Mad Styles.

Chris Martin must have had a considerable brain fart to have written the not-so-new, I just started listening to it now, Coldplay album. The lyrical content of it is one gigantic compilation of similies. I suppose I wouldn't find it that bad if he had the sense to not use the same comparison in two different songs on the same album.

This album is shit.

I don't really mind that Coldplay is sucking ass now. I got my worth out of them during my obscure teenager years when they were still humble little men from the UK. I do like the name Apple though.

I did get fumed out on Wednesday.
I can still feel the paint under my skin.
I don't think people know the definition of ick until they've stood in a room of aresol for five hours. It's nasty. Not only do you feel absolutely wrong from inhaling so much bad air, you also feel like you've been rolling around in lard for forty minutes. Even my hair feels disgusting.
The wall turned out alright. It irks me that it's not centered, but who am I to point out such a thing? The scheme had a white fill with red 3d, highlighed with orange chips. It was sick. The background was black and tiny squiggles of electricity are blowing out of the piece, leaving a faint touch of baby and royal blue behind them.
My Uncle, who is a naturally scary man, was elated. I have never seen him bust so many smiles out of his stone cold mug. When him and I originally talked about the payment for the work, he had wanted to pay them with beer. By the end of the day, he had gone through a case of beer, half a bottle of crown royal, a large pizza, a box of wings, and even X amount of cash for their efforts. Everyone was happy, including me because everyone was sucking on my ass for hooking up the talent with the cash and vice versa.

Seeing Andrew again was a lot more natural than I thought it would be. Thankfully his bitch of a girlfriend wasn't there, so we were free to act a little more openly towards eachother. Ever since Lindsy came into his life, I've had to act ridgid and uninterested whenever he was around. Long gone are the days of excited art conversations, silly movie trips and graffiti jams in the big cities. I sincerely miss that. Too much I think.
It was rad though, seeing Mike and Blake again too. Mike has mellowed out a lot. I don't know if it's because I've gotten hotter over the past year or if it's 'cause he's matured. Either way, he was a lot more interested in talking to me, and a lot cooler to be around. He still is a perfectionist and a bit of an anal retentive brat, but much, much better.
Blake is still a spacecadet. He lives to get drunk, cries when he can't get laid and is funny as fucking hell. His graf styles are so random, they reflect his personality rather well.

After the graffiti, I went back to St. Catharines with the boys to rent some movies and chill. Somewhere in the midst of our numerous conversations about sex, there was mention of beat boxing vag's and some asinine question about letting my man pee on me during sex. I can usually hold my own with explicit conversation amoungst the best of men, but when the conversation turns to licking box, I freeze. Maybe because I don't have much experience with the procedure, probably because Jeff made me feel so awful about it that the smallest mention of the activity makes me feel guilty and gross. Jeff is such a fucker.
Anyway, the conversation was far too akward for my liking. Andrew took notice and decided to change it's flow to,

"So Anna, want to have sex with Blake?"

Gross.

Blake is a strange little man with twisted fingers and a serious lack of mental health. The idea of allowing him to insert his penis in me makes me want to die. I calmly replied with,

"Talk to my six foot five, two hundred and seventy-five pound boyfriend about it, and if he thinks it appropriate, I might consider it."

They all laughed, and I seem to remember Andrew saying something like,

"I think Anna would do most of the fucking, she's into some sort of kinky shit"

or something like that. Either way, Blake was mighty red, which bothers me too much. There really wasn't a reason for him to blush unless he was mentioning in the car how much he'd like to fuck me. If that's the case, I need to stay as far away as possible from Blake.

We hungout in the Essar's kitchen and painted something for Lindsy's Dad's birthday. Andrew ended up talking to her on the phone, and got into a mild fight over her not being lovey-dovey and in the midst of the lover's quarrel, Andrew dumped the phone in the sink full of water. He got really paranoid about pissing off his dad and immediately got terribly stressed. That was the Andrew I remember. A man-boy with little to no clue of what's going on, constantly miserable, constantly upset and constantly stressed about the smallest of things, which eventually blow up to be the biggest of problems. I then remembered, why I moved out of our appartment.

I ended up leaving Andrew's house at around one thirty am. I only had two hours of sleep, and the ride home was absolutely awful. We promised we would talk before he left, and I said something about talking to John, my most favourite graffiti writer of all time and he promised we would get in touch, which excites me.

I really do miss Andrew. It sucks that he lives so far away, with his wicked girlfriend. I hope he moves back here someday so we can be close. I hope he dumps his girlfriend so he can be happy again.

I hope he comes back so he can teach me how to write.

Narcolepsy.

