blah blah blah.

my share comm doesn't have working episode of leverage 205. this makes me cry inside.

artistic liscense

Yesterday at 10:34pm | Edit Note | Delete

looking at you
looking at my sketchbook
i want to take it back, so i can sketch you
looking at my sketchbook
but if i take back my sketchbook
i won't be able to look at you
looking at my sketchbook
so now i am caught between
sketching my sketchbook
and looking at you, looking at me
looking at my sketchbook
looking at my soul
sketching my heart

1. Collect underpants.
2. ????
3. Profit!

Start with straight shots and then pop bottles.

Start with the hood rats and then pop models.

Woo! It's my birthday and I'll do what I want to.

the haul so far:
four tank tops
an orange shirt
a bob marley t-shirt
two pairs of jeans
two neil gaimon books
a new copy of Run Lola Run
five pairs of underwear
three boxers for the boy, so he can throw away his stupid jail boxers
massage oil
a really fucking awesome jacket
an awesome meal at some italian place, then over to the cheesecake factory for some cheesecake and coffee

i also got myself some sunglasses.
once i get the money from my father and the money from my sister and the money from my grandfather i'm getting my hair did and my second tattoo, and if i have enough left over after that a manicure.

except that i'll probably not get the manicure or maybe even the tattoo and instead work on paying off my debt.

ha. ha ha ha. whatever.

He had been in trouble a few times but when I met him he was cleaning himself up. He swore he would never go back to jail and I told him that if he ever did I would be gone. To his honor he never did go back. Sometimes I wish he had, maybe then I would still have my sanity.

Twenty-three years. I had been with him (on and off) for twenty-three years. His drinking wasn't a problem for the first fifteen, and it took another three for me to realize how bad it really was. I remember with perfect clarity the night it all came crashing down. It's funny, I can no longer remember the horrible names he called me or which glasses he broke against the wall, but this night will forever be ingrained into my memory as the beginning of the end. Or perhaps a more accurate analogy would be the bullet that puts a road-rashed deer out of his misery.


It was four-thirty on a Tuesday morning when he finally came home from the bar. His eyes were bloodshot and his breath wreaked of vodka. He saw me sitting at the kitchen table. I expected him to try and stumble through some drunken excuse but instead he stumbled into the kitchen and tried to drunkenly wrap his arms around me. I pushed him away and glared at him. Usually he quailed under that look but tonight he was too wasted to take notice. I pushed him away again and stood up.

"Baby," I started.

"Oh, baby, you look so sexy tonight..."

"No," I said, yet again pushing his hands off of me. "No way. I told you --"

"I'm sorry. Babe--Baby. Look at me. Look at me." I sighed and looked up at his eyes. He was staring blearily at my left cheek. "I love you, baby. You know that."

"Yes, I know, but --"

"No buts. I love you. You love me. That's all that matters." He leaned in to kiss me. I leaned back.

"It's not all that matters --"

"Kiss me when I'm trying to kiss you, please," he said quietly. It was always something he hated. I just shook my head.

"It's useless trying to talk to you when you're like this. Go to bed."

I've never seen him look so angry. He stared at me for a few seconds, then his hand reached out quick, so quick, much faster than I thought his drunken self was capable of, and grabbed the hair at the back of my head. He pulled me in hard and forced my lips to his. I struggled away. He slapped me. I gaped at him, open-mouthed. He grabbed my hair with both hands and yanked me back to him.

I was scared and in shock. For a second I considered just giving in for fear of being hurt worse. As soon as the thought came into my head it filled me with such disgust towards him and myself. It fueled me with anger and I began to hit and punch him wherever my hands could reach. He was stronger and bigger than me, and had enough alcohol in him that my attacks didn't even phase him. I drew my knee up fast and hard and finally he went down. I refused to feel any pity as he rolled, wheezing on the ground. I grabbed my wallet, phone, and car keys off the kitchen table and walked out. A loud ringing in my ears almost blocked out the, "Baby, wait, baby, please..."

I bought a pack of cigarettes from an all-night gas station and parked my car on a side street. After letting three burn down almost untouched I gave up and let myself cry. I knew now that I had to leave him. I knew I couldn't let myself go back to the alcoholic monster he'd become and that knowledge hurt worse than my cheek where he hit it or my hair where he'd yanked it. My phone rang. It was him, of course. I didn't answer. It rang and rang and rang. After the fourth or fifth time he left a voicemail. Curiosity and a small amount of lingering respect for our eighteen year history made me to listen to it.

It was a long, rambling, drunken message with a lot of heavy breathing, as though he was trying not to cry. The only time I ever saw him cry was when his father passed away.

