I don’t know how a person says goodbye, hello, I love you.

I don’t know how a person says any of that. I don’t know how a person wakes up every morning. Sleeps every night. Knows what they know, knows how they’ve had to live. And still wakes up. And still falls asleep dreaming.

How do you tell a person. I admire you. I look at you and wish I could be so strong. Without sounding fake. Pathetic. Pointless. Jaded. Jealous.

How do you talk to a hero. And angel. How do you tell someone, “You know me. You know my heart.”

What do you do when you know you haven’t found anyone like that. What do you do when you know you still love someone who’ll never love you back. How complicated does life have to get before I can just sit down and breathe?

How many Tracy Chapman songs, how many Tina Dico songs, Bob Dylan songs, does it take before you realize…you’ll never live as much as they have. You’ll never feel so much as they do. That you blew it. That you’ll never get that feeling ever again. No matter how hard you try.

I’ve blown it so many times. When does it stop? When can I say, I did this. And I fucking did it by myself. And I fucking did it. I’m so afraid. And I can’t tell anyone. Because how does a person say, “I’m tired. And I’m afraid. And I just want to sit with you. Just stay with you.”

I’ve lost. And I’ve won. What is this life?

um.

I haven’t showered in like four days. I know it’s disgusting, but seriously…there’s so much I’d rather do. So much I have an opportunity to do. And so much I am required to do, besides cleaning myself, that I end up doing that instead of cleaning myself.

But really, it’s getting bad. Cleanliness UNSATs do exist.

So, first step down. Second step just began. And what a fucking step. It’s not cold anymore, since Florida is generally warm this time of year. I feel…well. Bored and stressed at the same time. Excited and inadequate at the same time. Liberated but under some ridiculous pressure. And it’s so much like college here it’s crazy. Flashes of room inspections and fire drills and cafeteria food. Buying online, returning to your room with shopping bags. Sharing a bathroom. And shit I haven’t even classed up yet.

WHAT AM I DOING HERE.

Learning how to be an Airman, that’s what. Air-Man. A winner.

My brain is all scrambled. poop. I’ll write when I’m kind of more coherent.

…Now, where was I going with this?

Yeah, no shit you're late, Bunny. Sucks to be in the fast lane.

I’m giving up marijuana. Not just that either. I leave in four days. Eight weeks in the cold. I might as well let myself go. But NOT where mary’s concerned. No sir. I’ve given her up. Never again. That’s what tweeds are for.

Tweeds. Invention of the century. No doubt I’ll have brain damage by 30. That’s some years off however. Nine years actually.

This is what my life has become. Will become. Four days. Eight weeks. Nine years. Just numbers. And we’re always counting down, people. Don’t let anyone tell you different. And eye to the future, not the past. We count down the new year for Christ sakes, we count down the days till Christmas, hours till 5 o’clock, and minutes till schools out for summer. American’s are a culture of counting down. I mean who wants to count up anything anyway? Well…except maybe money. But then we’re just counting down to the next rent payment, and then the next pay check, and so the cycle resumes.

My ex told me many stories about waiting. “Counting the minutes” kind of waiting. While in the military I will have more than enough time to wait. To count. All the reading I haven’t done for two years I’ll make up for in a month. But hell, I don’t really know yet, do I? I need to shut up and keep counting.

The only problem is, I can see myself getting lost in the count. Mindless numbering downwards. Always. Caught in the figures and the up keep. Whether the “next thing” will be worth the wait. Whether maybe this time I’ll start to enjoy life, instead of always counting down to it. The perpetual fall down the rabbit hole. Perhaps you run into something different daily, a piano instead of a writing desk, and floor lamp instead of yesterday’s cigar tin. A traffic ticket instead of last afternoon’s migraine. But the route is relatively direct. Predictable. What if that’s all there is? We’re counting down. But we never actually arrive at anything.

If it’s true then whoever Mr. Anonymous is would be incorrect. Life ISN’T what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans. More like; Life is what happens while you’re literally counting down. Waiting. How wretched is your existence if what and who you are is walking right in front of you everyday, all the damn time in fact, and yet you wait for it to arrive like some marionette to it’s master.

FUCK THAT.