I should warn you, I.go.to.sleep.

Fuck, am I tired.

Christmas is generally too emotionally and financially draining for the majority of most humans. If those two factors aren't gonna get yah, the physical drain of your body and soul usually puts you over the top. Factoring all three into your existence during that stupidly busy week before wee baby J's birthday is, I think, the reason why 50% of Wal*Mart workers consider suicide as a plausible and acceptable option.

I'm very sentimental about Christmas. I don't like that. I want to be someone who isn't commercially involved so I can spend Christmas alone, or with selected company, without the presents and all the relative bullshit. But I of course, cannot do that.
I like buying people presents. Or creating presents. Or getting the idea in my head that I can make six stained glass lamp shades in the matter of a month for people that don't deserve stained glass lamp shades.
Somehow, there's a small part of my brain that is still registering the fact that I receive presents in return as a good thing. It's not. I get so much fattening crap and so much shit that I have to reorganize all my belongings every year to introduce my new belongings to their new homes. I currently have six tubes of unopened mascara, from the last six years, sitting downstairs in a cardboard box because I never wear makeup. It's all shit, really.
But I got some useful stuff this year. Both my mother and father gave me a set of the stonewear dishes that I wanted so desperately. I now have service for eight guests. Now I just need to find a dinner table to set them on. I also got a box of quilting supplies, some rulers, good scissors, fat squares, a shitload of needles and even a thimble. This is wonderful to me really. Now all I need is a sewing machine.
Chelsea got me the Ben Folds live in Australia with WASO. Some of the arrangements are completely fucked up, but in a good way. She also got me thirteen Ben Folds buttons, some coasters and a really rad seashell necklace. Yes, that's right. I'm the little mermaid.
Cookbooks, some mugs, salt and pepper shakers... it's all piled in the corner of my room, waiting to be put away lovingly. I think it will probably sit in that corner for quite some time.

Now, three days after Christmas, I'm so tired that I can barely move. My eyes are considerably heavy and my heart is beating rapidly due to being overworked and deprived of a rest. Ah bed, how I love thee.

I have two hours to get some shut eye and then, I'm back up again, off to see my old roommate. I'm hoping to have some excellent laughs. Ones of course, that are not induced by fumes.

A Christmas Story.

Yeah. Hi. Christmas sucks.

I spent Wednesday afternoon with Andrew drizzing pretzel sticks in chocolate for my undeserving associates at work. 90% of the fuckers didn't even say thank you. How's that for Christmas spirit?

I ended up getting a whopping three hours of sleep before work. While at work, I slid into a furniture rack and slept on a boxed table for aproxiamtely fifteen minutes. I was too afraid to sleep for any longer. Wal Mart is a scary place to sleep.
At breaks, Josh, Mike, Derek and I watched Celebrity Jepoardy and giggled with wild amusement. Turd Fergusen. Funny shit.

On Thursday I took the four hour transit ride to Toronto to spend Christmas with Andrew and his family. I was very tired and still am very tired and perhaps, am a little too tired to be writing in my blog. Being at my mother's house with nothing to do, makes for good blogging opportunities.
I gave Mrs. Keenan a quilt for the big Dec. 25. She was very elated, but honestly I think Papa K. enjoyed his case of individually wrapped, beer from around the world sampler more. Seriously though, who wouldn't? Japanese beer for Christmas? C'mon! Scatt and Han got socks and themed candy canes and I somehow ended up with a pile of shitty ornaments from the dollar store. Not to sound ungreatful or anything, but seriously... Country Kitch Christmas Crap is not my style. I'd rather get nothing than something I have to display out of obligation to my future sister-in-law. Fecking Gross.
Andrew got a barbeque. I gave it to him in early November. I felt a bit bad that he had nothing to open, but seriously... how the hell am I going to hide a god damned barbeque for three months? I doubt I could have fit it in the overhead compartment on the bus. Better to have it sent up a month before.
Mama K. got me a rockin green sweater and the Martha Stewart Baking Handbook.

Best. Present. Ever.

I was very proud of my boyfriend for picking the MSBH out for me. It proves that he does think about sappy stuff. What a good man.
Andrew also got me a heating blanket as I'm so cold all the time. He said, "It's to do my job when I'm not around." and everyone sort of rolled their eyes with icky delight. My boyfriend is learning how to be a boyfriend. It's very... sentimental.
After sleeping for almost twenty hours, Laverne and I watched Iron Will on the Aboriginal Network. Yah gotta wonder how much of that story is Disney influenced and how much is true to the actual events. I'm guessing not much.
We talked, we laughed, we ate, we discussed Andrew and I's offspring... It was all a very entertaining event. Nothing like talking about reproduction with your boyfriend's parents
Andrew took me home soon after. His muffler went on the way and everyone looked in awe and wonder at the high performance vehicle zooming down the highway. Funny that a broken muffler makes 19 year-old boys in their parents sooped up hondas pay props. Stupid men.

