Under a Super Blood Wolf Moon: Day 20

The most metal of moons.

I need to change this website.  I know I do.  I’m not entirely sure how to go about this.  But the endless icy sheets of black and white, even the blurry little weed breaking through the crack on the screen no longer makes me smile when I look at it.  I need to just hire someone?  I don’t know.  Just change the picture, that would be a start.

I am needing to do something different tomorrow.  All of it.  I made real shit choices today, this weekend, this month, really.  So.  How do you stop the engine when you’re rolling right along into a hotter and hotter fire?  You are here, for one.  You turn off the other noises and you give yourself over to a bit of self-reflection.

I have written a lot today, none of it really suitable to share.  That’s been the sum total of it.  Did leave the house for a brunch I absolute did not need to have.  I’ve spent the day bleary.  In some conversation with J, consoling him for his bleariness and ignoring my own.  Honestly, this is the hardest bit of it. The up and the down.  I don’t blame him for it or even judge him for it, but finding yourself attenuating your moods to someone who is equally fluid when it comes to being able to tolerate themselves is a rough gig.   Yesterday, I’m queen of the universe for him, today, exhaustion and sad posting and a bevy of other people suggesting how to break out of the mental funk while my suggestions get little more than a shrug.

I’m reacting much more poorly than I’d like to all this.

So now, end of the Sunday shame spiral: I am here, spattered with gravy from the undying pot roast, and everything is a mess.  Petrified to check my work email.  Checked it as best I could and nothing was radioactive so I feel instantly much relieved.  My plan to combat this and come back to some form of recognizable :

Become Willing
Find my Fitbit
Drink an entire glass of water (a whole and entire eight ounces)
Charge my phone and fitbit and put them somewhere I can find them in a few short hours.
Defenestrate the undead pot roast.
Not get so distracted by nonsense that I can’t finish this post
Finish this post.
Remember I have my drink in the fridge in the morning.
Brush my teeth and try and wash my face in a format that my face will find tolerable and not set to itching over.
Fix my sheets so I don’t find falling asleep completely impossible.
Set my alarm.
Figure out what the heck I want to wear tomorrow out of the bundle of laundry I did and tossed aside out of some sense of boring laziness that sure as fuck fucks me over now.
Possibly order groceries for tomorrow.  Possibly just plan to go to the grocery store?
Trust in the process.
Remember to reschedule therapy.

The Water Sustains Me Without Even Trying

I ….

I have to hesitate because I wanted to use you.   I wanted to open up all your windows and bust them open with a baseball bat.  I wanted to piss in your zinnias.  I wanted to crayon all over your symbolistic white walls.  I wanted to spend all five hundred words venting and vengeful and to end up aglow with catharsis.  Oh, blog, I wanted to put you up on the rack.

But I cried in a dark bathroom, stared around into the mirror, said Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, trying to make out something, make out nothing, trying to ignore the helpful spirit that made itself known to me.

I am angry, still.  I’m mad at how much is thrown on me.  How I leave so little room for my own sorrow that when I give myself an inch of it, swarms of everyone else’s falls down to fill that vacuum and I am pressed in with the blocks of concrete and this worm of disdain, of rage.

Nobody gives a fuck.  I got it.  I got it cold.

There’s a deadline.  I got that, too.

I’m shutting the door.  I’m shutting it over and over again until I can get the hell away from everybody’s demands.   Everybody’s expectant gimme fingers.  Everybody’s cooing “Oh, you’re so good.  You’re so good to us.”

Fuck you.

When the only response that anyone has to your sorrow is to tell you how they have it worse, I don’t know how to deal with that.  I don’t know where this one-upsmanship can go.   I have empathized myself into a pit.

I ache to distract myself.  I had bread.  I had one slice of pizza.  I had to willfully go home and stop eating anything so as not to justify eating even more.   So now I am so tired, and I have to get on the bike, and do the situps and this makes me feel bad and upset instead of inspired and good.   My sinuses clogged with the snot of an overwrought monster of the mind.

I want to be better than how I’m feeling right now.  But most of me wants to feel what I feel right now more.  To not just let it be swiped away.  Every choice is the wrong choice.

I was just…nothing went my way today, nothing, and I had to smile and drop things to make things nice for others.  And it seems like I do that a lot.  So much that I feel the ugliness of martyrdom upon my shoulders and that’s not what I want either.  I just want to vent.  I just want to keep going.

Why won’t the weight come off?  Why do I spend so many hours alone?  Why won’t I read more?  Why do I miss my viola?


It’ll be alright.  It’ll be fine.  I will take care of it.  I’ll tamp it down.  They’ll take a little more.  I’ll care a little less.

At least, I take solace in the fact that last bit isn’t true.  It’ll never, ever be true.

And you.  This shadow burnt on the pavement of this heart.   Hard to take solace in a shadow, but I’ll take off the martyrdom and wear your gossamer over my bare shoulders instead.

