Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Tuesday.
Tuesday was one of those days where everything just systematically went wrong.
I was crying out of frustration long before 9am.
By noon I was mostly dead on the inside.
We had tacos for lunch.
And shortly thereafter I threw my back out.
I limped home feeling morose and tried to take a nap.
I woke up to cramps that I'm pretty sure could have ended the world.
I took some medicine and went to bed.
Hours before the sun even set.
Ick.
But now its over.
I'm feeling better.
And I love this song.
I love you too Dear Friend.
Always.
I was crying out of frustration long before 9am.
By noon I was mostly dead on the inside.
We had tacos for lunch.
And shortly thereafter I threw my back out.
I limped home feeling morose and tried to take a nap.
I woke up to cramps that I'm pretty sure could have ended the world.
I took some medicine and went to bed.
Hours before the sun even set.
Ick.
But now its over.
I'm feeling better.
And I love this song.
I love you too Dear Friend.
Always.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Men Have Called Me Mad
“Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence--whether much that is glorious--whether all that is profound--does not spring from disease of thought--from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their grey visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in awakening, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil.” (Eleonora, E.A. Poe)
Reading Poe today, feeling exhausted and melancholy. It's one of those February days where everything is off. Nothing tastes good. Nothing appeases me. All things are irritating and sub-par.
I've been making mental lists of things that I dislike, which are really much more like lists of possible things I could find to dislike about the things that I actually like.
It's not a terribly productive use of my time.
February is gay.
And not the fun kind of sexy gay that I am, either.
Just the bleak sort of Heart of Darkness kind of gay.
And there doesn't seem to be any foreseeable end to the suffering.
Uuuuuugghhhhh
Can you hear the whining in my voice? It seems to permeate my being.
I've been avoiding writing here for days now, because it seems all I manage to do is complain. I'm actually not that despondent.
Mostly I'm just restless.
Restless and bored.
Restless and bored, and waiting for the end of February.
Ha!
I miss your face.
That's all I know.
Reading Poe today, feeling exhausted and melancholy. It's one of those February days where everything is off. Nothing tastes good. Nothing appeases me. All things are irritating and sub-par.
I've been making mental lists of things that I dislike, which are really much more like lists of possible things I could find to dislike about the things that I actually like.
It's not a terribly productive use of my time.
February is gay.
And not the fun kind of sexy gay that I am, either.
Just the bleak sort of Heart of Darkness kind of gay.
And there doesn't seem to be any foreseeable end to the suffering.
Uuuuuugghhhhh
Can you hear the whining in my voice? It seems to permeate my being.
I've been avoiding writing here for days now, because it seems all I manage to do is complain. I'm actually not that despondent.
Mostly I'm just restless.
Restless and bored.
Restless and bored, and waiting for the end of February.
Ha!
I miss your face.
That's all I know.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Song of the Day.
For the record, I still fail to be able to listen to Rihanna without thinking of lunch at the Heart Attack Cafe with you. You should be here.
All my love.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Ugh.
I feel all of these things, and I don't know what any of them are.
I just...I don't know, like, absorb feelings from other people, but I can't make sense of any of them. I can't name them, or figure out their logic. I don't know where they are coming from or how to make them go away and I get bogged down in...gunk that doesn't belong to me.
Some of this may be that my cyborg status has been slipping (and by slipping, I mean may have been totally demolished) as of late. I'm not particularly happy about it either. My life is so much more complicated when I have to feel things. I keep trying to put on my cyborg face, but stuff keeps creeping in the cracks.
I'm frustrated. And a little overwhelmed. My heart hurts. I'm not sure why. Or how. Or for how long?
None of this is making any sense, which I feel is kind of fitting, since none of it makes any sense to me either.
I feel more and more like an anomaly though as time passes. Like the gulf between myself and the rest of humanity is continually growing and like the amount of effort and energy it takes to understand anyone is increasing exponentially.
I feel...somehow apart from everyone.
Alien.
Which isn't sad, but more...frustrating?
Like I'm forgetting totally how to interact with anybody other than myself.
I'm also exhausted.