Today I'm at me Ma's house. So far she hasn't done anything overly stupid or annoying, but I think that's because I'm casually feeding her small presents every time she gets a bit dodgy. I just gave her a beaded necklace that I made months ago. She went absolutely batty.
The Marcov side of the family is coming tonight for the festivities. My mom side of the family is full of crazy drunks, so it should be, at least, a good laugh.

But still. Christmas sucks.

Inbetween Days.

...He's not going to rock out with his cock out really, but he might rock out without his socks on. He might, rock it, rock it, rock it, rock it, rock it with his mother fucking blue shirt on, how distinctive is that? Shoobee-do-bop. Scat etc.

Chelsea finally found my Songs for Goldfish album.

Thank fucking God.

There is a live account of evaporated on this album, my favourite Ben Folds song, ever. It makes me cry when I listen to it. It's made me cry far too many times. I'm always surprised by how much the account of his day has reflected the position of my life ever since I've been fifteen. That's fucked. He's such a clever man. Fucker.

I've always found it disgutingly tacky to quote lyrics on the internet, especially on blogs, (unless they are ridiculously funny. See above). These forums are, after all a way to exercise my life's story, not a way to give props to a badass piano player. Like anyone really cares about Ben Folds' lyrics anyway. Well, they might, but not because of my blog.

I think maybe today I will disgrace my philosophy and create a fly by account of these emotions as I listen to this song. These are something of substance, I think. And I think I want to remember them.

"What I've kept with me and what I've thrown away and where the hell I've ended up on this glary random day. Or the things that I really cared about, just left along the way, for being too pent up and proud."

YEAH. No shit. I can't even begin to count the amount of people that have fallen in the gutter because of my pigheaded selfishness. I hope that maybe this is an almost-adult phase that I'm quietly and stupidly going through. I hope.
But then, it's not even the people that I've left behind that make me feel at a loss when I listen to this. I've lost so much of myself and I think maybe that's perhaps why I've ended up in a corner. A corner that is making me completely dependant on other people. Fuck I hate that.

"Woke up way too late, feeling hungover and old and the sun was shinning bright and I walked bare foot down the road. Started thinking about my old man, it seems that all men, want to get into a car and go... Anywhere."

I've never felt hungover. Not really anyway, but I have felt old. I'm twenty-three fucking years old and I feel like I'm fifty. Not because I've abandoned my childish nature, but wait, I'm pulling a Micheal Jackson here, but because I can't honestly remember a time where I was allowed to be a happy child.
I used to walk barefoot to school when I was a teenager. My boyfriend of the time hated it. I thought it was nice that I lived in a town where I could walk barefoot down the road.
Before my father left, this song just reminded me that my dad would always leave every weekend. He was always in that blasted bus, singing for God, forgetting his family. That line always makes me remember how much I couldn't tell the difference between my emotions when he left every weekend and when he left for good. They just felt the same.

"Here I stand, sad and free and I can't cry and I can't see what I've done. No God, what have I done?"

Ah. The simple yet cleverly impacting chorus.
This song seems like such a powerful confession to me, that it only seems fitting to be standing numb, unable to understand just what you've stumbled into, unable to come to terms with what you need to do next.
Sometimes I wonder if I've falied God when I decided he wasn't for me. I miss my faith, I miss that peaceful feeling that exists when you love something bigger than yourself. I thought once that the feeling was created by my ignorance toward everything else but my faith. I was right of course. It's funny how much I long to return to it.

"Don't you know I'm numb man, no I can't feel a thing at all. 'Cause it's all smiles and business these days and I'm indifferent to the loss. And I've got faith that there's a soul somehwere, that's leading me around. I wonder if she knows which way is down?"

I don't know how people can be so oblivious to the actual lack of humanity that exists in us all. I hate all the social agendas and the fake plastered smiles that break across the elite's faces when they see someone they think is worth their five minutes of honest-to-god indifference. I hate it. I hate how we're all so cold.
I don't want an angel, I just want someone who is sincerely interested in knowing someone other then themselves.

"Here I stand, sad and free and I can't cry and I can't see what I've done. No God, what have I done? And I poured my heart out. I poured my heart out. It evaporated... See?"

