so I figure 45 will be safe. I'm home free. I just have to find the gas station and turn and I will be able to curl up in bed and relax.

At this point, we are now laughing uncomfortable about the whole thing. We're maybe 10 minutes from the house, and all I can think about is bed. Bed, and the cop lights that light up as we pass the only other car on the road.

My heart freezes again. Seriously. What did I do? What the fuck did I do?

I pull over instantly, and realize this cop is not letting me go. What is the speed limit here? I had to have been 40. Or 50. It's so dark, I don't even know where I am, and I just want to cry. The lights are still flashing behind me, and I realize I don't know where my registration is. It's in the book--the book I threw in the back seat. The book I can't find. My license is in my pocket. The registration? I'm mortified. I'm going to be put in jail--no they can't do that! It will be fine--oh God, what did I do? Here he comes... Stay cool. Stay calm.

"What did I do???" I cry. I feel obligated to tell him I've already been almost-pulled over twice, but then feel that information might lead to more of a hassle. I realize that opening line is probably incriminating enough, though.  Still, I'm wracking my brain to figure out what exactly I did wrong. I'm shaking again, ready to cry.

He tells me my headlight is out.


Are you shitting me?

That's it?

We make small talk, and that's it. He runs my plates, my license, it takes forever. I hop out of the car, and sure enough I have only one working headlight--until I tap it a few times--then it comes back on.

I laugh, and wait for him to return to let him know it IS working. He is surprised and says I'm lucky--not in a smug way, but in a sincere, "hey, that is pretty cool" type way, and I finally relax. He gives me my things and tells me to have it looked at just in case. I thank him and I'm on my way.

I still can't believe it.

Stay tuned for my pre-Mother's Day fiasco from a few years back....

Never a Dull Moment

A few years ago, one of my good friends told me that my life was like, "an episode of Desperate Housewives." I laughed, of course, but knew she was correct. Mind you, I hate the drama, and though I have spent a great deal of precious energy following my another friend's advice to just "ignore drama,"  it just always seems to find me.

I will avoid the more serious issues I've been having, as of late, with the interpersonal aspect of my life. Those issues are far too sensitive, deep, and frustrating to blog about today. Today I would much rather talk about the dramatic morning I've had, and the incredibly frightening, though harmless, encounter I had with the law last night.

Like I said, never a dull moment.

This morning, I awoke to the rabid squawking of our bird. He sometimes doubles as an alarmclock (not really, but if he is covered for too long in the morning he rings his bells and alerts us that he wants to wake up.) The chatter in the morning is usually soft, unless he hears other birds outside. Then we assume he is delusional and planning his own jailbreak.

Well, the first few times I heard his wings flap and squawk, I thought nothing of it. The second time I became concerned, but the third time I knew something was wrong. I did not jump right up, assuming it was something silly. The cat likes to jump on top of the cage and stare at him--scary until you realize she's more afraid of him than he is of her. He pecks at her, and her claws have no way of reaching him through the tiny bars.

Then I hear the wings flapping again--they've been stuck in the cage in the past, and knowing birds are all hemophiliacs, I start to panic. I quickly toss on whatever I can find and run down stairs to check on him. He's still covered from the night, so I carefully remove the draped blanket and find him pinned to the top of the cage.

Well, hooked.

Hooked like a fish.

It takes me a few minutes to process him hanging upside down from his beak--claws clinging to the top of the cage. What do I do? What the hell?

Apparently, birds' beaks are not entirely attached to their faces (a fact which we've known after long ago discovering the awkward armor-gap that would technically be considered his chin.) They remind me--or at least Olie's does--almost of a turtle's shell.

Well, for whatever reason and by whatever chance, his beak became hooked on the hanger of one of his bells this morning. I still don't know how, but it was quite difficult to understand, and even more difficult help.

Midst the jungle of toys, swings, and perches that decorate his cage, he was more than 3/4ths of the way inside, clinging not but an inch from the top of the cage, wings flapping, completely frazzled. This paired with the fact he hardly ever trusts a human hand made his rescue impossible.

Ok, THINK, I thought, and instantly call for my mother. After explaining about 3 times that the bird is stuck, I decide calling her into help was not my smartest choice, but as it is her bird, I don't get hostile. I get a glove instead, and hope that he can position himself into an escape. No such luck--he just freaks out more, flapping and clinging to the glove.

Failed attempt number one.