Before The Devil Knows You’re Dead

We have a new 42″ tv.  I hope this makes us feel more complete.

Meanwhile, I have to heave myself forward and do the exercise – the final piece of the trifecta.

Alright, alright! We can’t keep clicking open other windows and pretending that will somehow get the words down on the page.

We did get the TV, which is a pretty big upgrade from the 19 inch box that was sitting on our coffee table so it could be close enough to our faces so that, mainly, I could read the text on my video games.  It’ll make the house look nicer and apparently we both are into that at the moment so I’ll hope that’s not all talk and the terms of the TV purchasing agreement are held to.  Because then we’ll be able to fix the oven which will make things like cooking chicken bits filled with cheese better and easier.  All this in our electric kitchen!

Ooof, gotta get the barbells off the bed.  That might be a good idea.  A protip.

I had a whole bunch of avenues to write about today, and instead, I’ve sort of prefaced this preface with a shitload of prefacing.  What else is new, you ask?  I was maybe going to write about how tomorrow they’ve proclaimed is the last day to sign up for the reunion.  Right now, I’m about 75% no.  Because, ugh, $50.00 is a lot of money to go and drink two strong cocktails and sit in a room, smiling at people awkwardly and exchanging some conversation, some words, having everyone be so congenial, while looking around for some memory of the past to show up and confess his undying love for me a la Sandy Frink.  That and co-ordinating a ride pretty much makes the whole thing obscenely embarrassing to me.   There is, of course, that small part of me that feels like I’m being cheated out of something by not going.  I didn’t walk at my college graduation because I graduated early and it was winter and I felt it was an inconvenience.  I was so stressed about life after school and I was going to China  – that much I knew, so long as they gave me that diploma – that the whole idea of paying for a cap and gown and parading with people I never met in a giant hall didn’t appeal to me at all.

But, it was a big deal and so often, I feel like I let everyone else get the fuss.  And sometimes, most times, that’s fine.  But occasionally, you become aware of how you think things have happened to you, but they happened to someone else and the empath hijack thing has made it quasi-yours.  And having your life only quasi-yours, in the end, isn’t enough.  Doesn’t hold water.

So I was going to write about that or about how last night’s late exercise was a BAD idea because I woke up late for work, barely ate and was weaker than a baby bird all day.  But since I worked out late again…I can’t really do much more than accept the consequences.

These are the engines of progress, and I am shoveling in the coal.

Mint Junkie

The powerful sinews of habit are all that are dragging me through this right now.  I have a hot bath awaiting me provided I don’t slip beneath the bubbly waters and drift into eternal dream, the substance that is fluttering just at the edges of my senses even as I type to you.

I have been rather tied to the bumper of the day and have been clanging and slapping the road beneath me like a bouquet of celebratory soup cans.  Words are evading me as well as whatever sense has been granted me as a birthright. Exhaustedly, I awoke this morning, as gray-tinged as the sky.   Everyone said there was some kind of hellmouth sort of storm last night.  We saw a few bolts of lightning, but nothing that portended Ragnarok or some other unnamed apocalypse.   We went to sleep rather soundly after realizing that smoked sausages and canteloupe and pasta salad was a better dinner than McDonald’s sweaty, misbegotten hamburgers which should have been obvious but wasn’t until it was.   Some truths require empiricism more than others and it requires empiricism to know which of the truths that is.  At any rate, that truth apparent and decided, I collapsed much in the state I’m in right now, prone on the bed, having written a post that is not clever or worthwhile, but at least has fulfilled the word count requirements.

Life right now is a case of making the minimums.  Of presence, of showing up, of turning up with paper in hand.  But no more than that.   These late night meetings compounded by late night meetings and offers for more meetings if I’m just interested or curious.  Just because there is no great you in the alternative, no warm hand on the small of my back, no date circled on the calendar to go eat and observe a film, no high heels and a calculated hairstyle to demand that I break away from the yoke of my employment doesn’t mean that I don’t desperately need to break away from it for a few hours.

I need desperately to break all the yokes and yolks of remaining upright and on this plane.  I need to float amongst the astral beings, be pure energy, turn off all the flickering lights awaiting soldiers come back from the war, sleep in a cat bed completely void of concern for anyone or anything, including and especially myself.

This is a natural state.  Chasing after energy like those constantly repeating 5-Hour Energy commercials seem to claim is a good idea is emphatically not a good idea for me.   Coffee and chocolate and McDonalds have lead only to my currently throbbing head and anger at the world.  Not fair to anyone, and the energy remaining is only being propped up by the magic of Mumford.

I have been thinking so much lately.  I’ve been all philosophy, waiting for the tide to come back in and there can finally, fairly, be some action with some legs that are ready to kick.