That, "See?" sounds so desperate to me.
It's a shame that so many people wear their hearts on their sleeves, and yet no one seems to care enough to notice.There's such an inability amoungst all of us that keeps us from actually ever talking to one another. Seriously, how hard is it to fucking listen? How hard is it to TALK? And not about piddy weather shit.

"A blind man on a canyons edge of panoramic scene. Or maybe I'm kite that's flying high, random dangling a string. Or slumped over in a vacant room, head on a stranger's knee. I'm sure back home, they think I've lost my mind."

Usually by this point in the song, I'm crying so badly that the emotions related to it are forgotten. My life does seem like there's something that I'll never be able to obtain because of how much of myself I've shut off due to other people's inflicted pain.

I don't think people think I've lost my mind for it. I know they think I'm a bitch for it....

You better watch out, 'cause I'm going to say FUCK.

You better watch out.

Fuck.

A Daily Account.

Buying tangerines at Christmas time is quite a predicament. I always want them, I want them very badly. They are the epitome of Christmas wrapped in a ball of fruit. The scent, the look, the yummy taste that lingers on your tongue after you've consumed twenty, and believe me, I have consumed twenty... Sigh. They really are quite magical.

But no matter how long you pick through the piles of boxes in the grocery, you still, 95% of the time, manage to pick a bad box of tangerines. Not bad as in, "ewe, what is that grey fuzz growing on the bottom of that peel?" It's more of a mediocre complex that only certain tangerines have and this complex of course, spreads to every tangerine in the god damned box, making them all taste a little off. Shitty tangerines. Gross.

Christmas amoungst the Oster's this year is turning out to be a load of absolute crap, as usual. Stinky has forgotten to book off Christmas eve, my mother is already laying guilt trips on her children for wanting to spend time with our good-for-nothing, dead-beat dad. My cousin, who has just purchased a brand-spanking-new home in St. Catharines is demanding to cook and prepare Christmas dinner, which would be fine, if she wasn't a vegetarian and the bag of perogies that I had set aside for Andrew's family dinner had been consumed by my sister and her pseudo boyfriend in the middle of yesterday's night. Yes! My immediate family is full of absolute baboons!

The perogie situation has been remedied, thank goodness. Unfortunately the rest of it is teetering on the brink of disaster and I'm planning to stay as far away as possible, for as long as I possibly can.I saw King Kong last night with Mike and Holly. Holly really is a space cadet and I feel increasingly more stupid when I am with her. Her absense seems to rub off on me from time to time and I find myself in my own world, usually wondering how someone could be so utterly void of anything. She really is, quite empty.

The movie was alright. Too many gross parts for my liking. I'm not a giant-man-eating-worm type of girl. Animals that rip men into bits of kibbles don't particularly turn my crank. But Adrian Brodey is hot, and I am shallow enough to say that I would have endured the worms at least another five times to see that man's face again. Exscuse me while I drool.

I ended up spending the majority of today finishing Mama K's quilt for Christmas. I'm happy with it, it turned out better than I expected and I don't particularly want to give it away, but know I must, as keeping it will only make me feel guilty.

Afterwards I went to the mall to purchase a book. Oddly enough I bumped into Jeff K. Jeff K. My first real boyfriend. My first love. My first everything... really. It was odd to see him. He's so sketchy now, so random. It's very obvious that he's been dabbling in the drugs, more so than he should be. His ADD has blown up to from a small annoyance to a flat out frustrating quirk. He's living in St. Catharines with a girl named Andrea. They're not dating, they're plataunic. Sure they are... that's exactly what he said about me and him for almost two years.

I ended up taking him out to lunch 'cause he had said he had barely eaten in days. I didn't mind really, it was nice to sit and talk to him, even if he is, absolutely insane.

Work is five hours away and I should sleep. I hate work. I hate it with all my soul. Bah. At least I have cool hair now.

Rachel.

Rachel called me again today. She called me to tell me our friendship needed to end because of the insulting comments left on my JOURNAL and because I was never around.

I've come to some very important conclusions today, two of which are going to save me a lot of grief in my future. The first is that I am no longer giving anyone my journal address, for no reason, what-so-ever. If you don't want to know what I really think of your fucked-up-ness, then don't COME.HERE.TO.READ.MY.FUCKING.JOURNAL. The second is that, I absolutely suck at a) calling people back and b) making plans to 'hang out.
'I'm not going to clarify my first point because it's already crystal fucking clear. The second however, may need some clarity. I do not like hanging out with people. It's a waste of my fucking time and unless I have a sincere interest in you, or want to see a movie, or think it would be fun to have a spell on the town because I'm in that sort of mood, I don't want to see you. I realise that this is selfish, but I have never denied that I am anything but a selfish girl.
I realise that I did none of these things with Rachel, but that was more or less because now, I have no time. What time I do have, is spent sleeping, eating, being with Andrew and investing in the future by saving my hard, earned Wal*Mart paycheck. So once again, even if I did have the time to hang out, I wouldn't have the coin to do it because I WORK AT WAL*MART.

