Good Enough For Me

But appaarantly not for Bobby McGee.


Lasts post’s poem was hint enough.

I’m so far to the left of normal I don’t remember when I left it behind. My dearest sacrifice is of course sleep. Isn’t it interesting how creative sleep disturbance can be in manifesting?

Always a new twist on an old story. A few days where time and again I refuse to wake up, avoid being awake as much as possible. Next, three days on a total of three hours of assorted dozing, trying to get away with as little shut eye as possible.

Eyes burning temper flaring, I am so on edge. Tired but I don’t want to sleep and I don’t know why. Certainly not out of affection for the way the lack of sleep makes me feel.

Angry and resentful and so fucking sad. Me, junk food, Ms. Joplin and Ms. Stone.

I’m craving a book, a good piece of fiction that will hold me hostage. For some reason people’s recommendations keep falling flat. Something that will hold my increasingly fickle attention.

As usual my concentration is shot to hell. I can’t focus and my senses are feeling the strain of my deficiencies. At this point I’m not entirely certain that I am adhering to the rules of grammar and spelling.

Even my vocabulary seems to be cracking under the pressure. It feels like I’m experiencing some kind of aphasia, words that once came easily are dancing teasingly out of reach.

My feet were too dirty so I gave them a lavender soak with the works, bath salts and bath oils, essence and cream.

I think I’m going to bed now even though part of me doesn’t want to give in to reason.

I think Tarantino is only halfway a hack but I hate the arrogance of his pronouncing the Italian cinema dead. What a prick.

I'm Just Saying

I hate that I’m 22 and still afraid of growing up. I hate that I still refer to being an adult as growing up. I hate that I have absolutely how to be an adult.

I dislike that it’s very hard for me to end things with a friend I no longer trust and with whom I have a cycle of growing and waning resentment. I dislike the fact that I feel a lot of unresolved and unspecified anxiety. I dislike that I don’t photograph well.

I like that I am probably not a stereotype. I like that I am intellectually curious. I like that I am not narrow minded. I like that I am probably not boring.

I don’t know that I love anything about myself.

Please, no pep talk, just… yeah. I don't need anything positive or supportive, just stating things.

In other news, watching Life on Mars, and enjoying it immensely. A police officer is involved in an accident, and wakes up in 1973. He has no idea what’s going on, no one else seems to think that anything is going on. I admit my favorite parts are the music and the protagonist’s emotional and psychological deterioration.

Also, can you believe that a year has passed since this post?

When the Going Gets Tough

The crazy gets going.

Weeks of being uncomplicatedly alright and then things get a little tangled up. I’m not convinced of borderline personalities, they seem like something they stick you with when there isn’t something wrong enough with you for them to want to figure you out. I just react badly to stressful situations.

Not So Standard Disclaimer: Let me explain something about myself. In the Real World I am a puppy; overly enthusiastic, eager to please, annoyingly cheerful and about as subtle as a pile of bricks. Blogging is many things, a catharsis, a place to interact with others without the pressure to be well adjusted, a place to expose the inner working of my mind. Here I can let my cynic out to play. That said, I would love to go for coffee Krispy, if only because your brain, and by extension you, roxxorz like a rocking thing.

Now, on to the crazy.


Hellfire merrily flickering away, flames licking at my toes. Layers of my soul crack and blacken and peel away. Is new skin revealed? Pure and unblemished and oh so sensitive to the nuances of morality? Quickly marked up with the dirty finger prints of my mind? Again and Again buried under the gray, there is no real cleansing to be had. Only false hope, itchiness, and a slight burning sensation… Do they sell antibiotics for that? Other that those wrapped in little metal jackets? Leaf after new leaf turned only to be sullied with the chicken scratch of my life. Vitriol; it bubbles up and bubbles over, corrosive and where it doesn’t eat away it stains everything with a murky hue. I scrub and scrub but the residue wont disappear so I paint over it to leave everything sparkling new and if only I could keep my Hands Off the white wouldn’t wear away to reveal the dirt beneath. Facades are all good and well for shooting the biopic but they’re a bitch to live in, especial'ly when things aren’t highly fictionalized.