On all levels.
And I desperately need sleep.
Lots of it.
I know that this is just part and parcel of Failure-To-Function-February, but that doesn't make me like it any more.
I miss your face.
I wish you were here.
And I can't wait for spring to come.
Sending you all my love.
I just...I don't know, like, absorb feelings from other people, but I can't make sense of any of them. I can't name them, or figure out their logic. I don't know where they are coming from or how to make them go away and I get bogged down in...gunk that doesn't belong to me.
Some of this may be that my cyborg status has been slipping (and by slipping, I mean may have been totally demolished) as of late. I'm not particularly happy about it either. My life is so much more complicated when I have to feel things. I keep trying to put on my cyborg face, but stuff keeps creeping in the cracks.
I'm frustrated. And a little overwhelmed. My heart hurts. I'm not sure why. Or how. Or for how long?
None of this is making any sense, which I feel is kind of fitting, since none of it makes any sense to me either.
I feel more and more like an anomaly though as time passes. Like the gulf between myself and the rest of humanity is continually growing and like the amount of effort and energy it takes to understand anyone is increasing exponentially.
I feel...somehow apart from everyone.
Alien.
Which isn't sad, but more...frustrating?
Like I'm forgetting totally how to interact with anybody other than myself.
I'm also exhausted.
On all levels.
And I desperately need sleep.
Lots of it.
I know that this is just part and parcel of Failure-To-Function-February, but that doesn't make me like it any more.
I miss your face.
I wish you were here.
And I can't wait for spring to come.
Sending you all my love.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Monday, February 11, 2013
Mad Girl's Love Song.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
-Sylvia Plath.
10/27/32 - 2/11/1963
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
-Sylvia Plath.
10/27/32 - 2/11/1963
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Allergies.
Note: It's February and life is...February-y. As such, the frequency of my posts has gone down fairly significantly. For this I am very sorry. I am however, still writing to you regularly, the difference is that I'm hand writing thing with the intention of posting them here, and then forgetting to transcribe my scrawling notes. This post is one of those things. It's from last Tuesday, and I'm sorry for the tardiness.
Winter allergies are in full swing here. In addition to all the desert things, I can now officially add one more item to the allergy list; feelings.
Remember this summer when I decided (in a brilliant scheme to protect myself from...life) to become a cyborg?
Me too.
That plan may have backfired.
You may or may not have noticed the increasing frequency at which I find myself hunched over, throwing up until my insides threaten to dislodge themselves. I know I have. I have also noticed the disturbing reliance on pepto and zofran that has been slowing gaining momentum over the course of the last six or so months.
Well, you'll be happy to know that I have finally solved the riddle.
My body is rejecting its own emotions.
I woke up rather begrudgingly this morning. (And by begrudgingly, I mean I allowed my alarm clock to go off every nine minutes for more than an hour.) I made myself late for work, as per the usual, stumbled to the coffee machine, and blithely navigated my way back to my desk.
I sat down, blank stare on my face, struggling to focus my eyes on the day.
At some point, I became aware of a growing feeling of unease in my gut.
Like butterflies.
Only more threatening.
I tried, for a moment, to find the source of the feeling, but almost immediately decided that was a bad plan.
Better just not to recognize these things.
If I stand really still and pretend it isn't there
It will go away.
Except that this is not Jurassic Park.
My feelings are not a T-Rex.
And if I hold really still and pretend it's not there, it's not going to just go away.
It's still going to be there.
Breathing down my neck.
Stewing in my guts.
Twisting my organs up with its very existence.
I took a sip of my coffee and promptly threw up.
Gross.
And unexpected!
I most certainly had not seen that one coming. (Obviously, as my desk was now slicked in my coffee; revisited). I mopped up the mess and mulled over the event in silence.
My mind wandered.
I caught it, several times, floating around somewhere in the clouds. In that place there the birds are always singing and the sun is always shining and all the things are lovely all of the days.
A smile crept its way across my face.
And then I threw up.
Damnit.
I feel fine. Distinctly not sick. No fever. No clammy skin. No chills.
I am most certainly not sick.