I wanna live my life, not wait for it. And fuck you if “that’s what everyone wants too.” because I know that’s what they fucking say, but the truth is if they really wanted it, they’d find that awesome in the everyday, and THEN they’d be living. No one does that. They just eat chicken after work, like they do every night, and wonder why they’re so bored.

HOW BOUT STOP BEING BORED.

I don’t know. Everyday I wake up for work at the same time. And I drive to work at the same time. Listen to the same stations. Drive the same route. Smoke one cigarette and contemplate the cold. Maybe say it aloud. “God, it’s fucking cold!” I do this everyday. But yesterday I saw a deer cross the street then stop so close I could’ve touched him. And then the toilet overflowed, but the baby slept. Hard up for cash but determined to suck it up till Friday, I was walking out the door when my boss asks me “Do you need any money? How are you on gas?” These things. These are what make me feel alive. Because I’m living it. Right now. Had been a solid week since the kid slept, but he did. I lived in fear over toilets overflowing, but it did, and I fixed it. The last thing I ever thought I’d hear my boss say emerged from her lips to me only. AND I saw a deer today. He crossed the street, then stood and watched me drive away. All of this shit happened. How could I possibly believe I’m not blessed? Huh?

So yeah I’m gonna be in the bitter cold, at boot camp for eight weeks. I’ll be living. And so what, I’m giving up marijuana. I lived with her before, I can live without her too. Life itself is every single fucking day. And it’s one helluva miracle.

On dreaming

...don't hold your breath, babe.

Dreams are funny things that never seem to materialize into anything you’d like to see happen when you wake up. Sure you might dream your closet is full of fresh new fun clothing you’re itching to try on, but the price for having that closet full is too much to risk in reality. Somehow it seams okay, or right, or even worth it when you’re dreaming, but the minute you wake up it’s obvious that you’re better off as you are.

I’ve been dreaming a lot lately. I’ve rationalized that it’s the medication…or lack thereof. But in truth it’s a feeling you get right after you finish something, and right before you do something else. Something big. Life changing, you could say. And then the dreams begin and you wake up endlessly reminded of what you don’t have yet, or what you don’t have anymore.

The things you never had in the first place aren’t worth a second thought. Like that closet full of clothes. As if you’re some celebrity relative. Able to bypass the crushing insecurity and loss of privacy so that you can leach money off an imagined “cousin’s” hard work. And believe me, popularity is hard work. Not anything I’m interested in. But I’ve never had that opportunity. So when I wake up, it only elicits a smile over how cool it would be to be rich and unemployed, and then the moment’s passed.

Dreaming of actual events or people you’ve had a relationship with, however, is it’s own sort of hell. Wondering whether or not you could’ve saved something from happening, how it might’ve turned out had you done the things you’d done in your dream. Had you been given the chance to do them. Seeing their face as if they were lying in bed next to you going off about work, or a football game, or their mom. And then still not seeing it, in the way dreams let you recognize a person for who they are, but never leave you in absolute assurance that it’s him/her. The nuances of their face a fuzzy plaque that seems insincere.

And that is exactly what it is, a lie. Upon waking you’re plagued with thoughts of retribution against your own subconscious. Popping Benadryl, getting hammered, not sleeping. Anything to stop the dream from returning again and forcing emotional shit down your throat repeatedly. Building your hopes and then blasting them with buck-shot and you watch as bits of your self you’ve struggled to preserve explode and splatter wetly agianst the wall of your waking psyche.

I hate my dreams right now. I hate what they make me feel. But tomorrow they might be gone. And in a month I’ll forget what they even were. By then I’ll be doing that something I’m waiting to do now. Where only the current occupies my mind…

Well, one can hope.

what the tide throws up.

"Yes dear, I'd like a rare steak and a tall glass of common initiative. Power to the people."

Life is fucking strange. And it’s big. Like it’s a big deal, too. I’m in the navy. No longer a civilian, or “civi” as they’re referred to by the cool kids. I feel like a weirdo. In limbo. A mutant millitary larve not yet old enough or strong enough…or learned enough to know how to live. So I puts around in my regular civilian style thinking about how useless I’m being. Funny the things that happen.

And they happen so quickly.