I realise Rachel would be mad for reading what I wrote about her current situation. I realise that I'm a rude person and that most times I should just keep my mouth shut, but not on my FUCKING JOURNAL. I realise that I should be a little more understanding and try to calmly rationalise why I wrote what I wrote in a sympathetic and sincere sort of way, but these days, I just simply can't.
The days of my emotional sympthay are gone. There's a part of me that turns off when women berate me for doing them no good, and I blame that completely on my mother's two years of constant verbal battering. I hate when women go off the handle when they've caught themselves in an instance of pain and frustration. Calm the fuck down. Think about the situation. Validate your feelings and calmly confront them with an air of respect and dignity. Don't call me with a load of bullshit about how I'm the worst person in the world because I've failed you miserably. And please don't touch on my personal relationships with Josh and Andrew and how I'VE fucked them up so badly because of the drama in my life. There is no drama in my life, my life is dull and calm. I write about what I write about because those are the parts that are worth remembering.

FUCK. I HATE EVERYONE.

Anyway, she's left it in my hands to call her, "to save our friendship."

I hate ultimatums.

Mucha Mermaid.

On Saturday, I finally found enough of my proverbial testicals to go under the buzzing needle to get my tattoo.

I will attempt to cover the majority of the generic questions, to soothe the interests of my public.

1. Did it hurt?
Of course it hurt. Generally, whenever someone stabs your skin in a repetitive motion with any sort of sharp instrument, it hurts. Was it an unberable pain that made birthing a child seem like rainbows and sunshine? No. There were bits that made me grasp the "Bite and Scream Pillow" a little harder but, nothing that made me want to do something silly like... pass out.*

2. What is it?
It's a mermaid you fool.

2.5. Why the fuck would you get a mermaid?
I like mermaids. I've wanted to be one since I was a little girl and I may secretly believe that I am one (even at the ripe age of twenty-three), but I'll never admit to that completely and honestly.

3. Where is it and what does it look like?
On my back, the right shoulder blade to be exact. It's aproximately six or seven inchs long. Her tail is green, she has brown hair and she's holding a purple cloth. It is rendered in the style of my most favourite Art Nouveau Illustrator/Graphic Designer, Alphonse Mucha.
The colour pallet was chosen for two main reasons a) My love affair with the Little Mermaid and b) Andrew's favourite colour is purple - no, he is not gay. She has brown hair 'cause I'm trying to keep my roots alive.

4. Do you like it?
Yes, I like it very much. Side Show Tim did a sick job of rendering her face. I'm a little worried about the blotchiness of her tail, but I'm assuming that can be fixed if necessary. There is a little outline work that needs to be improved, but that will all come in time.

5. Will you get another?
More than likely not. I can't think of another thing I'd like to put on my body and if I do, I doubt I'll find it that much of a priority to make the time and find the money to persue such an elaborate Saturday afternoon again.

6. Any Advice?
Don't get a tattoo in the winter. Well, get a tattoo in the winter if you live with people who appreciate heat. Attempting to keep it properly hydrated in a freezing house is difficult, only because I have to be half naked to do so.
Also, if you're a woman and you plan on bringing your boyfriend, DO NOT allow him to sit in front of you. When he begins to coo sympathetic commentary, you will have a very strong desire to kick him in the nuts.

Summary:
It's frustrating showing it to people. I do, very much want to show it off, and play-up my non-existent tough nature, but at the same time, I feel very naked in the process. Allowing people to scrutinize your body in a close proximity is difficult. So is being on the receiving ends of comments like, "You should do this to it" or a very unenthusiastic, "Yeah that's cool."
I can see how a tattoo could be something that someone could very easily regret. I can perhaps see how easy it will be for me to regret it in a couple years, but hope I won't for the sake of my insecurities already.
Right now I'm very happy that I got this tattoo. It is very classy, to put it simply and I can't imagine ever being ashamed or embarrased by it. It was an experience that is hardly forgetable, and as Mike puts it, "Having a tattoo should never be something that you regret. Just think of it as something that was a good idea during that certain part of your life."

* I passed out after getting my nose pierced when I was seventeen.

You To Thank.

"So if I ran away with Andrew to get married, you'd be mad at me mom?"
"Well, it's better than what you're doing now."
"What am I doing now?"
"Moving in together before marriage. You know, statistics prove that the majority of marriages that begin in sin, end."