"I love you so much," the message began. "You're the only one who's ever always been there for me." It went on for a few minutes but I couldn't understand much beyond the occasional word. Near the end he seemed to get himself together, and it ended: "And now you're gone, too, and it's all my fault and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You'll never hear from me again. I promise I'm done hurting you. I'm done with all of it.

"I love you, baby. When you remember me, remember us, please remember the good times. I want you to be happy when you think of me. I want... I want you to be happy.

"Goodbye."

I raced back to the house. No matter how angry I was, no matter if I wasn't going back to him anyway, I couldn't let him kill himself. Though I thought it was just an attempt to get me to come back, I still couldn't take that chance. I drove all the way across town in less than five minutes and walked in the front door to find him loading his shotgun. Somehow I managed to talk the gun from his hands and put him in bed. I stayed up all night to make sure he didn't try anything else. The following morning I told him that I was leaving, and that I was taking his shotgun. He wasn't happy, but he wasn't drunk enough to force it from me. I told him he needed to quit his drinking. I told him he needed to get help. I told him to call me on his ninety days and we'll talk. He didn't say anything, just nodded his head to everything I said. I left.

Later, he got angry. Every few days he called me and told me to bring his gun back. He said he would call the police. I knew he was bluffing, he knew I knew he was bluffing. He still hated pigs from his younger days. I told him over and over again that I wouldn't give it back until he promised me he wouldn't use it on himself. For weeks and weeks he wouldn't do it. His friends and family members called me, yelled at me to give it back. They didn't know how bad he was, they didn't want to know. He doesn't have a drinking problem, they told me, as if they would know better than I would.

A few months went by where I didn't hear from him. Then he called and asked if he could stop by. I said no. I said I wanted nothing to do with him until he made the promise. He did. He promised me. And he always kept the promises he made to me. I took the gun over to his house. He begged me to stay. Begged me to come back. I told him I would come back when I had proof that he was getting help. Because after it all I still loved him. I still hoped he could get through it and that we could be happy again.

Four years later he was still drinking. I couldn't bring myself to leave him completely. I was the only good thing in his life and I knew it. So I would still go over to his place now and again when he needed me. I still checked up on him and we still talked on the phone and went out to dinner every couple of months. Every time he would ask me to stay, and every time I broke my heart telling him I wouldn't. He half-heartedly went to a few AA meetings, but that didn't last long. One night he called. I could tell by his voice he was drunk again. He asked me to come over. To come over and stay over. I wouldn't. I was angry that he quit going to AA. I was angry that he would even call me so trashed and ask me to come over when he knew how strongly I felt. He begged me, pleaded. I wouldn't budge. Then he just gave up.

"Alright. I didn't really expect you to. I understand. I wouldn't come see me, either."

I was so angry. I knew he was just trying to guilt me again. Well, this time I wouldn't give in. I turned off my phone and tried to turn off my mind.

That night he propped up his feet with my favorite blanket, the purple one with the white unicorn, and blew his promise all over the wall.

I will never understand why he did it. I will never understand why he would rather die than be with me. I know that's a twisted way to look at it, but I told him if he would put down the bottle we could pick up where we left off, but he didn't.

I will never be rid of this guilt. I will never be rid of the nagging belief that if I had gone over that night he would be alive today. I know I can't be held responsible for his actions but fucking hell, if I had gone, if I had been there for him like he needed me to be, like no one else ever was for him, he might have pulled through.

I will never stop hating him for breaking his promise. The last twenty-three years he had kept every promise he had ever made me, big and small. He never went back to jail, he got me that puppy for my 27th birthday, he never cheated or had any sort of affair. Why did this one, this last one, this most important one have to be the one shattered like my glasses, like his skull, like my heart?

Where is my release? Where are the words that always pour so effortlessly from my fingertips through the keyboard and onto my screen? The raw emotion and pain and suffering that I could so easily drain away with a pen? Where is the ink shining on the page, a mirror for the tears shining on my cheeks? I cannot articulate myself. Not even with my third person mask on can I let slip a paragraph, a line, a sentence to calm my screaming heart. Where has my eloquence gone? The sinews of my syntax have snapped and slipped away. I am empty of all creativity; I couldn't conjure a plot device to save my life. Why am I suddenly unable to wrap myself up in my language? To weave an intricate shield of words to protect my fragile mind? There is nothing inside me and it's not the good kind of empty. It's not the satiated emptiness that comes from unleashing my soul upon the page. It's the kind that the needle points to in my car when I have somewhere to be. It's the kind that urges me silently to drive my fist into the wall. There is nothing outside me, no piece to read, no poem or song or story to show for the feelings that consume me. There is nothing inside, there is nothing outside, I am empty and exposed.