I ship December 15. For boot camp in Great Lakes, MI. In winter. I don’t like the cold, but it’s too late now. Since there’s no point in complaining the inevitable, take it as a statement of fact. I will be going to boot camp in a month and a half. I am nervous only about my athletic ability really. Whether I’ll be able to keep up with the majority or lag behind like a three legged puppy, determined yet pitifully obsolete. And close to death.

Thoughts on mortality have plagued me. I haven’t had a drink in two solid months. Well…just about. I drank four shots of rum and a Mike’s Hard while I was at MEPS. It went down like alcohol, only it didn’t do anything. I felt nothing. No warmth, no head spins, no looseness. What is a drink, if I don’t feel it? Why drink at all if you’re only ultimately depriving your body of liquid. Alcohol is some dark magic. You can drink and drink and never feel your thirst has been quenched…or your soul. And the next morning you’re a dried-up shell. Worse off than you were before you started. It’s a non-entity. It’s as if it doesn’t exist. A vacuum on earth. Who’d have ever imagined a drink that could leave you dehydrated. Doesn’t seem real.

I’m lonely, but I won’t be for long. I keep busy, but I somehow don’t have any money. I am living a strange resigned contentment, that feels…good. Honestly, no matter how low my thoughts at a given moment, I emerge from them unscathed. Completely confident, still, in my ability to do work and do it well. It sustains me. I feel happy having done it.

Princess Kitty is fidgeting at my feet. The bed is warm. The night, uncommonly warm also. Silly bitch slaps at my hand whenever I have food. As if it actually belongs to her, and I’ve filched it. She is such a princess.

Dani comes home tomorrow. If I wake up, I’ll clean.

Maybe.

The Fuck It Amendment Part II

as if peer pressure would make it any easier than it already is. :)

It fascinates me how something so intense, can be over so finally. I’m not moving to El Paso. Classic case of cold feet. Now I’m  high and dry having been left with;

“We’re just too different. I need someone who understands me.”

Don’t we all? No, seriously. Don’t we all need someone to understand us? To learn us. There aren’t people in the world who just understand you implicitly. I honestly think that relationships take work. You gotta work at understanding. You gotta work at communication. If one isn’t willing to work, then there really is no point. I understand, but I definitely don’t at the same time. It’s funny. Maybe we are different people. But at least I believe in change, and progress. In happiness. He just believes in death. So, good for him. I tried too, babe.

Anyway, avenues of change are opening for me. Some more attractive than others. I talked to a naval recruiter today and re-discovered my “fuck it”. You know, you go through shit, and sometimes it can make you lethargic, and afraid, and anxious, and depressed, and stuck….but those other times, those other times when it motivates you to just say “FUCK IT.” That can make a world of difference. Yeah so I broke up with my boyfriend, but maybe that’s just the push I needed to enlist.

I’ve always been attracted to it. It’s the type of lifestyle I think would suit me. I held back before, because that’s when he was getting out. It wouldn’t have worked. But now. Shit. I can do anything I want! I don’t have to feel like a loser! Good God that feels awesome.

Long and the short of it, we were together when we needed eachother I think. But we both changed. A lot. Mine from my time at home. And he from his time in Iraq. We almost had a better long distance relationship than we did a regular one. Nothing wrong with that. Ha. I don’t think I’ll ever not love and respect him. But he needs what he needs, and so do I. It’s not eachother anymore.

So, I got plans, bitch. I GOT PLANS.

The Fuck It Amendment

That font makes me feel alive.

Have you ever thought about moving? Like really picking up your shit and moving? I mean I’d love to be able to do that without any residual feelings of displacement, rejection, or abandonment. Stranger in a strange land isn’t a new feeling to me, it just sucks.

My boyfriend wants me to move. Like M-O-V-E. To El Paso of all places. That’s where he’s stationed. And why the hell not? I mean we’ve said the appropriate “I love you’s”, we’ve had sexual intercourse, we’re pretty sure we like each other, and he makes me laugh. If it were that easy I’d pick up and move tomorrow. Only there are a couple things holding me back.

Well….that would hypothetically hold me back….if I let them. But I’m not going too.

I’ve reached this “Fuck it” stage in my life that I’ve been before. It’s pretty much the same “fuck it” that Kat Williams claims is the main ingredient to that smoky green junk. But instead of being strictly applied to scenarios only while I’m high, this recent “Fuck it” has been following me around for the better part of a month. Kind of like a storm cloud with a silver lining. The potential to screw up my future, with the excitement of a drive to Sea World….or Kings Dominion…or Six Flags….or Disneyland. But definitely not Busch Gardens.