I became increasingly aware of the fact that I was feeling things. A great many things. And that my ability to maintain my cyborg status was slipping.
This was happiness.
A sickly-pickly kind of happiness
That had taken up residence in my gut,
Made itself at home,
And was lying in wait.
Waiting to transform me into the vomit monster.
To release screaming temporal doom from the depths of me.
And to rend me incapable of functioning at a reasonable level.
Unacceptable.
Incomprehensible!
Dastardly!
Other synonyms!
Gah!
I had worked so long and so hard at rejecting if not all, then at least the vast majority of my emotions, that I am now totally and completely unequipped to handle them. Or at least, the ones that I don't expect and prepare for.
The moment I realize I'm feeling anything at all, my body attempts to purge itself of the offending emotion through a sea of bile.
It's not so much that I can't handle any emotions, I suppose.
It's that I can't handle the ones that sneak up on me.
If I don't wake up expecting to feel 'happy' and then suddenly find myself feeling 'happy' my organs just say 'no thanks' a-la the vomit pathway.
It looks a lot like this:
Happiness --> vomit
Love --> vomit
Sorrow --> vomit
Sleep --> vomit
OMFG I LOVE THESE WAFFLES!!! --> vomit
You get the picture.
The thing is, you can't actually throw-up emotions. (But man, wouldn't be sweet if you could?!) They hang out inside you, permeating all that you are whether you try to puke them up or not. The end result is always that I end up throwing up an unreasonable amount, which in turn, makes me feel physically awful, and I still have to feel things.
This I believe is unfair.
I should either be forced to live a life in which I have to feel things
OR
To live a life where feeling things makes me throw up.
But not both.
Never both.
Definitely not.
Someone needs to create an allergy pill for this.
Drug companies, please get on this.
On that note, it's movie night with Lapochka tonight.
Will I throw up both before and after?
Most definitely.
Will it be worth it?
You bet your bungalow.
All my love,
Little Foot
(The Vomit Monster)
Winter allergies are in full swing here. In addition to all the desert things, I can now officially add one more item to the allergy list; feelings.
Remember this summer when I decided (in a brilliant scheme to protect myself from...life) to become a cyborg?
Me too.
That plan may have backfired.
You may or may not have noticed the increasing frequency at which I find myself hunched over, throwing up until my insides threaten to dislodge themselves. I know I have. I have also noticed the disturbing reliance on pepto and zofran that has been slowing gaining momentum over the course of the last six or so months.
Well, you'll be happy to know that I have finally solved the riddle.
My body is rejecting its own emotions.
I woke up rather begrudgingly this morning. (And by begrudgingly, I mean I allowed my alarm clock to go off every nine minutes for more than an hour.) I made myself late for work, as per the usual, stumbled to the coffee machine, and blithely navigated my way back to my desk.
I sat down, blank stare on my face, struggling to focus my eyes on the day.
At some point, I became aware of a growing feeling of unease in my gut.
Like butterflies.
Only more threatening.
I tried, for a moment, to find the source of the feeling, but almost immediately decided that was a bad plan.
Better just not to recognize these things.
If I stand really still and pretend it isn't there
It will go away.
Except that this is not Jurassic Park.
My feelings are not a T-Rex.
And if I hold really still and pretend it's not there, it's not going to just go away.
It's still going to be there.
Breathing down my neck.
Stewing in my guts.
Twisting my organs up with its very existence.
I took a sip of my coffee and promptly threw up.
Gross.
And unexpected!
I most certainly had not seen that one coming. (Obviously, as my desk was now slicked in my coffee; revisited). I mopped up the mess and mulled over the event in silence.
My mind wandered.
I caught it, several times, floating around somewhere in the clouds. In that place there the birds are always singing and the sun is always shining and all the things are lovely all of the days.
A smile crept its way across my face.
And then I threw up.
Damnit.
I feel fine. Distinctly not sick. No fever. No clammy skin. No chills.
I am most certainly not sick.
I became increasingly aware of the fact that I was feeling things. A great many things. And that my ability to maintain my cyborg status was slipping.
This was happiness.