Torn, worn, used and faded, my dysfunctions may no longer be in vogue, but they are my own. Scout’s honor and since I never sold the cookies let alone took the oath, that doesn’t necessarily have to be true. Preparation is for pussies any way. Dry baby, take it like a man until you’re raw and bleeding out the eyes. Isn’t that a symptom of reading something with this little talent? Talent can go eat my shoe anyway, I’d be happy with cohesiveness, or even a sense of coherence for heaven’s sake. Although it may be blasphemous to invoke it while you’re dipping you’re toes in hellfire before you take the plunge. Plunge.

The Best Policy?

I am a huge mystery to myself. Not one of those cute little puzzles you pick up at the toy store either. I often feel like a frustrated convoluted maze, its hedges overgrown and its pathways lost in shadow.

Honesty, now that’s an interesting concept. How can you be honest when you don’t know where the truth lies? Sometimes I feel every aspect of me is deceitful, even those I present to my self. Honesty, who looks into themselves and sees the humanity within? And I’m not talking about the sweet giving humanitarian side. Humanity, the dark ugly messy kind, the steaming pile of entrails kind. The pettiness, the suspicion, the envy. I lay myself open and gingerly toe my psyche and think, ‘I am not a good person’. I don’t think I’m Evil, not the horns and forked tail mysterious super villain kind of evil, but I’m not good either. I’m incredibly, depressingly infinitesimal. I am an infinitely immeasurably small person. And that makes me sad.

In other news I’m back in school and rubbing shoulders with all those eager shiny faced peers I left behind a few months ago. It can grate on one’s nerves a bit. Also I just had a birthday which always makes things look particularly overcast.

And the Truth Shall Set You Free

Then again, maybe not.

Non-fiction.

Tossing and turning in bed for hours until I give up sleep for a lost cause, I emerge from my room to haunt the house’s hallways, eerily empty in the dark. The house seems sad and lonely without the daytime’s buzz of activity. My family is quieter than most, but never this quiet. Parents and siblings all tucked in and sound asleep.

My days are all turned around and try as I might, I can’t seem to put things right. My body is weighed down with exhaustion but my mind refuses to give me reprieve. Hours grasping at the sandman in futility but he won’t come as long as my pulse keeps racing with unspecified anxiety. The future lurks hungrily at the edges of my vision waiting to devour me.

Attempting to escape my fate, I disassociate myself from the world around me. I’ve been stumbling around for days in a fugue state, avoiding reality. The tartness of under ripened strawberries is shocking on my tongue, and it seems to me the first real thing I’ve felt in days.

I feel trapped and vaguely panicked, like a rat suspecting that there’s no real way out of the maze. My eyes have started to linger a little too long on sharp implements so I make an effort to avoid being around anything sharper than the butter knife. The small cuts on my arms, long healed, have started to itch. Over and over I trace a crescent shaped scar on my leg. It’s faded almost to nothing. Over four years have passed since I heated a small spoon with a lighter’s flame and took it to my flesh.

Not Dead. Yet.

So this is the summing up of my radio silence.

On the downside, fell off the happy wagon. Depression, insomnia, overeating, oh my. Sometimes, I forget how to relate to others so I lock myself away.

On the less nihilistic side, it’s a whole new year for me to fuck up… er I mean get my shit together.

In entertainment news, I recently downloaded the third and final season of Deadwood, which had the most anti-climatic finale known to man. I agree with a lot of people that the third season was a stupid waste of time and a show that rocked so hard for two seasons. I truly believe that a good finally could have save it but, alas, it sucked mightily.

Also, speaking of finales? Dexter, the first season ended about a month ago. Now there’s an ending fuckers. So much love. Michael C Hall nails the character, cute as a button and completely psychotic. There’s something naïve and childlike about my favorite serial killer. Love, love, love.