Anyway, it’s this Fuck it that’s propelled my decision to quick my job. Fuck it, that’s rewarded me with two court summons’ in as many weeks. Fuck it, which explains why I’m sitting on my balcony waiting for the carpet cleaner to dry. Why it shouldn’t apply to this hypothetical move to El Paso, I couldn’t hazard a guess. Therefore it will. Only I worry that the chance I take will end in a similar law enforced document or two and no income. That’s worrisome. Hey, can’t accuse me of not learning from my mistakes.

This time however, it’s a joint Fuck it effort. I’d be with my boyfriend. Who’s saved as much as fifty times what I have in my bank account. Not that money is our main concern, but I’ll be 21 in five days. The only summons, or arrest for that matter, that is applicable after my birthday is a Drunk in Public or any noise violation. Both of which carry a maximum fine of about 35 dollars plus court costs. (Goddamn court costs….) The point is, even if this particular “Fucking it” turns out to be just as stupid as this past month’s “fucking it”, I’ve got my bases covered.

Well, unless bf and I get sick of each other. Something I can’t control, nor can I know the answer to without first “fucking it”.

If my life continues to be so amusingly full of “Fuck it” I’m resigned to be either the happiest person on the planet or the deadest. Either way, there’s not a whole lot to complain about.

Life Update for Personal Organization

Kindercare. First day. It was so much fun! I was working with the threes today. They’re a lot of fun because they can speak pretty well and they understand just about everything. Not to mention they’re funny. They genuinely make me laugh. Kids are great. But then when they can’t do something and start pitching a fit they kind of suck. But mostly they’re great.

My jobs are pretty good all and all. I mean I’m a waitress at a mom and pop restaurant that does good business and I make excellent tips due pretty much only to the regulars. God I love regulars. And then I work at a day care center three days a week with little tots who are just a joy to be around pretty much no matter what. I mean shit. I have it made. I just fucking miss my boyfriend a lot. And when I get home, I’m pretty bored.

So here’s my dilema. I got friends. I’m not twenty-one but generally speaking I can go out and drink with my friends if I want to (there are ways around shit, don’t ask). I have two good jobs that are well paying. I have an excellent living space waiting for me in Fredvegas, where I know and like people, and it’s only an hour away from either NOVA or RVA where my best friends in the world live. I’m getting my shit together. I’ve saved some money. I mean, my life is pretty damn good right now.

…but I’m still bored. And I still miss my bf.

I’ve rationalized that it’s that in-between feeling. Like It’s after my fuck up, it’s after me having a job, and it’s after me decided not to go back to school. All of those things are nice. I can breathe a hearty sigh of relief. However, it’s before my baby comes home. It’s before I have to move again. And before I know I’m gonna have a job once I do move. So those are my stressors I guess. Shit, ya know, at least I know what they are.

I have a couple coloring books. And a couple actual books, that keep my attention. I have a game I like to play. I have a blog, obviously. I have movies. I literally can’t think of any other ways to spend my off time. I mean it’s depressing. I guess it’s because I feel like I’m living in limbo right now. I’m living in the in-between. It’s really kind of shitty. Even though my life’s pretty good.

What I think I need to work on the most though is enjoying living in the moment. I used to be really good at that. But lately, well, I’m not. I need to live daily. Not weekly, or monthly. Daily. What do I do today? The only thing is I can’t all the time, or I forget about important shit. And that won’t do. Like I CAN’T have that. Not right now. Not when I need to make money. It’s imperative that I make money, otherwise I can’t pay the rent.

When I move. that’ll be good. Babe’ll be home. I’ll have one job at least. I’ll be living on my own. I swear to God, I’ll be at the library everyday. I’m gonna just suck up knowledge with a damn straw. Everything I’m interested in. Everything I’d like to know. I could do that now. Except I don’t really have a space to myself. I don’t really get left alone. So it’s harder…I guess. Mom’s always talking. Always moving around. Sometimes I just want it to be silent here. Just silent, and a comfortable temperature. Anyway, I’ll also be able to work out with my team. That will be such a blessing. My God.