Zombies Are Out, Furies Are In: Day 28

I report, you decide.  The scale is not budging even an ounce.  So.  What do we do?  We have to do more.  Not less.  Not give up or give in.  And most importantly, I need to get up a little spark of energy to set this flash-paper body on fire.

I’ll be bold as well as strong!

So I’ve been continuing to read Weight today because I have been so relentlessly exhausted.  I passed out during the last five minutes of Labyrinth last night, though I woke up shortly thereafter, just within enough time to bid my friends adieu without it being totally awkward (which could only happen, you know, if you’re watching movies together via the internet and not in person) and sort of hobbled and collected myself enough to go to actual, proper sleep in my not so proper, half-askew, messy as hell (until I shoved everything onto the floor) bed.   And I slept deeply. I know this because I dreamed.  And I dreamed some fairly hideous things including a random, almost cliche middle-aged sales associate from Staples showing up in my childhood home to save me from being raped after I wasn’t serious enough about the political causes of a zealot whose papers I knocked about in the hallway front of my old room.

I grabbed him and I kissed him all over his face, apologizing, but he was going to save me momentarily from a terrible fate and so this wasn’t all that untoward.  Then I woke up.  Attempted the scale.  Saw 157.4 which for three days running doesn’t seem right at all and in fact, pissed me the hell off if I don’t make my goal due to some kind of technicality, and then I waywardly went careening back into bed like a fleshy zombie returning to her sepulcher under the ceiling fan where I dreamed again.  This time, I dreamed of Mr. Rochester having another secret shop way off the beaten path of my usual haunts in town, and I went in, after much nerves, to find him and say hello or whatever it is I would say were I to ever speak with him again and obviously, I never found him and instead found a strange, Midwestern family setting down to a holiday meal which I awkwardly joined them in.

Then, I woke up, decided enough was enough and took a bath, read Weight a bit, drank my shake and cleaned up a bit and did my makeup and then wound up back in bed like some kind of overly taxed Blanche Dubois figure which is not…that cute.

Finally, I awoke and drew myself to you and to what I hope is a soon-to-be fulfilled prospect of food.  Which possibly will include sausage and egg since it is just up to me and I don’t know what else to do that is sensible and clearly I have no sense.

What I want for today:  more writing, more walking, more water, more Weight (literary Weight), more reason, more joy, more Mumford, more, more, more.

Today: 157.4
Goal: 155 by June 15


Gimme a Title

Five hundred words. No Sleep. Lots of sugar and caffeine.  Not a good post to start with if you want to be impressed by my routine.  This is not a good post to start with at all.  Sorry!  I am in Chicago, feeling rather manic, noting that my loaded wordpress page isn’t loading my word count which is rather disconcerting.

Today was a crazy day, yesterday was too, but it’s all becoming a bit of a crazy blur.  I am seriously exhausted, but laughing and full of Cheesecake from the Cheesecake Factory where they have cheesecake.  I love everything and everyone.  We’re getting ready to watch Supernatural soon.  This is going to be wonderful and then I think, if I remain upright, I will go on some kind of ghost tour.  Probably not unlike the one we did last year in Denver which I loved.  But 3 hours!  3 hours in a cold bus is going to be difficult, but you know, it was fantastic.  I would like some more fantastic.  I feel owed some fantastic.

Okay, okay, we’re needing words here.  Last night I got myself all packed and ready and then had two genius ideas – one, watch Dead Like Me until my eyes bled and two, eat caramel popcorn until I was nauseated.  Awesome! So that combination lead me to hit the hay somewhere after midnight and I tossed about and startled awake somewhere at three in the morning and sort of actually slept from 3:00am to 5:00am and I was meant to take a 6:00am shuttle which ended up being a 7:00am shuttle because I couldn’t get my shit together until 6:10am so I kicked it in the park and ride like the awesome girl I am until I caught the shuttle.

This didn’t leave me much time and usually I fly through security and get in and have plenty of time to absorb airportiness.  Not so much.  Actually felt the pressure of having to race for an airplane, rather Home Alone-esque for a random reference.  Um.  But, I got in to the gate as they were doing their first call for all rows and thanks to the helpful Frontier agent in Denver, got a window seat next to a kid who was rather wiggly but at least silent (he pulled out his sketch pad and drew what appeared to be handguns.   Colt Revolvers.  That was sweet.)

Then, I ended up taking a somewhat more expensive cab ride  than I expected which is obnoxious, but you know, par for the course and these things happen and I think we’ve got things set for the way back.  I was just WOOT WOOT over the fact that this is my first cab ride all on my own (we never use cabs in Colorado – in a little suburb, it’s just unheard of.)  First cab ride, no one died or maimed or even terribly freaked.

I am going to spaz out and hope my energy lasts another six hours through the show and the tour and pouring myself into bed.  This could be painful.  Terrible.  Fantastic.  Whatever, I’m doing it.