My sentence structure is repeating
to the beat my heart is beating
and instead of this retreating
I wish I could be completing
some magic work of fiction
but I seem to have no diction,
my writing's full of friction.

"There She Goes, My Beautiful World," by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

seriously, grandma, how can you fuck up every confectionery item you touch?

In other news, today royally sucks ass, and it's not even one:thirty. I had to get up early to deliver my mother's homework to the professor (after helping her literally all day yesterday to write/film/burn the files to a CD) she sent me to the wrong one / I went to the wrong one (Lakeland), dicked around for an hour and looked like an idiot. Finally when I get to the correct school (Lakeshore), it's fucking closed on Fridays apparently. And the fucking parking lot was so confusing that when I saw the exit from the lot I was in I just drove across the lawn so I could get out. I think to myself, fuck it, I'm going to smoke that 15 bag. I will take the loss in profit. So I get home, and upload her speech the only place I know it will work. Facebook. So I make my mother a facebook and am now uploading it (I'll be surprised if it uploads correctly the first time without any problems). After starting the upload, I go into the kitchen and notice a Sprint envelope on the table. I open it, and my phone bill is TWO HUNDRED AND FORTY DOLLARS. Unacceptable. I call the sprint people and bitch about specifically twenty dollars that is completely unfounded and I got them to take it off, but it's still a two hundred and twenty dollar phone bill that I cannot afford and it's due in two weeks. So no, I cannot afford to smoke that 15 bag. If my phone was not a very important part of my very, very low-paying job I would just not pay it and let it die because I fucking hate sprint anyway and I want out of this contract. After this I am not getting contract phones. I'm just not. Fucking pay-by-the-month from then on.

and here's laurie asking me to come over and smoke her up?! and now she's asking for free weed on her birthday?! Woman, I just told you that I am in a desperate need for money and all you can think about is trying to get me to give you free weed?!?

19 minutes remaining.

everyone better pay me the money they owe me. fucking by the end of the week.

oh hey, that's tomorrow. better get your shit together, guys.

let's tally it up right now:

25 from sam
15 from holly
20 from jessica
30 in my wallet
100 dollars once I collect.
I have:
1 dub
1 15
if i sell that is 35 dollars

but some of it is sams and fuck me if i know how much

Obama wrote a memoir? ... Obama hasn't done anything yet. He's already written a memoir, and so long ago in fact that it is now "coming back to haunt him". Wtf, Obama. 1995 you wrote it in? What the fuck? I mean, ten years ago you were no one. Why the fuck would you think any single person would want your memoir. Especially since you were only like, 30 ish years old then. You didn't do anything worth remembering. Fucking hell, become the first black president, THEN write a memoir.

Dumbass.



wtf #2: this guy talking about Obama began his razor-sharp political contribution with, "I was actually on the treadmill the other day, I was running, and I had the TV on..."

Her brother wasn't pleased. He said he'd seen movies about criminal psychologists and they all had very deep-set emotional problems.

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c3/Purple_Rhino.gif

There totally could have been life on Venus like, billions of years ago.

Hear me out, I was in my driveway and I looked up and saw Venus in the sky, and to be honest, I was not quite sure if it was Venus. I was like, 95% sure, but I had to go online and check and yeah, it was Venus. But then I just started reading shit about Venus, specifically this, during the bit about the geography of the Venusian surface (man that is a weird word to write), thinking, Yeah, that sounds like it used to be an ocean, and that used to be a continent. One day, if the sun doesn't expand all the way out to Earth, other people could, billions and billions of years later, be saying that about our planet.
But of course, that made me think that obviously if I'm thinking that about Venus, couldn't there have quite possibly been life on Venus? Because scientists say (in that same article, even) that they think there used to be water there.

Also, while reading about sun expansion, I read what may have been the most inane thing I have ever read/heard/somehow came across, at least from someone who is (supposedly) an intelligent person.

Is it probable that life on earth will survive that long, or will asteroids wipe us out before then?

Probability wise, it's likely that the Human Race will have been killed off by the time the Sun leaves the Main Sequence. I don't think that any species in history has dominated the Earth for that long. Of course we could be the first....

Of course we could be the first, you idiot! I think we're a bit more advanced than the dinosaurs. I think we're a little more equipped for surviving than any other species on the planet, ever, and good lord but I would think that should be obvious. Just because some idiot lizards died off does not mean that humans, with our civilizations, language, technology, you know, those higher level thinking skills that we have, will also die off in the same time frame.

and now on a completely different note, something I was thinking about on the drive home after picking up sam. err, dropping her off. whatever.