For now though….I need to get a day-planner. Bad.

a bit of social diagnosis. part 1

Unisex bathrooms!

So this post was inspired by an article I read on College Times, that was written in response to one of those negative feminist articles. (To tell you the truth, I actually think most feminisms* are negative because they applaud bias.)

It is my personal opinion that we as an American society will GET NOWHERE as long as we continue to think of male and female as separately desirous entities.  In my mind men and women usually share the same desires, and any dissimilarities on this plain are the sole cause of an INDIVIDUAL’S sexual fetish. Notice, that I included the word “sexual”. Indeed, I am of the belief that in the debate over what came first, the chicken or the egg, the egg most definitely came first. If you disagree with me on this simple analogy then it’s best if you stop reading all together.

The chicken here would be our society’s version of a “relationship” and the egg would be our society’s interpretation of “sex”. Therefore, I am prepared to uphold the idea that sex is the derivation for any and every relationship.

Yes, I know. It’s a weighty claim. And one that I’m sure many (or even most) would disagree with if for no other reason than to call me “cynic”. Perhaps I am. But I like to think I’m not because I enjoy pretty much every part of life. Particularly mine. :) But I mean no disrespect. If you (this is directed to whoever reads my little blog) are at all intrigued by my initial argument I beg you to keep reading!

In many ways, and in fact almost all when pertaining to America, sex drives society. Let’s go back several thousand years to our ancestry. Applied sex meant higher population. More people translated into strength as a culture. Culture indicated the formation of society, etc. And the rest is, quite literally History. (These are simple connections, I admit, but for the sake of comprehension I refuse to go much further than this until provoked.) History is what we’ve been able to record within our minds, on paper, and through various other mediums as the characteristics of large groups of people, or societies. So in a way, the driving need of human to connect physically with human is the glue that holds our whole socio-political world together.

Having prefaced this random post of sprouting concepts sufficiently I think, I can now delve deeper into the idea’s that plague a middle class American college student. Most particularly…”Where can I find companionship?” and more crudely “Where can I find sex?” The focus here for horny kids is most assuredly on the “where.” Whether we like it or not, our actions lead us down different paths (either physical or metaphorical) so when said college student asks the question “How can I do <concept>?” their subconscious is actually wanting the answer to “Where can I go to actualize <concept> .” Because ultimately Americans are a people of action.

I would have to admit that having been a college student myself before, I’ve asked the question “Where can I find sex?” and was readily answered with the appropriate societal manifestations of my college culture. Parties, clubs, bars etc. Places where people gather together to enjoy their company as well as drink a bit of liquid courage to enhance their own and everyone else’s sex appeal. How lucky! To know of a place to find what you’re after. In this scenario I was after sex. And now, I knew where to find it. You may wonder how I knew. The only way I can respond to this is by saying from relative infancy we are taught that a gathering of people translates into companionship and that may lead to sex. Therefore we are drawn to groups such as these, because of our sex drive.

Now lets go further. For years we have been fed the idea that in the realm of dating the male plays a very important opposite role to the female. The male does the asking. The female the answering. The male must express confidence and comfort while doing the asking. The female must respectively seem shy and understanding of the male no matter her opinion. These are male and female traits we as a society have come to recognize. (I know some of you are smarting right now at my audacity. Particularly women who feel that they have NEVER responded to a male’s “ask out” in this manner. Or perhaps many of you men feel that having to do the “asking out” has NEVER made you feel comfortable let alone confident. Or maybe you are of the opinion that the roles are lately reversed. However! I am simply trying to establish a point by using woefully sexist representations of male vs. female in the dating world. So please excuse my candor, and try not to be completely put off.) The male in an outward display of power, the female in an outward display of submission. What strikes me as interesting is the fact that we’ve only recently started to understand the discourse these sexual models inspire.