Can’t wait for the second season. In the meantime though, Rome’s second season just started. No decent torrents as of yet. The aftermath of Caesar’s death. Octavian’s rise to power. Ah my serpent pit how I have missed thee.

That is all; hopefully I will resurface more frequently.

A Terrible Thing To Temporarily Lose Track Of

River Tam from Firefly (The Academy), Ender Wiggin from Ender’s Game (Battle School), Jared from The Pretender (The Center). Beautiful, terrible piece of fanfiction about post-Atlantis Rodney Mckay from Stargate: Atlantis.

A week of fantasies fueled by an amalgam of the above. I tend to live long hours in worlds of my own construction. Happiness is boring, pain is interesting. Sometimes they are worth writing, oftentimes not. I don’t fetishize pain (much), but I tend to lean towards flawed broken characters, because I find them more interesting. I may have an overly analytical mind.

Result.

I wipe my hands on the thighs of my jeans, leaving damp patches I can feel through the denim. It wouldn’t do to have a slippery trigger finger when the time comes. Time. It’s been seven months and four days since I decided to kill him. Six months since I bought the Berretta, 92, military, supposedly untraceable to me. Five months of trekking out to the northwest corner of nowhere and shooting tin cans into the dirt.

A sniper rifle would have been safer, but it meant more time and more effort. More than three months to be a decent shot and two more to be a great one. Plus, I wanted to smell his blood. I wanted to see his face, wanted to see the change from warm familiarity to shock.

I shower, shave, and put on my best suit. Put on my gloves; smooth Italian leather, bought special for the occasion. I arrange and rearrange my hair, adjust my tie, once, twice, three times. I feel like a girl getting ready for her first date. On my way out I stop by the picture one more time. I brush my hand across our faces, bright and jovial at last year’s faculty Christmas party. Arms over one another’s shoulders, faces flushed with drink, and I remember feeling so… fraternal. We could have been brothers, once upon a time. I feel fond, almost tender. I almost rethink what I’m about to do. Almost, because some secrets should never see the light of day.

The sidewalk is covered in gray slush and my feet are wet, but I can still feel sweat pooling at the base of my spine. My heart is in a marathon pushing through that final pain barrier in the last stretch, just a little faster, just a little longer. I finger the pretty in my coat pocket and keep my feet from picking up the pace. Musn’t be overeager.

It’s over much too fast for my liking. Recognition, pleasure, fear, anger, resignation flash too fast across his face. The first shot rings out loud, the other two less so. The crowd swells and closes. I slip away easily; the 92 down a sewer grate farther down the street. I regret not being closer. My mind toys with what it might have been like to feel the warmth of blood on my face, a small discreet splatter, but blunt objects are inconvenient.

He was my first kill, but I have a strong suspicion he will not be my last.

Snowball's Chance in a Blizzard

Fact

Week the third of starving myself to a better me and my mind is starting to rebel. Calorie intake fluctuating between the low 800s and high 500s. My temper and concentration are starting to suffer, but fuck it. 40 kilos overweight isn’t pretty, and I’m sick of this. Part of it may be rebellion against my parents for forcing their perspective of beauty on me. Most of the time I’m fine with myself, but I’m sick of being pressured to fit into their version of what I should look like. Maybe I’ll try refusing to eat, something different than my usual MO, see how they like how fucking with my head for I don’t know how many years backfiring. Something you should know about me, most of my motivations have to do with my parents.

Sort of Fiction

I knew a girl who wore a small silver razorblade that hung from a black leather thong she wore around her neck. One day I asked her why. Her mouth tightened as she held it, blunt edges digging into thumb and forefinger. She told me it was protection against the dark. I knew of no talisman that involved razorblades. She raised an eloquent shoulder and said that sometimes the symbolism was the only thing that kept her from taking the real thing to her wrists. She pressed it fondly to her lips and let it fall back between her breasts.

Aut insanit homo, aut versus facit

Well, I’m not writing verses…

I feel like my creek has run dry. No rhymes in weeks, no prose in months, and all I can come up with is worthy of a talent less schoolgirl with delusions of grandeur.

