Okay, so I start taking this really cool quiz where you pick a band (preferrably your favorite) then fill out the whole survey with only lines from songs from that band. With two questions left to go, I realize that it actually says "Song Titles" not "Song Lines", and I've just majorly fucked up-- But I don't care! Doing this with song lines not only gave me an excuse to sit around and get back to basics listening to my band, but it also provided some interesting results, meaning that it came off far, far more cynical than I thought it would (and this is me talking.)


Choose a band/or artist and answer only in song lines by that band: Matchbox Twenty
Are you female or male: Girl Like That
Describe yourself: This cold girl, well, don't she make you want to scream "Damn."
How do some people feel about you: Man, I feel like hell, so come on over, be a love machine and I could be your friend.
How do you feel about yourself: I don't know if I've ever been really loved by a hand that's touched me, and I feel like something's gonna give.
Describe your ex girlfriend/boyfriend: I know soon you will be over the lies, you'll be strong, you'll be rich in love, you will carry on. But no, oh no; No, you won't be mine.
Describe your current girlfriend/boyfriend: You have been found out; I have been deceived by the one that I need.
Describe where you want to be: She got out of town on a railway, New York bound.
Describe what you want to be: You're laughing out loud at just the thought of being alive, and I was wondering: Could I just be you tonight?
Describe how you live: I'm so terrified of no one else but me, I'm here all the time, I won't go away.
Describe how you love: Never once did you think that they would lie when they're holding you, then you wonder why they haven't called, when they said they'd call you.
Share a few words of wisdom: What we lost here is something better left alone.

Here's the link to the original, I didn't use their code because the table it outputted was so fucking annoying, and between that and the titles/lines thing, it was just easier to do it this way.

Also, I'd like to take the oppurtunity to welcome you all to the new template: I'll be tweaking here and there and adding some features that I hope will add to functionality and appeal, all as one great big 5th anniversary present to the fabulous readers of this blog and to myself, without who's tireless efforts I never could have succeeded in broadcasting my irrelevant thoughts and bullshit angst for half a decade now. Go, me!

On with it.

Doing a little updating of the site's template, making it a little more "me"...a project I've been at for quite a while now. In order to do so, though, I need some photo hosting, and as part of this...very weird process of getting a free pro account from Zoomr, I need to post a photo that I've hosted with them. So, without further ado...

sixflags Hosted on Zooomr

And if all goes well, this site should be looking pretty brand-spanking new by the time the next post is up, with the help of dear Zoomr. (Is that enough promotion for you guys? Hmmm?)

On with it.

Until then...on with it.

I didn't go to work today. Couldn't. Woke up and kept telling myself to sleep for ten more minutes, until I was out of little blocks of time and I realized that there was nothing I could do to convince myself to get up and go bear it another day-- I hate it. I hate is so much.

I didn't have an excuse; there was none left that I hadn't used. I just didn't go. I don't think I will again.

I wouldn't be so hard on myself, hell, I'd be bordering on proud, if it weren't for one detail-- the job, I hate. The people, I don't. One, in particular, has acted as my de facto best friend for a few months now. He's been present at nearly every social outing I've had lately, and while there are a few other regulars, he is the one that I trust. This is because he is the dependable guy, in life, and at work.

I never wanted to get pigeonholed as "the dependable girl", because, as I learned from Burger King a few years back, it's the dependable one who ends up working the 14-hour shifts on their days off. So, at McDonald's, I tried to be somewhere in the middle, but leaning towards the opposite pole, a pole I have now undeniably fallen towards. It's not a shame that would haunt me, because it's not a job I care about, it's not even a job I can stand, but facts are facts: being the non-dependable girl means screwing over the dependable guy, and that's not something I ever wanted to do.

I'm so sorry.



Last night, riding home from a night spent with him and the others, I had an unsettling feeling that could only be quieted by writing in my head what I assumed would become a post here once I got to the keyboard. Instead, I told Zack what I had realized about the ever-present condition which handicaps me more than I can ever really know: my self-esteem. I know it's low, but I never realize how dangerous it is, save for a few moments where something brings the real bankruptcy of self-worth I have to into the light.