My mother then puts on the glove and tries grabbing him to unhook him--but with how far he is in the cage, the shortness of her arms, and the angle of the cage's opening, I wind up yelling that she's doing more harm than good. I try thinking of something else, but we just can't. Can I take apart the cage? Not without freaking himout more--it is too secure.

Bird 911? Do we load up the cage and bring him to the vet? What the hell do you do when your bird is hooked to his cage?? I call my sister, running upstairs to try to inform her of the situation--hoping a fresh mind will find a strategy to free him, meanwhile in the back of my mind, I think Wirecutters. Wirecutters! I will tear open the cage. Can I tear open the cage? Where will the bird live? Whatever, we can fix it after we get him out, because he isn't going to live if he is stuck to the cage.

I run to the tool cabinet and pull out a pair of pliers and flat head screwdriver. Not really sure what the hell I need that for, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. Perhaps I could pry open the hook he's hooked on? But how without moving the bird? Mom yells that wirecutters are useless, but I don't see another option.

All I have is pliers and a screw driver, and eventually the knowledge that the bell is fairly cheap and consists of 3 main parts.

Ok, the lovely wikipedia informs me that there are more than 3 parts to a bell. 10 total, but screw that, this is my story, and there are only 3. Maybe 4--can't quite remember since I have destroyed the bell at this point, but whatever.

Ok, part 1, the "dress." That rests ontop of the cage for some reason--we sometimes put toys on top of his cage for him to play with, and this is apparently a VERY BAD decision--nothing like this has ever happened in our 3+ years of bird ownership.

The S-hook is not really part of the bell, but it is part of the problem. Both parts of the S-hook are inside the cage, and much smaller than in the picture I've provided.

The "tongue" as they call it, and whatever keeps the tongue from falling out--those are also atop the cage, obviously with the bell's dress.

With that in mind, and knowing that the bell is cheap, I grab the top part (alleged head) of the bell with the pliers and decide to start turning the dress. The metal is strong enough to resist, but with no other option, I keep twisting and turning--doing my best to keep from turning the bird as well. Eventually the bell falls apart, tongue falling into the cage, hook falling out of the bird's jaw, bird hanging upside-down only from his feet.

He quickly climbs down the cage and for the first time ever, accepts my outstretched finger. Unfortunately, we can see his wing is bleeding--again, a very serious problem for birds. But he is so shaken, we definitely cannot grab him just yet. We let him sit on our shoulder and do our best to inspect his disturbed feathers. Two spots are bleeding, but surprisingly dry and a bit crusty. This settles our anxiety for a while and we do our best to dust him with flour (as we have read acts as a clotting agent)

So with our battered, floured, bloody, frazzled bird, we try to figure out how long he has been stuck for. We surely would have heard him during the night--so hopefully this tragedy was recent. Hopefully I heard him soon enough. He spends the better part of the morning with us, but won't eat--not even noodles--his favorite treats.

About a half hour later he caves and tries a noodle. The blood still looks crusty, and is not dripping. Still, we grip him with the gloves and open a wing to further inspect the damage. Some wings a cracked but not bleeding. He seems ok, and he's since eaten and had something to drink. Now he sits perched on the back of the sofa, in his glory, listening to my sister pretend to play the guitar.

Fingers are crossed that is the end of this story!


Monday, September 26, 2011

Quote me, I'm brilliant!

I had to share this, just because I think it's pretty amazing.

"I protect my brain cells by NOT drinking; I wouldn't expect my aunt to understand the helmet thing either."

Backstory: My family is full of alcoholics. I've recently found out that one of my aunts continuously accuses me of being socially awkward because I refuse to hang out and get drunk with the rest of my family. This is also the same aunt who started the rumor that I was a lesbian, because I haven't dated much.

The latest gossip from said aunt is that wearing bicycle helmets when riding bikes "is stupid." When my mother tells her that it is the safe thing to do and that my sister and I wear our helmets, she replies, "I know, they look stupid."

So I repeat: "I protect my brain cells by NOT drinking; I wouldn't expect my aunt to understand the helmet thing either."

End rant.

Friday, September 23, 2011

My Pickle

This morning, it hit me.

I'm the girl with daddy issues.

I'm sure I thought it before, but every now and then it just hits me again.

I spent years not realizing it, and quite a few pretending "it's not so bad." But there it was, right before me this morning. I'm the girl with daddy issues, and there isn't a thing I can do about it.

I'm stuck, and it's really pissing me off.