Midas touch, scratch that, reverse it. Beneath my fingers everything I touch turns to shit, to filth, to dust.

Exhibit A, tired of my half hearted attempts to not live from allowance to allowance, dad gets me a ‘make do’ TV; one day later its broken carcass is being dragged out leaving broken shards and the smell of burnt electricity in its wake. So much for attaching the DVD player. Oops, clumsy me, my bad, yes I do deserve pretty things. I excuse myself, lock bathroom door, claw at my skin until I scrape off a patch on one arm and rebreak the skin on the other. The coppery smell and red on my fingers let me cruise through the concern and my dad replacing the set. I’d walk down memories lane of other exhibits, broken objects ranging from to worthless to priceless, broken friendships that have cracked beneath my heavy hand… but what’s the point?

Word to the wise, don’t make that first cut. Who would have thought the self-harm slope would be this fucking slippery? Nearly four years of resisting its siren song, then the whisper of ‘how much damage can you possibly do with your nails’, and now a couple of days after they’ve scabbed over I’ve got the shakes. In my own defense, how much damage can you do with your nails? I mean I saw a pack of razorblades at boots, real ones, none of that safety shite. So pretty it’d make you cry, but I resisted. Don’t I deserve a freebie?

Quick question, how sad is it that I’m more bothered by the whole thing being clichéd than I am by its being unhealthy?

P.S. I keep ‘forgetting’ to take my meds. Shhh, it’s our secret. We all know that they’re a con anyway.

Knees Weak, Palms Are Sweaty

It is possible that my salvation lies inside this inconspicuous box. Do all anti-depressants make this sad attempt at cheerfulness? Crayon scratchings equal mental health?

Finally gave in to Therapist, and went to see Psychiatrist, who gave me a little su’im su’im for my blues. Talking about it is no big deal, but aren’t the meds meant for the actual c-r-a-z-i-e-s? For some reason I keep flashing to Carrey as Ace Ventura in that pink tutu. No, just…no. Part of me whispers to squirrel them away then hold out for the other psychotropic drugs to mix them with, brought to you by the words coma, rare fatal outcome, and no specific antidote known.

I do want the blackness beneath the manic smile to be washed away but…
‘Screw shrinks, I don’t understand why you believe their bullshit, you need to stop thinking that you need these people,’ he says.
‘Sno, stop the drama, mafeech ila il 3afya (there’s nothing the matter with you),’ she scoffs.
‘You just need to find religion,’ he reassures.
‘Everything has to be a big deal with you? After all, you’re only human, and we can’t all be happy all the time.’

I have to ask. What if there’s nothing wrong with me? What if this is the way that it’s supposed to be? There are many other states in which I’d rather be if that’s the case, none of them conscious and aware.

Not Even a Wit

I don’t care. My insides hurt. Despite my love for academia I want to see my career go down in flames. I can’t live up to peoples expectations. Why is everyone so helpful and concerned? My internal void eternally exists simultaneously with the black sludge weighing me down. Hollow and filled with suffocation. I’m dizzy with it. My destiny is to fail with flair. This I know. This is no plea for assistance. I hate that I am some emo fucking teenage child in my psyche, despite being a supposed adult. This has set with no warning. A few minutes ago I was feeling no pain. There were no whispers of coming, no scouts or heralds or two weeks notice. My misery coalesces in my gut and solidifies into a malignant mass. I will not claw, I will not tear, I will curl up and resign by self to be buffeted by the gale. Shut myself off from reality; cocoon my self in the fabric of make-believe until it passes. It always does. If the occasional whimper escapes me, it does not matter; I close my eyes so the world cannot see me. My nails bitten down and the consolation to the hard work of resistance is that this is safer. End of the year blues? I ache, I ache, in my wrists and ankles, finger joints, where thigh meets pelvis, the small of my back, the span of my shoulders, the curve of my neck, check, temple, bridge of my nose. I’m taking shelter in the arms of the sandman’s sweet oblivion. Tomorrow is another day, and after all the sun will be shining, and come that rising I will not be looking at the prospect with distaste.