I remember clearly a conversation I had with Miss Jenkins, the elementary school behavioral therapist who counseled me before I understood what it was to be counseled. I was trying to explain to her the feeling I was always saddled with of not belonging, especially within my group of friends. "They're nice to me and everything, they never say they don't want to be my friends, but I just get the feeling like...like if we were all kidnapped by an evil man who said that one of us would have to be sacrificed to a volcano, they'd all push me forward at the same time." I remember her reaction as being something of a benevolent laugh, as if she were recognizing the intelligence behind the statement; thinking about it now, I have to give my young self props. I've grown, become less awkward, more sure of myself or better at faking it, but I've never come across a more exact description of that one feeling; the one I still feel every time I find myself established in a group.

It stayed with me, exactly the same, for years: when I'd hide myself in a corner at my own birthday parties, convinced that nobody wanted me to be there. When I'd walk away from a cluster of people without saying anything look on from afar, seeing if they noticed my absence. Last night at the mall or back at Ben's aparment, countless times in Wal*Mart with Zack. Hide myself, and wait to see if anybody comes to find me.

I've spent a lifetime waiting for someone to find me. All because I can't seem to find myself.

I'd carve out niches in future groups; with girls, I was the funny one, but it never really got me by. This explains, in part, why I always drawn to groups of relatively unattractive men, where I felt I could leverage my sex to be accepted. The first group I remember really feeling comfortable in was the Auburn boys: Nick, Ben and Chad, all of whom can vouch first-hand for my theory that I use every resource at my disposal to feel welcome. These actions, inevitably, blow up in my face.

And all this time, I'm talking about myself within a group dynamic, but the truth is that it manifests itself in one-on-one friendships, as well, it just tends to take longer. If I can't figure out exactly what it is I offer a person after they have outlasted the "honeymoon" phase, my insecurity will cause an end to the relationship. The ones that last do so with a wall: Certain people, I only speak with only once in a blue moon, so as to eliminate any dependency which, in my mind, could only lead to disaster. Others, I allow myself within the mainstream of their lives with the firm understanding that I could never be any better than second-best to them (a self-fulfilling prophecy), and periodically pull back if I feel the bond become too strong.



Last night...nothing happened. The night was spent mostly playing Madden, which the dependable guy had purchased at the midnight release party at the mall. This left little time for the dangerous flirtations that are the only things which make me feel truly welcome in the group. In lieu of being able to supply any cheap thrills or being able to score the winning touch down for the team in the game (which I suck at), I spent a great deal of the night in an empty bedroom, crying with the burden of the feeling I couldn't shake. While it should have been relief that, for once, I'd gone an entire night without threatening my marriage, I idenitified what it really was somewhere underneath the cotton-candy hued sunrise on my long drive home: a mixture of rejection and failure.


It's not self-loathing, I reason: the part of myself influenced by logic feels an indescribable sadness every time I realize how truly little the other part thinks of itself. No, this isn't about hatred. It's just a belief: I am nothing; I have nothing to offer. When people see through the elaborate ruses that hold my daily life together, they will realize, as they always have, that I am not at all what they signed up for, and they will go.



I don't look forward to being left by my latest clan, if I haven't been already. Maybe not going to work today was a pre-emptive strike.

Or maybe it was just that I fucking hate my job.

On with it.

A few weeks ago, I'm talking to a friend about the recent(-ish) happenings in my life. He, for his own reasons, is reacting more judgementally than I personally think is helpful in this given situation, and, exasperated with the weight of his opinions, I find myself giving the only explanation that I know he'll understand. "Sometimes...you just don't have the strength to do the right thing." He sighs and sits back, saying, in the tone of voice that I was hoping for, "Yeah. I know what that's like."


My therapist tells me today that she thinks I'm still "playing a dangerous game." I tell her all that I can: "I know. I know I'm making a mistake. But I can't honestly tell you that I'm done making this particular mistake, quite yet."


