magic cold pills

The flu is currently bending me over in the prison showers. Hard.
Pseudoephedrine is the only thing keeping me sane and alive right now. I love you, magic lil cold pills.




better left unsaid

The breakup had been a long time coming. He was in another city, I was in another world. I'd known for months the relationship needed to be officially ended, as we were barely even calling each other at that point. I just simply didn't have the will or desire to do it myself. So, months later, with the help of his soon-to-be new girlfriend, he found his own reasons to call it quits.

We talked, he and I. He in his city, I on a bench outside my dorm, the campus as yet unpopulated for the summer, affording me the privacy needed for the dissolution of an almost two-year relationship.

During our talk, it turned out the random person who'd attempted to friend me on Facebook was a friend of his, who'd met his girlfriend-to-be, and assumed that the person listed in his profile as his current girlfriend would clearly be the same girl. Whoops. That's what you get for assuming.

"Oh, that's okay then," I said with a light tone and heavy sarcasm. "Really?" he asked hopefully, no doubt thinking this was headed to be the easiest break-up in the history of breakups. I laughed bitterly, "Of course it isn't."

He asked for us to remain friends, for him to be able to visit me and catch up companionably when he returned to campus in a few months. This, the same man who, a year earlier, had already been asking for my forgiveness in the same breath that he confessing cheating, was up to his usual tactics. I remained non-committal, amused by his nerve but utterly unconvinced seeing each other in the fall would be beneficial in any way. As the conversation drew to its awkward end, I asked the question that I'd been trying to ignore in the back of my mind during the entire call. Yay for masochism.

"Did you ever love me?" I asked softly.

"Well...... that's a complicated question", he hedged, gearing up to be diplomatic rather than honest. I laughed again, more bitterly than before, and cut him off; I'd heard more than enough. As the call ended, I thought of every time he'd told me he loved me and I wondered if anything in life was real. And there, at two in the morning, in the dark, on a bench in the middle of a deserted green, I cried.


Not for him, but for me.


10 things you probably don't know about me.

10. I've never broken a bone in my body. I have a large crack in one, but none actually broken.
09. When I was 12, I tried very hard to get the chicken pox, and failed.
08. For such a huge seafood lover, I must confess to having never yet tried oysters.
07. At one point in my life, all my exes wanted me back. And I'll admit that was a pretty nice ego boost to my self-of-steam.
06. I occasionally make my own jewelry, even though I'm not very good at it.
05. My biggest fear in life is being helpless while a loved-one suffers in front of me.
04. I have occasionally maintained an odd, vaguely eastern-European accent in front of strangers for long periods at a time, all while my friend Mike laughs hysterically nearby.
03. I no longer have my appendix, but have still managed to hang onto my tonsils.
02. I once killed Zombie Obama in a dream, a few months before the elections, while staying in a cabin on the side of a mountain, three hours from the nearest thing you could tentatively call "civilization."
01. I loudly sing "Somewhere over the Rainbow" to myself when I'm completely alone.

Sidenote, if you haven't yet heard and fallen in love with Israel Kamakawiwo'ole's version of the song, your life is seriously missing something magical. Just close your eyes and listen, you won't regret it. Money back guarantee.


the summer I was twelve.

His name was Mr. R------, and he was the head counselor during my last year at the day-camp I had been attending on and off for several years worth of hot New Jersey summers. Mr. R's wife knew my mother quite well, and as such, he was introduced to me as a friend of the family at the same time I met him in the role of counselor.

At first, the comments started off relatively innocently. He would compliment my face, and compare my beauty to my mothers. "I can see where you get it from," he'd say, staring at me with hungry eyes. But soon I realized he made comments to that effect too often. And the looks he gave me were less and less of that between a 40-something camp counselor and his preteen charge, and more and more predatory. Lingering. Unabashed.

Towards the second half of the summer, I began being harassed by a younger student at camp, a boy of no more than 7 who nonetheless made explicit and extensive comments about my body. At one point, by the pool, he went so far as to send me scurrying to Mr. R, the utmost authority and the strictest counselor by far. I wasn't normally one to go to the counselors, I've always preferred handling my problems myself, appealing to a higher authority only as a last resort.