Loving company

Share with me my spiral into madness. Together let us descend into the land of insanity. As I make headway into my twenties life gifts me with a lovely mood disorder. What more can one ask for, really? Life is never so lovely as when viewed through severe seesawing of emotions. Also, it's a great way to make friends. Don't like my view of reality? See me in a couple of days, hell stick around for a few hours. After all, you never know when the moods will swing. It's funny how people describe me, depending on what they're hit with. It's really amusing how some people describe me as bubbly, enthusiastic, and maybe a little too loud while others see me as negative and morose. So seriously, let's share a giggle before I curl up into a ball and cry. Cheers. Next time, poetry. Or possibly politics. Or maybe programming, television style. Oh well at least the Ps are constant.

Insert appropriate song title...

Are you ever driving and turn on the radio to fill the silence and/or drown out the noise in your head, and some song comes on the hits the nail right on the head? I hate that. Odd, since usually the irony is the only thing that keeps me going. Then again I find irony where other people don't so maybe that explains it. My life is a work of satire, full of dramatic irony, odd sad little situations, shoes, and me.

My day started out with trauma that was resolved but I'm still feeling off off off. Then again it may be that I'm a drama queen. Meh, trauma, drama, what's the diff. I envy goths sometimes I need black for my eyes, I need something to make me look fierce. Problem is, in Kuwait that's not the statement black makes. People, when I'm feeling goth it in no way means that I've turned into those girls that use a trowel to slather their make up on. So I don't. Maybe I will later tonight. Gah, I need release.

Dark images in my head and I can't shake them off. Inside this skull ain't pretty, don't be fooled by the lights. In other news I can't keep going over things pick pick picking at them, pulling at the threads until they're even more frayed. If I pick the right one maybe the whole thing will come unraveled. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not.

Song, not the one on the radio, this is one that been on repeat in the iPod of my head for the last couple of days. Pardon me, Incubus. The lyrics in case you're not familiar with them go something like:

Pardon me while I burst
Pardon me while I burst
A decade ago, I never thought I would be.
At twenty three on the verge of spontaneous combustion woe is me
But I guess that it comes with the territory.
An ominous landscape of never-ending calamity.
I need you to hear.
I need you to see.
That I have had all I can take
And exploding seems like a definite possibility
To me
So Pardon me while I burst into flames.
I've had enough of the world, and its people's mindless games
So Pardon me while I burn, and rise above the flame
Pardon me, pardon me.
I'll never be the same.
Not, two days ago I was having a look in a book
And I saw a picture of a guy fried up above his knees
I said I can relate
Cause lately I've been thinking of combustication as a welcome vacation from.
The burdens of the planet earth, like gravity, hypocrisy, and the perils of being in 3-D...
And thinking so much differently.
Pardon me while I burst into flames.
I've had enough of the world, and its people's mindless games
Pardon me while I burn, and rise above the flame
Pardon me, pardon me.
I'll never be the same.
Never be the same...yeah.
Pardon me while I burst into flames.
Pardon me, pardon me, pardon me.
So pardon me while I burst into flames.
I've had enough of the world, and its people's mindless games
So pardon me while I burn, and rise above the flame
Pardon me, pardon me. I'll never be the same.
Pardon me, never be the same. Yeah

If it comes across as corny or stupid, it doesn't when you're listening to it. I remember first time I heard it, on the radio. I was in 11th grade and depressed, actually when I make a reference to anything that takes place during high school assume I was depressed unless told otherwise. So some guy calls in and request this song by then unheard of band (in Kuwait anyway). It hit me like no song had before. So... yeah. Definitely contemplating combustication, implosion, explosion, something. One day my dears, all they'll find of me is the shard. Remind me to put up the doggrel I had written when I was in high school. Pathetic emo shite, but it was good for a laugh. I know this can be defined as the same but, well, I need to let off steam somehow, right?