Earlier, online with Mr. Ladd...
Linda: Being with him isn't an option.
Mr. Ladd: Yup. It's over, then?
Linda: If life were a clean-cut thing, yes.
Linda: My life? No way, it's not over.
Mr. Ladd: no..not your life. I know that you are an amazing person with a lot more coming (good things, that is). I hope you are ok, though. I also hope that no one is "keeping score", if you catch my drift.
Linda: I think I do.


It's not as soap opera as this makes it seem, the things that have happened, but I guess the morale I want to get across here is this: there's a difference between a mistake that is made out of stupidity or ignorance, and a compulsion that drives you even when you know it's a mistake. An intelligent person can do the wrong thing in good faith, trying their best. And, in general, the world could probably use just a bit fewer clichés. What did a programmed response ever really bring to the table? When dealing with someone you care about, and have faith in, do you honestly believe that if there's an easy answer, they haven't thought about it already? Get creative or get quiet, and leave your judgement at the door. Nobody wins when people keep score.

On with it.

So much, too much, has happened. I've wanted to write so many times, and haven't. Partly because I'm trying to strike a balance between the desire to spill it all, as I always have, and reveal things that are no longer just my secrets, and the desire to respect the privacy of those affected.

Respect. That is a lesson I'm learning hard and slow.


I wish I had some beautiful book to be reading.


"They started the fight when the money got tight, and they just didn't count on the tears.

They lived for a while in a very nice style but it's always the same in the end.
They got a divorce as a matter of course, and they parted the closest of friends.
Then the king and the queen went back of the green, but you can never go back there again."
~Billy Joel, Scenes from an Italian Restaurant

Brenda and Eddie, the popular steadies.




I'm thinking about too much stuff, too many people. Two in particular, contrasting men with contrasting roles in my life. The one I come home to; the one whose lawn I was standing on yesterday night, asking for him please to release me from the state of insanity that is knowing him, as of late. The grass was wet and the feelings were ambiguous, and all I really wanted was my mind made up for me. Today, I fear he may have done just that. Last night, though, he couldn't decide on much of anything-- in between the overtures I expected was the respect I deserved, and the strongest part of him coming through in his weakest voice, begging me to do what was right for me, in the long run. It's always the asking me to leave that makes me want to stay the most.


Last night, coming home, I was dying to write here about the whole experience, in the form of an open letter to him. I wanted to talk to him, and, to a lesser extent, to the world, about the agonizing ironies of the situation: I got into this mess to feel special, and now the only way out is to remind myself that I'm not. (Not to him, a man for whom no one women could really be that special. "Who says you're one woman?" he replies to me when I make the comment to him, smoothly like a movie hero.) I stayed in the situation because it made me feel, for the first time in a long time, that I wasn't broken, wasn't just damaged goods, like I was perfectly functioning. Now, to leave again, I have to remind myself that it's not true: I am as broken as I have always been, and no amount of picture-perfect eye-gazing and face-touching can change that, nor can the right man (or, in this case, the wrong one.)

I am not a padlock frustratedly paired with the wrong key. More aptly, I am a book that got wet and the pages got stuck together, useless to anyone who will not take the time to carefully pry apart the individual pages and preserve the poetry inside. An onlooker might see the fine leather binding and wish to add it to their collection, but if they try to tear me open without the proper appreciation for the damage and the effort and the reward, then they'll just end up permanently losing some of the text, having taken me, undeserving, from a true bibliophile.


I am completely divided between the self that believes that was a beautiful metaphor, and the self that wants to smack me in the head for thinking such verbose bullshit. A woman divided; that's me.


On with it.

There are so many people I want to tell to go fuck themselves.

Please note, more than likely no two of the following statements are intended for the same person. Some of them may be intended for more than one. All of them are likely to be entirely unfair.