My friend D, a junior counselor, was standing right behind Mr. R as I approached. I told him about the harassment in full, and he had me reluctantly repeat the specifics of what the other camper had been saying. Once I'd finished, I saw D's mouth drop open at just how explicit this tiny child been.

And then Mr. R took a long, appraising, lingering glance up and down the length of my body, and said slowly, "Well, I can understand why he'd say those things." And with that, he turned away to handle some other business, my audience with him clearly ended. I heard D's teeth click as his jaw snapped back up in pure shock of what had just happened. Any of it would have been bad enough, but all of it together was just too much to handle: Mr. R's response, the lack of action taken against the younger boy in our normally very strict camp, and the preposterousness of what the highest authority at our camp had just said and done to a preteen girl.

The other counselors were downright meek in the face of Mr. R's intimidating ways. He was pleasant enough normally, but he made sure that counselors and campers alike knew that all camp business ran through him. None of the other counselors would do anything to cross him, and we were well aware of that. We felt powerless. D and I had already had a close relationship, but after that he became even more protective, and he and I both did our best to keep me as far away from Mr. R as humanly possible. We managed fairly well for the rest of the short summer session, and I'm sure that the memories of that summer have faded into a pleasant haze for everyone involved.

Everyone except for me, of course. I had been betrayed by Adults -those tall, god-like people whose job it was to protect me. I'd mentioned Mr. R's behavior and comments to my mother a little earlier in the summer, but at that time, I didn't realize just how much they were affecting me. And as a general complainer, I would have needed to be a lot more clear in my own mind to get the point across to my mother. She was used to my general dissatisfaction with things around me and usually just let my complaints wash over her, paying no heed to anything short of the house being on fire. And even then, she probably would have continued to play her computer game for another thirty seconds before even that urgent message would've sunk in completely.

That summer was the year I learned to feel powerless in the face of corruption so high above me that I couldn't see any alternative. The summer that I felt utterly violated with just words and looks, without a single hand laid on me. I was made acutely aware of both my femaleness and my helplessness, repeatedly, and couldn't help but to connect the two in my head. To this day, I have issues with the idea of being feminine. Not in general, but just as it applies to me. I can't forget those moments of being hyper-aware of my gender, intimately intertwined with the terror of being one of the weak and defenseless.

Years went by, and it was only with the perspective of time that I really started to get angry, to realize just how horrible he'd made me feel, just how unsafe I'd felt in my own skin, and just how inappropriate his actions towards me really were. I want to go back in time to protect that shaken twelve-year at a time when she couldn't protect herself. The thought occurred to me today that while it's far too late to make any formal complaint against him, he might still be working with kids. The thought gave me chills, so I'm looking into it.

I don't really regret the negative encounters in my life, as I quite like the resilience, fortitude, and depth of experience I've cultivated from them. (Each brush stroke contributing to the overall painting and all that drivel.) But still, when I think about those times and my skin starts to crawl, leaving me feeling feeling dirty, extremely uncomfortable and in need of a shower, a part of me desperately wishes that I'd ended that summer the way I'd started it: as just a twelve-year old girl, enjoying her last year at camp.


Youth In Asia

You had more personality than most people I've met. We were
lucky to have you, and you made damned sure we knew it.
Thank you for the past 16 years.


Kitty Co.
1992 - 2009

If there is an afterlife, you're already in the most comfortable spot.



two days ago

Two days ago, I wanted a Nikon d90. I wanted a really nice sushi dinner at my favorite Japanese restaurant, located an unfeasible five-hour-drive drive away. Two days ago, I wanted $700 dollar plane tickets to Ireland, a Global chef's knife, a new pot for my now-ginormous spider plant and her 8 offshoots trailing across my desk. Two days ago, I wanted a lot of things.