A sickly-pickly kind of happiness
That had taken up residence in my gut,
Made itself at home,
And was lying in wait.
Waiting to transform me into the vomit monster.
To release screaming temporal doom from the depths of me.
And to rend me incapable of functioning at a reasonable level.
Unacceptable.
Incomprehensible!
Dastardly!
Other synonyms!
Gah!
I had worked so long and so hard at rejecting if not all, then at least the vast majority of my emotions, that I am now totally and completely unequipped to handle them. Or at least, the ones that I don't expect and prepare for.
The moment I realize I'm feeling anything at all, my body attempts to purge itself of the offending emotion through a sea of bile.
It's not so much that I can't handle any emotions, I suppose.
It's that I can't handle the ones that sneak up on me.
If I don't wake up expecting to feel 'happy' and then suddenly find myself feeling 'happy' my organs just say 'no thanks' a-la the vomit pathway.
It looks a lot like this:
Happiness --> vomit
Love --> vomit
Sorrow --> vomit
Sleep --> vomit
OMFG I LOVE THESE WAFFLES!!! --> vomit
You get the picture.
The thing is, you can't actually throw-up emotions. (But man, wouldn't be sweet if you could?!) They hang out inside you, permeating all that you are whether you try to puke them up or not. The end result is always that I end up throwing up an unreasonable amount, which in turn, makes me feel physically awful, and I still have to feel things.
This I believe is unfair.
I should either be forced to live a life in which I have to feel things
OR
To live a life where feeling things makes me throw up.
But not both.
Never both.
Definitely not.
Someone needs to create an allergy pill for this.
Drug companies, please get on this.
On that note, it's movie night with Lapochka tonight.
Will I throw up both before and after?
Most definitely.
Will it be worth it?
You bet your bungalow.
All my love,
Little Foot
(The Vomit Monster)
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
February.
Февраль. Достать чернил и плакать!
Писать о феврале навзрыд,
Пока грохочущая слякоть
Весною черною горит.
Достать пролетку. За шесть гривен,
Чрез благовест, чрез клик колес,
Перенестись туда, где ливень
Еще шумней чернил и слез.
Где, как обугленные груши,
С деревьев тысячи грачей
Сорвутся в лужи и обрушат
Сухую грусть на дно очей.
Под ней проталины чернеют,
И ветер криками изрыт,
И чем случайней, тем вернее
Слагаются стихи навзрыд.
(Boris Pasternak)
Well, today was insufferable.
Truthfully though, today was actually magic.
Or at least most of it was.
The last little bit of my shift however, was dreadful.
And I am glad it is over.
Now I'm watching Star Trek (Next Gen) and eating freshly baked cookies.
Pretending the world is new.
<3
Love and stuff.
Писать о феврале навзрыд,
Пока грохочущая слякоть
Весною черною горит.
Достать пролетку. За шесть гривен,
Чрез благовест, чрез клик колес,
Перенестись туда, где ливень
Еще шумней чернил и слез.
Где, как обугленные груши,
С деревьев тысячи грачей
Сорвутся в лужи и обрушат
Сухую грусть на дно очей.
Под ней проталины чернеют,
И ветер криками изрыт,
И чем случайней, тем вернее
Слагаются стихи навзрыд.
(Boris Pasternak)
Well, today was insufferable.
Truthfully though, today was actually magic.
Or at least most of it was.
The last little bit of my shift however, was dreadful.
And I am glad it is over.
Now I'm watching Star Trek (Next Gen) and eating freshly baked cookies.
Pretending the world is new.
<3
Love and stuff.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Sick, Idiot.
Or possibly just sick.
Again.
Anyway, it's been a long, lovely weekend, full of the germs. I am however, feeling much better now. Just sleepy.
For the majority of the past week sleep has eluded me. There's been no particular reason for this bout of insomnia, my brain just flat out refused to sleep. I tried all my usual tricks. Tylenol Simply Sleeps. Sleeping with head at the foot of the bed. Sleeping in the bathtub. With music on. With an audiobook playing. Melatonin. Nothing worked. By day three I was delirious. Mostly talking jibberish. Sometimes texting nonsense to Lapochka. It was not pretty. At this point I purchased a stronger dose of melatonin with some sort of sleepy-time tea extract in hopes of lulling by brain to sleep.