• Fuck everyone who's making my decisions for me. Whose trying to protect me from them by keeping me safely out of their lives. Fuck the attempt to look altruistic by "sacrifice" when, in reality, you just don't want anything to do with me. Fuck myself for needing to believe that this is really what is happening.
• Fuck people who are letting their potential go to hell because they're scared of the future. Fuck people who let their friends be their emotional crush for years because they feel badly about themselves as a result of this.
• Fuck people who fall in love with motherfucking everyone with whom they have a false sense of connection with.
• Fuck people who want to judge the way I deal with the things in my life that are painful. Fuck people who regard life with an undeserved sense of sanctity. Fuck people who minimize other people's problems, and fuck hypocrisy.
• Fuck people who spend an entire night with you making you feel like finally, you've found a friend you can trust again, then decide out of nowhere that you're too complicated for them. Fuck people who won't tell you what they feel, who don't return e-mails or calls. Fuck the phone every time I come home not to have a message.
• Fuck people who can't fucking be as smart as they fucking seem. Fuck people who come up with one good line then strategically reuse it over and over again and don't get caught. Fuck people whose intelligence doesn't extend to the real world where real people really get hurt.
• Fuck people who act like they want to spend time with you but then never make the effort.
• Fuck fucking everybody.

( Loose translation of above: Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.)

Not in the good way, either. On with it.

FieryGwenivere: Obviously it's not an ideal situation
FieryGwenivere: but if pretending to be vaguely in love with someone else will calm me down a little, that'll probably do my marriage more good than...well, than it really should
Snappyguy: I just don't want to see it be something that adds to the demise of your marriage
FieryGwenivere: well, I bought "Relationship Rescue" by Dr. Phil, so I think that balances it out.

Funny how relative morality becomes when love is involved.

On with it.

I felt so accomplished for the past few months. Dove in, walked out, went cold turkey. Lately, I've discovered the secret of distancing myself from how I really feel; for instance, with Zack's new friend, whom, for the few two weeks or so, I could not stand to think about or acknowledge in anyway. It's been maybe a little over a week and half now, and I've fallen into a groove: I don't think about her, and when I do, it's removed. Just don't open the door to that kind of emotion, just don't let her in, just don't let it out. Don't even acknowledge, except in a faint, distant way, that there are those kinds of emotions, and that I did feel them, and that the reasons for me to feel them haven't changed. Don't even acknowledge anything at all. Just keep right on moving.

Last night, I had a nightmare about it, though. I'll spare the details, from jumping on Zack's chest in a rage when I found him on the phone with her, to screaming profanity at her, and zip right to the end, with him and her walking into her house for some reason, me left on the outside-- they'd both assured me he'd be back soon, they were just going into have a chat. The door closed behind them and I told myself over and over again to remain calm, he'd be back soon, but before a minute could elapse, I was crying-- not delicately, not subtly, not with any beautiful undertones. In the dream, I ran back to my trailer, alone, screaming and crying as I did, the tears streaking down my face, my voice repeating the words over and over again: Why me? Why me? How can he do this to me?

It's not with pride that I admit that that is how I really feel about her. Not when I'm by myself, in a room, alone, with no one to judge me for the horrifying volume that my own insecurities tend to reach.

I suppose my trick as of late, then, is to pretend that I am not myself, to pretend that I am someone constantly judging me for my own actions. That way, even when I am alone, my pride will not let me admit how deeply I hate, hate, hate her, how angry I am at him for breaking his promises to give me what I needed until this whole vaginismus ordeal was over, and how ashamed I am of myself for...being so ashamed of myself, it seems.

I keep myself in check with fear of judgement from within. What a fine way to live.


But this post was neither started by thoughts of her, nor intended to be about her. This post was to be about somebody else I feel strongly about, and the days I've seen go by where I've persevered in keeping him safely out of my life, and the matter of moments wherein I failed that today. A few short moments; a breach of my hull. A few short moments and I find myself taking on water, and thinking about him, and struggling to remember the exact composition of his face.

It's as I'm doing this that I hear myself whisper that in this particular instance, that's the secret. "Don't picture him," I hear myself say. "It only really hurts when you picture his face. Or his skin."

Oh, I say. So I don't.