Yes! Roll your eyes. I rolled mine so far they almost fell onto the table top.

What do you say to that? "Shut up you stupid cow. Don't lecture me on how to live my life based on your overly righteous Christian propaganda. Allow me to remind you that your marriage failed. I'm sure you didn't commit one sin during the whole thirty years you were with Stan - Well, according to you, you hadn't. And since your marriage ended so miserably, I suppose I'll be trying something different. Wouldn't want to make the same mistakes as you mom. You should want the best for your children Dianne!"

Yes. I think that sums up that train of bullshit rather nicely.

Anyway, Rachel called me this morning.
Rachel is the girl that dated my ex boyfriend Ian after I dated him. Her relationship with him was considerably worse than mine. She did manage to get out of it and I thought she was on the right path to being a liberated and self-efficient woman.
But then the phone calls started to come, about how she had met the greatest man, whom of which was Ian's best friend from highschool. I cringed, hearing that. Smokey (as I know him), had never had a girlfriend and I'm sure he would have taken anything (no offence to Rachel of course), for the sake of filling that attention starved pit that exists somewhere in us all when nobody loves us.
Anyway she dated him, but was constantly teetering on the, "I don't want to be dating anyone right now, I need to be alone" issue. And SHE DID need to be alone. She needed to figure out how to function without a boyfriend. Needless to say, she failed at that miserably.
I was far too tired to speak with her this morning when she called me at 8:00am. She blurted out, "So much has happened. I have so much to tell you!" I retorted with a grunt, in my sleepy haze. Turns out, Rachel is engaged to a different man (Not Smokey), whom she met two weeks ago, and has been living happily with for a week.

To this I say, "Idiot."

I thought Rachel wanted to get her shit together. I sincerely thought that she was going to make an effort. Instead she's getting married to a man she's known for two weeks. AWESOME.
Any desire I had to talk to her is now obselete. I've watched her, build on her problems constantly since I've befriended her and I won't watch it anymore. There's only so much to watch before my sympathetic and understanding nature is obliterated.

Annoying Is...

Annoying Is...

Annoying is going to work at Wal*Mart every day.

Annoying is working with really bad, fucking stupid, awful and demented people every day.

Annoying is telling your boss that the really bad, fucking stupid, awful and demented people need to come back to the toy department, 'cause the ten massive skids of toys that are teetering inbetwen the isles are not being touched, because the really bad, fucking stupid, awful and demented people are too busy talking to FASHIONN LADIES about some god-awful stupid bullshit that doesn't matter, while you work your ass off in the TOY DEPARTMENT, WHICH IS ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STORE and having him say:

"MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS."

fuck you. fuck you. fuck you. fuck you. fuck you.

"But I need help."
"Why don't you worry about what you need to be doing instead of what other people are doing."
"But... I am worrying about what I'm doing, because I NEED HELP."
"You should mind your own business."

Are you not grasping the fundamental message of my problem? I NEED HELP. Should I light a flare? Or perhaps I should write an SOS message on the floor with the blood of the really bad, fucking stupid, awful and demented associate whom is going to die by the hands of my uncontrollable temper if you don't DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT, you useless sac of toy-train shit.

Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out.

That pounding in your skull isn't a headache. It's your stupid button being pressed repeatedly by the devil himself.

Owie.

Ugh. My fucking stomach.

For a week now, my stomach has been anything but kind. It's twisted and immoral and awful and all things bad. It feels like a vice is slowly squeezing it shut, making it impossible for me to keep any food in me. Making it impossible for me to stand upright for long periods without discomfort. Making it impossible for me to function.
It's hard to stand at work while pretending that stuff doesn't hurt. It's hard to stock shelves and bustle around like a proper busy bee without cringing. It's hard to admit that something hurts bad enough for me worry.

I fucking hate being sick.

Work is fucking stupid. The DM from toys may only have half a uterus, but she still is PMS grumpy more than half of the time.
Maybe the world has it wrong. Maybe the purpose of female reproductive organs is to make us happy while we're not on the rag. To remove them is the destruction and the ending of all happiness, as we know it. My uterus, ovaries, canals... they're all staying put. I never want to be that miserable.

The feeling in my belly is beginning to arise.

Visitation to the porcelin throne begins in aproximately two minutes.

Vanilla Frozen Cupcakes.

I went to see Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by myself last night 'cause all my friends are assholes and either have stupid things like families or hate Harry Potter. Fuck that. They could have at least pretended to have liked it for two and a half hours for my sake. Jerks.