This plan failed.
Instead I continued to sleep fitfully, to wake every forty five minutes or so, and to hover in that place that is not quite asleep, but also not quite awake either.
Friday I changed tactics. I decided to refuse to sleep in protest. To consume as much caffeine as possible. And to attempt to either trick my brain into desiring sleep (now that I was with-holding it) or to run headfirst into the sleep deprivation wall by hitting the maximum hours my brain could handle without sleep.
Instead I just hit my caffeine intake wall and made myself sick. It was not pretty.
The problem still has not corrected itself. But I spent literally the entire weekend in bed, sleeping when I could, so I am at least not delirious with exhaustion.
In other news, I bought a car on Tuesday, which I am very excited about. It's pretty and new-ish, and it works. I'm so freaking ecstatic to be able to drive to work in the mornings. Don't get me wrong, I really do enjoy riding my bike, but riding there in the long, cold hours before dawn is not my favorite past time. Most certainly not.
I spent Friday night with Lapochka. We went out for Thai food, she listened to me rant about land ordinances and why I hate Grand Avenue (which, thankfully she found hilarious rather than tedious and horrifyingly neurotic), and then we watched movies into the wee hours of the morning. For now, I shall keep her. I'd say more, but you know, I'm still pretending I'm a cyborg. ;)
That's all I know. I miss you more than life.
Oh, and I'm totally addicted to the new Tegan and Sara album. Like, totally addicted. It's pretty much been on a continuous loop since I obtained it. Cannot. Live. Without. It.
And on that note, here's your song of the day:
Love and stuff.
Me.
Again.
Anyway, it's been a long, lovely weekend, full of the germs. I am however, feeling much better now. Just sleepy.
For the majority of the past week sleep has eluded me. There's been no particular reason for this bout of insomnia, my brain just flat out refused to sleep. I tried all my usual tricks. Tylenol Simply Sleeps. Sleeping with head at the foot of the bed. Sleeping in the bathtub. With music on. With an audiobook playing. Melatonin. Nothing worked. By day three I was delirious. Mostly talking jibberish. Sometimes texting nonsense to Lapochka. It was not pretty. At this point I purchased a stronger dose of melatonin with some sort of sleepy-time tea extract in hopes of lulling by brain to sleep.
This plan failed.
Instead I continued to sleep fitfully, to wake every forty five minutes or so, and to hover in that place that is not quite asleep, but also not quite awake either.
Friday I changed tactics. I decided to refuse to sleep in protest. To consume as much caffeine as possible. And to attempt to either trick my brain into desiring sleep (now that I was with-holding it) or to run headfirst into the sleep deprivation wall by hitting the maximum hours my brain could handle without sleep.
Instead I just hit my caffeine intake wall and made myself sick. It was not pretty.
The problem still has not corrected itself. But I spent literally the entire weekend in bed, sleeping when I could, so I am at least not delirious with exhaustion.
In other news, I bought a car on Tuesday, which I am very excited about. It's pretty and new-ish, and it works. I'm so freaking ecstatic to be able to drive to work in the mornings. Don't get me wrong, I really do enjoy riding my bike, but riding there in the long, cold hours before dawn is not my favorite past time. Most certainly not.
I spent Friday night with Lapochka. We went out for Thai food, she listened to me rant about land ordinances and why I hate Grand Avenue (which, thankfully she found hilarious rather than tedious and horrifyingly neurotic), and then we watched movies into the wee hours of the morning. For now, I shall keep her. I'd say more, but you know, I'm still pretending I'm a cyborg. ;)
That's all I know. I miss you more than life.
Oh, and I'm totally addicted to the new Tegan and Sara album. Like, totally addicted. It's pretty much been on a continuous loop since I obtained it. Cannot. Live. Without. It.
And on that note, here's your song of the day:
Love and stuff.
Me.
Saturday, February 2, 2013
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