And from another part of me,one more interested in what's real than what's convenient, I hear myself argue that same old point, ripe with that same old word.

"If it's this hard after all this time, it must be the same as it always was. It must be that you'll always--"

No. I say. Don't go there.

I strain not to put up any veiled messages hoping he'll read them when I go on away, and very nearly succeed. I feel myself looking for excuses to go back for more, and I remind myself that this is why I must do this.

I allow myself this entry, maybe just for old time's sake. Moreover, because this blog is supposed to be about me, wholly and fully and truly. It's not the blog's fault if so much of me is made up of him.



On with it.

FieryGwenivere: You know what sucks? Bathing suit shopping
FieryGwenivere: Last year at this time, I was at the epitomy of my weight gain or whatever, and I ended up really happy with my purchase, because I discovered a little something called a "swim dress."
FieryGwenivere: I mean, I could get into a prom in this thing.
FieryGwenivere: A few accessories, some high heels.
PosinAsAHousePet: Haha
FieryGwenivere: Thirty pounds later, I know it's time to shed the dress and find something a little more...pool appropriate, but I find myself in the changing room at Target today thinking, "Hmmm, maybe I should wait for forty pounds."
PosinAsAHousePet: Mmm. I haven't tried any on yet. I'm not looking forward to it.
FieryGwenivere: I thought I was getting there.
FieryGwenivere: But there's nothing to whip you right out of that frame of mind quite like a nylon/spandex blend and a full-length mirror.
PosinAsAHousePet: Yeah. Ugh.
FieryGwenivere: Least of all if you're on the second day of your period and retaining water like you're preparing for an outbreak of the avian flu.
PosinAsAHousePet: Hah, exactly, that's why I feel so terribly horrible right now. A few days ago I swear I looked better, and then I look and I'm squishier.
FieryGwenivere: I'm having that problem on an hourly basis with my teeth.
FieryGwenivere: I'm trying to whiten them-- I'm doing a full-body makeover-- so I've been using a nightly whitening paste which is suppsoed to loosen stains up for when you brush in the morning, and then another whitener then. And after the morning brush, they look awesome.
FieryGwenivere: One sip of anything slightly colorful later, and they call me Mellow Yellow.
PosinAsAHousePet: Heh, yeah.
FieryGwenivere: People who can accept themselves for what they are suck.



It's that time of year again.

On with it.

Somewhere inside me, there is a post bursting to be written. It's about the complicated things that have been happening to me lately: the status of mine and Zack's relationship, his status with his new friend, Kirsten, a petite, blond Wal*Mart cashier whose existence was carefully hid from me for a period of time still uncertain to me, my status with Kirsten...or, since such a status does not, in actuality, exist, my status with the idea of her...my status with myself, in relation to her. My status with the law, an impending conviction of driving with a suspended license, the hypothetical assault charges that one aforementioned Kirsten would file if one aforementioned status between one aforemention me and her did exist. My status with my job, Zack's possible new job, health insurance, vaginismus. Insecurity. Justification of insecurity: real, or imagined? Writing. Not writing. Wanting to write. Neglecting to live up to my potential. Neglecting to live in general. Weight loss. Weight gain. Water weight. A card with a bubble-heart picture on it and a blank inside, with no writing in it. Not writing. Wanting to write. School. Projects. Stress. Cortisol. Estrogen. Progesterone. Sex drive. Sex. Vaginismus. Insecurity. Kirsten.

Me.


But I got on my new exercise bike earlier and pedalled until it told me I'd burned 200 calories, and, to be truthful, I didn't really have 200 to spare. It would take way more calories than I have left to write about all that, and many many more to toss and turn all night having thought about all that, so I think I'll instead settle for the peppy one-liner that has just occured to me, hoping that it's witty enough to distract people (Myself.) from the the fact that this post is an impotent attempt at writing (Not writing.) and that I am (Water weight. Blank inside. Vaginismus. Me.) too tired (Neglecting to live.) to put forth the effort. (Insecurity.)


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If a hypochondriac reads and article about hypochondria, does he think he has it?



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On with it.