Anyway, sitting in the movie theatre alone wasn't bad at all. I just huddled in my big coat in the back and quietly oo'd and awed as the film progressed.
Obviously the film was dynamite. There were mermaids in it and it was so much more creepier than the others with all that black magic and whatnot. I can't actually pinpoint my favourite part in the film because it was all so good. I hate the woman who wrote those books for being so clever with her imagination and all that other rubbish. I wish I had an imagination like that.

My dear friend Jaysun returned to me last night in the form of an msn message from Borden. We spoke for a long while about a lot of crap and then he casually admitted that he wanted to have, "one last fling" before he got married.
That proposition is far too tempting, but not tempting enough for either of us to act on it. Jaysun was the guy that I semi dated in college. A six foot seven basketball player with a curly mop of hair, whom always wore docs with red laces with black stars on them. I wanted him bad.
I remember the day we almost had sex very vividly. It was hallowe'en. I was in my second year of college and I was wearing my neon orange raver pants and carving pumpkins. He helped me finish the pumpkins and then we trudged downstairs where the notorious tickle fights began. Soon we were in my bed, half naked, fondling, biting. He was the first boy I had ever kissed who had been taller than me. I loved being short. I loved feeling small. And just when we were about to just go at it, my mother came home.

MY FUCKING MOTHER.

So we raced to put our clothes back on and then ran to the living room to turn on the tv and maintain our innocent appearances.

After that, Jaysun and I never had another chance. The sexual tension between the two of us exploded every time we saw eachother and I suppose it still does because I still want to fuck him.
I won't though, I can't. He's engaged and I might as well be. Our conversation last night was a mixture of regret and what if's. I told him he should have fucked me when he had the chance, he told me he still wanted to see my tits... What man doesn't?

The conversation ended when I finished my fozen cupcake. I crawled into my bed on the floor and dropped into a dream that is far too hazy for me to account for.

I wish I was evil enough to fuck whatever I wanted.

December Blues.

Driving in snow is awful. Especially when giant mother loads of cement trucks speed past you on the 140, kicking up all sorts of road debris into your baby-car's windsheild. It scares the shit out of you and although I am a decent driver (especially for someone who has only been driving for seven months), I still swerve unexpectedly when the unexpected arises.

Me Ma's gone to Arizona. Hopefully the heat there will melt away some of her riduclousness and send her home full of sunshine and rainbows. She says she didn't really spend a fortune on the ticket. I say someone who doesn't know how she's going to live through the month of December, shouldn't be spending mad cash on trips to Arizona. BUT WHATEVER, it's not like I'm the posterchild for responsible spending (sarcastic undertone implied).

A few days ago Josh told me about his wife's dilemma with Christmas shopping. I guess he came home to her crying, worried about how they were going to afford the $300.00 dollars worth of presents she had on layaway at Wal*Mart.
Josh wasn't particularly concerned with the fact that she had spent $300.00 dollars (uh... why not?), but rather worried about what in the hell his wife had spent $300.00 dollars on at Wal*Mart (valid concern. Ewe Wal*Mart). He told her not to cry, everything would be ok; the government owed him money and that they would have enough for everything. So no boo-hooing, the twenty-five year old has everything under control.

I try to keep my mouth shut when he confides this sort of rubbish in me. It's nice that Josh trusts me enough to want to share this sort of thing. I however, am always boggled by the stupidity of the situation. Maybe because I would never put myself in that place, maybe because I think that sort of spending is absolutely fucked up. If I ever have kids and I'm in a financial situation similar to theirs', there will not be a Christmas for me. Christmas is for kids, not for parents and their Corpse Bride action figures that are going to sit on a shelf for the rest of their existence (I say this, fully knowing that I would approve of getting Corpse Bride action figures, even though I find them completely useless and knic-knac-ee. Blech).
Anyway, hearing this sort of crap and then seeing Josh spend a crap-load of money on his wife on Wednesday frustrates me. Mostly because recently, he's been comparing her to me more and more and that sort of comparison, frustrates the fuck out of me. Sure, her and I like Johnny Depp and all things wicked and bad, but so do 8.2 billion, trillion people on the face of the planet, I am NOT like Ann.