I was thinking about Kaiser, and how she's having a baby, and it made me think about if one day I want to have kids and all that. I've thought about it a couple times since she's got pregnant, and once I actually had a bit of a pregnancy scare myself and almost wanted to have a child (though I only actually said that because I wasn't really worried about being pregnant, I didn't think I was) but anyway the point is, I was thinking about having a child and I started thinking about if the woman I would be with would want to be the mother or if I would.

And then I stopped, and realized that I had just automatically assumed that if I was having a child, I would be having it with a woman. And that got me thinking about a lot of different things, and I think I've finally figured some stuff out about myself.

I'm bisexual, I've known that for a long time. I have to admit, though, I'm still a pussy when it comes to girls, so I've only had one serious relationship with a girl, and I was only with a girl one other time, and that was just a one-time thing, tbh and she's not even bisexual, I don't think, just... adventurous so even though I know I'm bi I still mostly date/fool around with guys. But now that I've actually given it some serious thought, I think that I could only be in a committed, long-term relationship with a girl. And actually, that's probably another reason why I'm more scared to form relationships with women.


Sorry. I got distracted again by reading about outer space. I'm going to get some blueberry pomegranate juice, possibly have a strawberry, then head to bed and watch some Wolf's Rain. Ta.

I... dunno what I'm doing.

The lack is making my head weird. I need marijuana and cigarettes constantly to calm my ass down (but I can't afford either. money, which really is the root of all my problems right now. causing problems with my head, my relationships, my schedule, my mobility. fuck this job market, or lack thereof). Inside my head is going a million miles a minute all the time. I dug myself into this, I know it. I'm being ridiculously angry towards my friends and I can't stop. Well, not all of them. The rest I just lie to and say that everything is fine. My mind changes, too fast for even myself to keep up, and then it changes back. I have crazy, stupid ideas that seem to make perfect sense until after I've acted on them. I confided in one person, but that person doesn't seem to give a shit at all. I'm being irrational and probably pissing off everyone I come in contact with, and I'm trying so hard to break out of this cycle, but it's hard. It's so hard. All I want is something that I don't even know what. I just want something, someone, to rely on. Because right now I can't rely on anyone or anything to be stable, to ground myself with. Everything is up in the air. Everything is tenuous. Everything is on thin ice and yeah, it's all my fault. I can't handle this, I can't handle much, I can't handle anything. This is so much longer than I expected it to be.

I just want someone's shoulder to cry on, I want to know that I will always have someone's shoulder to cry on. But I don't. Relationships are never as strong as I think they are and I fuck everything up in like, two seconds. I want to apologize to everyone who's pissed off at me, but I can't because fuck it all I'm Pissed Off, Too, but nobody cares. Everyone's off doing their own things and no one has time for a friend in need. No one really understands how much shit I am in right now. My hands are shaking, I can't stop blinking four times a second, everything I eat I throw up. But no one knows, no one can tell, no one cares enough to look. Even the person I confided in doesn't give a shit. Sometimes I fucking hate you all. I just need someone to help me through this.

fuck it, nevermind. i can handle myself. i did this to myself and i can get through it myself.

fuck it, i need a cigarette.

( I guess you could say she was a sex fiend. (edit - lol sex friend? i should read this more carefully before pasting.) )

So my last thing for uni is over. Officially I am done here. (well, I have to get the rest of my shit outta here and get checked out of the housing building yet, but no big deal.)

I think I might've bombed my western civ exam. I sure hope not.

A few weeks ago I found this TV show - Young Dracula - and I think it's pretty neat.

I found out today that David Bowie turned down the role for Count Dracula. I wonder how much more awesome it would have been if he had not.

Isn't it kind of odd that we made a board game based on creating amazingly expensive monopolies that people can't afford to pay and thus are bankrupt? I mean, after the Great Depression and all of that... now it's a freaking board game? What's next, a Slavery deck of cards?

To the guy sailing across Mission Bay with a porch umbrella
Date: 2008-02-28, 10:28PM PST


I suppose you were windsurfing. I've never seen anyone windsurf with a porch umbrella for a sail, boldly charging across the bay like a cross between Admiral Nelson and Mary Poppins. I was amazed -- you didn't just sail downwind, I swear I saw you tacking. You, sir, are my hero. I wanted to tell you so, but alas, I was on the shore. I had so many questions. No, I really only had one question (why?) but it seemed like a really, really good question. Every time I went back, I hoped to see you again, Umbrella Man, but alas, I have not seen you since. Should you happen to read this, could I trouble you for the story behind your brave voyage?