It's one degree outside and I'm getting ready to go see the good doctor. I hate winter. More specifically, I hate driving in winter. Thankfully that actually snowing bit is over. Now it's just aftermath.

I have nothing interesting to say.

Tax return = epic online anime shopping.

Oh the shame.

Today, my therapist forgot my name.

I'm spinning in circles here, but something I've been curious about for awhile is surfacing. What does everyone look like? Can I have a picture so I know who I'm talking to? I'll do the same for you. Good or bad, pretty or not, I just want to see the faces of my friends.

Pleeeeeeeease?


*Edit* It's only fair that I start in an attempt to coax you out.

Talked to an old friend today, which was refreshing and uplifting. All's apparently forgiven, so hopefully we'll be able to stitch our friendship back together Frankenstein-style.

I've been introduced to this "Please Master" thing that is part of DBT therapy. Naturally, my mind goes all kinds of naughty place, but really, whose wouldn't. Of all the acronyms to choose. I mean, sheeeeeeeesh.

But in any case, I'm working on it because the content isn't really off base even if the presentation smells like bullshit. It says no drugs or alcohol though, and while I can't promise to do that yet, I can at least promise to do them in lesser quantities. That is my commitment to you, strange, creepy little program. I will also be more aware of what I eat and start running on my treadmill like a well-trained monkey.

As for what I can actually report for tomorrow, I've pretty much got nothing, which won't be a big deal, I don't imagine. My therapist is this short little hippie lady who is your standard-issue therapist, but is also a DBT therapist, and a sex therapist, a combination to make me cringe. She's already expressed blatant interest in my choice to be celibate, so I imagine that will be further explored tomorrow. I have an easy answer: I don't fucking want to."

Ugh. Ambien makes me talktave just before it makes me loose my damn mind. Have some spiders.















The two on the top are Queen Magdalena, the bottoms are my lovely Darlin'.

In addition to being a typical miserable Sunday at work yesterday, I ended up having to help out in framing. By helping out in framing...I mean I had to pry a frame apart with a cookie spatula and a hammer.

This is the kind of thing that keeps me giggling.

At 21 degrees, I drove with my windows open.

With pleasantly monotonous music pouring from my speakers, I had a beat to count the moments between thoughts, a consistent something-or-other to keep me on track. Hand out the window, flying up and down and up and down against the wind, there was a moment when I was sure that everything was going to be okay.

This morning, I'm not necessarily unsure of that, but it isn't the overwhelming feeling that it was when my skin was going cold, when I was the only person on the road and the world in my head was made of ice castles and lonely royalty locked far, far away in their houses and crumbling palaces.

Usually, I want to sleep forever. My eyelids are always heavy, my muscles weary from the weight of every day, but things are evolving into something more interesting. Now I drag myself out of bed and force myself to move until I don't mind so much. I have interests, even if they're geeky. I have a hobby, even if I'm not very good at it.

I'm starting to wonder if I might be a real person after all.

On the pads of her feet, she moves from tile to tile, taking the kettle off the stove and fixing herself some tea. It's a dire night for isolation, but company would be so much worse. Company brings the possibility of explanations and explanations bring the certainty of leaking, of spilling out one confessional word after another until the whole story lies in a putrid pile of itself on the floor. So, alone, these things are avoided and those feet go on padding across the floor until they've settled at the balcony, and she sits. The view from there isn't flattering, not something she'd considered a possibility when she'd purchased the place years ago. Now the balcony showed her an immense field being dug to pieces, where raw rebar and concrete had contributed to the building of the Devil's factory. People went on disappearing. and the factory went on running. And nobody but nobody ever got a straight answer about any of it.

We're the best and worst and everything else we care to be and some things we don't want to know and in between the answers are a million better ones full of different kinds of promises, most of which will wear down, turn to dust, or simply be broken. I want to crack the safe that's keeping all the missing pieces from me, from him, her, and everyone else. I have to push the boundaries out, away, off the cliff and further. I have to drown the boundaries or I might just disappear here, hanging halfway between infinity and the ocean, listening to the violent crashing of waves that may one day eat me whole.

The person, the soul, and the angry spirit as a bi-product.

A processing plant, and people lined up like cattle.

Augers perched precariously at the end of the day, matted with meaty chunks, dripping with blood. Other equipment splattered. Inside, the people, they make tidy little packages to be sent off and sold on store shelves.

And the nightmares press on.

I promise to be around more often.

Because that should be all there is to say.

Text "Haiti" to 90999 to donate $10 to disaster relief. Please?

I wanted to say something, but I forgot what it was.

Here. Have a brief picture update. I like to do this from time to time.




That's all I have the attention span for.

Oh, oh lordy, I need to update.

72 hours is too much and too many.

Never overlook the obvious.

Never fail to notice the details.

Never listen to anything I say.

I am fake, fake, fake.


That's my next tattoo.

FAKE

OMG, please buy me this!!! http://www.cafepress.com/SerialKillerInc.223040949 Rest your trigger on my finger,bang my head upon the fault line...And like that, it's over. I know this is pretty standard, but it pisses me off that the insurance I'm applying for treats biologically-based mental illness differently that biologically-based anything else. I'm feeling self conscious, and a bit like keeping this journal is an exercise in futility, though the logical part of my brain knows this isn't the case. I've gone mad. I'm sick. Flu or something like it. The more I'm at work, the more I try not to think about work because it is, after all, a reasonably minor and stress-free job in the world of jobs in general. Help. I have three hours alone. Happy Birthday [info]addictionkitten !!!! How do you define whether a person is good or bad? Art, in all of its wonderful forms.

I think I'm too tired to do this today. I'm not one of those awesome people who can function on minimal sleep. I blame the medication, but the truth is I'm just not a teenager anymore. M'gettin' old, man. Or something. The holidays wear me down. All I want is a nap. A full eight-hour nap. Just once.

And thusly, I get to play the game where I see how many times I can almost-but-not-quite fall asleep on the way into work. I have to be in charge. I'm afraid of being in charge. WHat if I fuck up? God, I'm a downer.

I've been going through this peace love and happiness bullshit stage where I want to help/fix/make up with everybody, and you know what? I'm just not cut out for sticking with it. Not that I haven't meant what I've done so far or that I would go back on any of it, but I believe I'm at the end of the invitations I'm willing to extend to make amends.

I've done enough, thanks.

The only way I'm going to make it through this day is with sheer defiance. I don't even have anything to rebel against, I just have to angrily shake my fist at the idea of lying down in the middle of work and taking a nap.

It wouldn't. I'm boring.

It's a bad, bad day. I'm thinking about it. I'm thinking about it really fucking hard.

Yes, and yes.

I have nothing nice to say to anybody. I'm needy and no one's around, and some of them could be and just don't want to. It's my motherfucking birthday.

To everyone I have things due for (Capiz, mostly), I'm working on it, promise.

To everyone I've neglected, sorry.

Hoping to recharge and re-evaluate over this weekend.

Oh yeah. Wish me a happy birthday and buy me shit.

<3

Lists help me, no matter how short they are.


1. Get on the treadmill for a little while.

2. Organize bedroom (even just a little more; make visible improvement).

3. Take requested pictures of said bizarre bedroom (not pervy).

4. Prepare medication for the next week.

5. Find iPod.

Nobody exists anymore. I'm talking to myself. Fortunately for me, I do that a lot anyway.

I just started reading as book called Zoo that shows lots of promise. It's translated from Japanese, but the prose is still pretty smooth. I have the movie on the way from Blockbuster, too. The only review written on it was that it was vile and disgusting and that that person would never recommend it to anyone. See: I'm gonna love it.