And this rant may possibly piss off Josh, so it would be best if he did not read it. I do realise that these warnings are completely useless, as he seems to read them anyway, but this time, if he chooses to read it, it will be of no fault of my own.
I am not like Ann because there is no fucking way that I would not allow my husband to hang out with other women. That is demented and radiates such a low sense of worth in both people that the guilt from such a stupid decision would make me feel even less secure about my relationship. I am even less like her because I realise that putting such a limitation on people, makes the temptation of other women even stronger. We always want, what we cannot have. I am not like Ann because I wouldn't spend considerable sums of money on things that I couldn't afford, even if it was Christmas, even if there was extra money to be spent. Buying extra groceries for a week to feed the bellies of my children will ALWAYS come before thirty dollar barbies. I am not like Ann because I would not marry a twenty year old from another country and expect him to shoulder the burdens of my past family problems. It's nice that her husband wishes to carry around her shit, but I'm not patient enough, or thoughtless enough to put that sort of crap on another person's back, especially someone that I'm supposed to love. I am not like Ann because I would NEVER expect my twenty-something husband to find work, while I sat on my ass and did nothing. I don't give two shits if you're depressed and you feel bad today, you have FUCKING KIDS and they need to be fed and it's YOUR responsibility to feed them. I am not like Ann because while I do have a low sense of self-worth, I'm not low enough to accuse my boyfriend of affairs just because he wants to hang out with his friends. I'm not like Ann because if my husband was sitting on his fucking computer, playing video games instead of spending time with me when he hasn't for a week, I'd flip the switch in the fuse box instead of wine about it.

I am not and I will not ever be. like. Ann.

I would rather be dead than be such a dependant leech of a woman. It's nice to have people make you feel good about yourself, but I don't need people to blow my ego to make me function and I will never depend on my husband for the will to do anything. I am too stubborn and too quick to shut people out before the hurt actually hits to ever be reduced to such a wreck of an idividual. And I am far too concerned for other people's happiness to allow myself to drag their lives into the gutter along with mine.

Fuck that.

It's time to go grocery shopping.

Cookies.

What the fuck am I doing? Right now I'm listening to Mi Mancherai, drinking hot chocolate and thinking,

'GOD, I'M A FUCKING IDIOT.'

No matter how hard I try to keep away from Josh, I fail miserably every new day I see him. I loathe myself for my lack of control. I hate myself for being so fickle. I despise myself for finding myself in the same position, again and again.
It almost seems impossible. I parallel my relationship with Josh to a box of Girl Guide, Mint Chocolate Cookies. I know the box is in the cupboard, I know I can relish in them. I know that in the long run, the cookies are going to do nothing but make me fat and spotty, but right now they're, divine. Take a bite diddums, one more morsel won't hurt you now. But they will make you miserable with guilt in an hour, leaving you alone in your bedroom to count the massive caloric-intake of emotional distress and fatty deposits. And that's when you think, "What have I done?"

Indeed, what have I done? What am I doing?

Dr. Phil would tell me to leave no margin for failure. Eliminate the problem, remove all cookies from my outstretched, attention-starved fingers and find comfort in my step towards being solid and sound in the right decisions. But how do you remove a person from your existence? Josh is not a cookie. I can't just go.
I don't want to just go. It's not fair to him and I suppose, it's just an easy way to solve a problem that I should deal with now and not later. There probably will be another Josh, two years, five years down the road. Someone whom I go to, which fills the holes of insecurity and self-disgust while Andrew is MIA.
But at the same time, while he strolls blissfully unawares through his indecision (his emotional scapegoat to his issues with the relationship), my heart and my head are being bombarded with pangs of disgust and discomfort. How stupid I am, to put myself here and to let it continue like this! Why can I not find a solution to this? Or do I already know the solution, and am too much of a coward to deal with my insecurities and self-disgust on my own?

Stupid, stupid diddums. You know that you cannot ever have a proper relationship with him. Not only because the guilt that would consume you for destroying a family would be unbearable, but also because you're just not compatible. You know it.
There would never be a day where you would be able to look at him and know that you were honestly and openly in love with a man who could cherish you with the purest of feelings. There will always be regret, there will always be guilt and that is hardly a firm foundation for what you want.
But he says, "There's just something about you" and that keeps him emotionally available enough for you to forget all of it. Funny that him telling you something so simple would melt your heart. Probably because it seems romantic and foreign and you like the feeling enough to smile and gaze sheepishly at him.

Now, I want to stab a ballpoint pen into the part of my brain that is putting a purple haze around my sense of sensibility. There is no question any longer to whom my heart belongs to. I love Andrew so much, and he knows that I'm struggling with feelings for another man and the fact that I'm not ridding myself of such feelings is making me feel like a giant scarlet letter.

I wish I could wear a shock collar, controlled by the little man in my brain who is doing a shit job of making that slap on the palm hurt when I'm being stupid. A little buzz to put my mind right may do more than just me good.
I need to tell Josh that this is finished. That my emotional availability of this sort is being cutoff, and he needs to agree to the same. I just need to find the will of iron in me to do it.