I almost broke down this morning, but I held it together. Too much stuff going on in my own life to be bothered with all that family drama, but at the same time, stress tends increase thinking about it. Don't know why, but it does. Whenever I'm stressed, more stress comes to my mind. Whenever I'm happy, I tend to not think about unhappy things.

I'd say I'm typically an easy going kinda gal.

Well, like I said, this morning I almost lost it. When my sister came home this past weekend, we somehow wound up talking about our father. I sort of angrily, accidentally spilled the beans about his feelings. "If we don't care, he doesn't care" was basically the message I got from him.

If we don't want to have anything to do with him, fuck us.

Thanks Dad, love you too.

Well, I know that is just anger talking, and I've tried to work it out. I actually called him several weeks ago in an attempt to make communication. I was going for a job interview, and I decided to spend the day in the local Borders, hoping to brush up my study skills. Still, I felt obligated to call and talk to him and let him know WHY I wasn't seeing him that particular weekend after we'd had a fairly decent weekend together.

He never answered. Nor did he call back. Nor has he called me. So....

On one hand I feel like I should call and make more of an effort. On the other hand, I feel like calling just to tell him to go fuck off. I mean, seriously, if he doesn't give a shit enough to call me, why should I care?

I thought about calling him this morning, but with my birthday less than 9 days away, I refuse. Why call him so he can think I'm just fishing for presents.

The last thing I said to him was "My birthday is coming."

It sounds really selfish, but I assure you the conversation was nothing of the sort. He kept bugging me to take the iPad he'd gotten me for Christmas. "I got it for you." "I got it before the fight" "You should take it."

You would think any person in their right minds would take it, but I just cannot. It's a symbol of how sucky our relationship is. It's fake, and materialistic. The only time we ever see each other is on holidays--gift-giving and gift receiving holidays. How can anyone consider that a healthy relationship?

"Hi, Dad, thanks bye! See you at Christmas."

Is he fucking blind? He really thought we had a great relationship. How could anyone consider that a great relationship? I even said it to him, and I will never forget the look on his face as he registered it in his brain. "Things have not been good between us for a while."

I just want to call and scream at him, but I can't. Instead I just sit here and want to implode. I've had a headache all night just thinking about it. And work. I've got so much stress at work, and then I think, "He doesn't even know I Have a new job. He doesn't even care."

So why should I care? I should hate him. But I know what will happen. I will hate him, and then he'll die, and I'll be stuck hating myself for hating him. I'll be stuck regretting that I didn't try, and I'll be stuck feeling like shit.

So I can't fix this, and I can't ignore it. What the hell am I supposed to do?

Now the sister is pissed, and hurt. She didn't know the whole "Fuck off" I had gotten beforehand, and now that she's put two and two together, I don't know what she's thinking. I feel opted to send her the same message I sent her years ago, the "oh it's not so bad," but really it is. I mean, how should I fix things with them, if I cannot even fix things between us? And why should I? Why the fuck do I have to be the person to fix everything?

Then the logic sets in.

Alcoholic. Alcoholic. Alcoholic. Alcoholic.

They don't care about anyone. Not even themselves. They just want their drug. Just like junkies.

He doesn't have a single caring bone in his body. He is so filled with denial that he just doesn't get it.

But why do I have to suffer?

I hope he doesn't call me on my birthday and pretend everything is fine and dandy.

I will lose it.

I feel so tempted to just bitch him out on facebook. Let the world see him for the cowardly loser he is. Then I think, don't be such a freak. That's what drama queen teenage girls do with their stupid mental break-downs over idiots. It won't do any good, and it will just make you look crazy.

But, Grr. Just grr.

I wish I knew what to do. Why won't this just disappear from my mind? I have so many better things to waste my energy on.

Thursday, August 25, 2011

I can see the light at the end of the tunnel!

My one goal for this summer has been to complete the story I'm writing--or, rather, the story I've been writing for the past 4 years.

Granted, 4 years is a long time for a story, but it's not like I spent the past 2,103,795 minutes of my life actually writing. No, subtract the time I've spent working, and sleeping, and the weeks I've gone through dry spells. I would estimate that I've actually spent less than a few weeks actually writing.

But chapter by chapter, I continued to plug away at it, and with 3 days left of vacation, I am literally only a chapter or two away from closing the first story! I just have to figure out if I want to squeeze the ending into one chapter or spread it out over two. I'll probably post two, but I don't see it taking more than that!

I cannot wait to spend the next 4 years of my life writing the second story!! ha =)