Take woman for example. Beneath the outward display of submission. She is in a rather strong position of power. Every time a person is given a choice, they are put in a position of power. However, regardless of this power, it may not at all be the type of power that this particular female yearns for. If we can look at power as a fluid thing, multifaceted and quite personally defined, we may derive a better understanding of the Women’s movements and any perceived failings thereafter. If you can look at power in this way, as a strictly INDIVIDUAL desire, then you may see why feminist’s have received such a bad rap. By relegating the idea of “power” to the male, feminists elicit their own downfall.  It is purely in the eye of the beholder. If a woman bemoans that her male counter-part has stolen her power, it is simply because she yearns for a power she cannot define. She most likely has the means and will to access that power however, she is stuck in a societal mold that she refuses to step out of. She is first a Woman, and secondly a human. Therefore she will always think of herself as weak. She will never be able to harness the true power she desires. Feminism as a concept goes completely against humanity. If we as a people are automatically drawn to each other for basic reasons like sex and companionship, to be “feminist” requires you to negate you’re influence amongst a group. To relegate yourself as less than human and therefore not “capable” or “responsible” for your actions. If anything it’s a sin against God and your fellow man. But I apologize. I intended to keep this post secular.

In dissection of the man, there is a similar pattern. We use the term misogynist for a person (usually male) who holds either a hatred or deep mis-trust of women. Looking at the popular model of a confident male in the dating scenario we can see the influence of many years of “male dominated” society. (Please, stay with me.) For example the fact that he must look confident, and comfortable while asking the female a question implies that he is already certain of the answer. Of the POSITIVE answer. There’s really no need for him to ask at all except for the sake of politeness but even that suggests that the female is incapable of making her own decisions. Or, more accurately, recognizing and wielding her own power. Therefore, from the very beginning society expects the man to already know both what he needs and what the female needs. This is a lot of presumptuous responsibility to place on ANYONE’S shoulders whether male or female. If we were to look at this scenario a bit differently as human to human contact, there would be a very healthy and respectful sharing of power and vulnerability without any expectation beyond the pleasure one may glean from the other. Is sex not ultimately the exact same idea? If you are having difficulty understanding this concept, think back to when you had awesome sex. Could it be defined similarly? If not, I’ll get to that.

Here is where I inevitably meet my first roadblock. If we assume that all societies (including America) are working toward utopia, then my critics may deem these theories unreliable. In fact, Durkheim would no doubt argue most readily for the merits of sexual models. After all, how could it be wrong to know your place absolutely in society? Well, I would unfortunately have to agree. There is nothing wrong with knowing your place in society and performing to meet that standard everyday. The thought is just as Utopian as mine. However, it too has faults. The most prominent of them being dissenters. Dissension from the norm is inevitable when people are unhappy. Can you imagine the extreme anger a homosexual would feel if he/she was forced to pursue the opposite sex for the assumed good of society? He/she would rebel, definitely! I am heterosexual, and I can assure you that were I forced to be homosexual in a society I would very much like to leave it. The driving force of a true utopia is universal content.

…to be continued…

*I definitely made that word up.

2010: A Snow Odyssey

The only real weapon against snow...cupcakes.

So regardless of the fact that it is a new year already and we have to start saying “twenty-ten” instead of “two-thousand-ten” because that’s called progress and modernity, Northern Virginia is getting a snow storm. And not just any snow storm. A possible TWO FEET of snow is heading our direction. What the fuck? you ask. Well I’ll tell you, what the fuck. It’s RETARDED. But not only that it’s totally MY FAULT. (the caps are for emphasis. I’m feeling pretty emphatic lately.) About a month ago this area got a pretty big snow storm, fifteen or so inches, it was a record. But mom and I were in Chicago with my family for christmas, so we missed it. Not a big deal. Almost a blessing really if you don’t like snow. But I’ve never lived through a snow storm before and was sad that we missed it and bitched virtually non-stop about how it sucks that I’ll never live through a snow storm, whatever that means. Fast forward to yesterday. Mom and I go to Amphora for brunch. While we’re pulling in I remember saying something “I wish we’d been there to see that snow storm.” My mother just scoffed and got out of the car. Now not only am I getting exactly what I wished for but I’m feeling the effects of shitty practicality and a romantic nature. I’m a fucking dumb-ass. Because if I truly caused this snow storm then I take it back. I don’t want it. I’ll do anything to be NOT HERE right now. But it’s too late for that. I’m holed up in my apartment for the weekend. Everyone’s acting like it’s Armageddon and we don’t even have a HAL 9000 to keep us company. At least I made cupcakes. I guess that makes this okay. I guess.