Today, all I want is for my cat to still be breathing when I wake up tomorrow.


without bloodshed

It was a revolution without bloodshed. He simply stopped fighting. Fighting her, fighting for her, fighting the inevitable slow demise of a trainwreck relationship in progress. He became detatched. He didn't so much participate in their relationship anymore as he observed it, as if from a great distance. (He did, however, have his little moments of resistance.) He washed all of the dishes because a dirty kitchen made him antsy. But he stopped doing her laundry, feeling just the slightest sense of personal victory on the few occasions when she deigned to come home. She'd breeze in the door, make a few disgusted sounds at the piles of her unwashed clothing, fish out a halter top or some such club attire from the middle of a mound, and breeze back out. He started cooking meals for one, so she'd no longer find his leftovers to drunkenly inhale after stumbling in through the door after four in the morning. Once, after one such night he'd come out of the bedroom to check on her, only to find her passed out on the couch with an equally inebriated and unconcious male companion. The stranger's pants were draped across his favorite armchair, and he was fairly certain he recognized the edge of his wife's favorite panties peeking out from underneath the pants. He quietly padded back to the bedroom, locked the door, turned himself off as best he could, and went to sleep.

That was when it clicked, he thinks back later. That was when she won the battle she'd been too absent to even realize she'd been fighting. She couldn't even recall the last time they'd spoken to each other aloud if he asked her. It's been seven weeks, he knows, and even then it was barely a passing word between them.

But in those weeks he's been documenting. And photographing. And on one memorable occasion, videotaping. And soon, he'll have all he needs. He knows she'll only realize he's gone when the money dries up and the lights get turned out because paying bills is a 'small detail' she's too busy to notice. And thanks to his thick and ever-growing file, when he leaves, the money leaves with him. And the jewelry. And her car. And the antique clock that was his grandmother's gift to her on their wedding day. The clock she claims to love but sets her wine glass on top of whenever she thinks no one will notice. There are permanent stains in perfect circles all over the top of it now. She doesn't know they're there because she's too short to see over the top of it, but he sees. And he recognizes the similarities: he is also something she claimed to cherish but worked hard to destroy over time. And just like those perfect circles of destruction, she's left her mark on him too.

Oh the emotional cruelty went firmly to her side, as the finances went to his side of the tally-board. It was a revolution without bloodshed. Without screams. Without tears.

But no one was on the winning side.


Friend or Consultant?

There are people in my life -mostly those who were once good friends- who call me solely when they want advice, or when things are going wrong and they need someone to turn to, to vent to, or to bounce solutions around with.

And I'm conflicted.

On one hand, I'm happy that people consider me worthy of their troubles, that they consider confiding in me a worthwile experience enough to seek out repeatedly, even if we haven't spoken otherwise in ages. I like being someone people can turn to, for whatever reason. And I'd like to think those I have loved can, years after we've last spoken, call me out of the blue at any hour of the day or night with the certainty that I'll be there for them.

But on the other hand, I never hear from these particular "friends" at any other time than when they want something. And increasingly, I haven't felt any great compulsion to respond to their texts and calls. The ego boost from earlier years has faded into mild, jaded annoyance, and I can't help but start to wonder where the line between the duties of friendship fades into the territory of being used.

Quite often, my male friends will ask me to help pick out gifts for the various ladies in their lives. It's a service which I am happy to render, and do not consider a chore at all so much as a vicarious shopping experience and a chance to hang out with said friend. However, I recently got a call from someone I haven't hung out with in quite a while who wanted my help in selecting a rather nice piece of jewelry for his wife. Now, I haven't even met his wife, I know nothing of her and her likes or dislikes, and nor am I a part of this guy's life anymore. And I found it an incredibly tedius and unenjoyable experience. Probably because at that point, it didn't feel like being a friend so much as an unpaid personal shopper.

The reason why I write this is because that same 'friend' (and the term at this point is at best a loose one) just sent me a text asking if I'm busy. And you know, I wasn't a few seconds before my phone beeped, but I made damn sure I was immediately afterwards. Because every single communication I've recieved from him in the past year has been because he wants a sympathetic ear, or advice, or help of one sort or another. Occasionally, he asks about my life, but only in the last two to three minutes of the call, clearly doing so mainly out of courtesy.

He's the worst offender, but by no means the only one. Where do you draw the line between helping out someone who used to (or still does) mean something to you and just simply allowing yourself to be used? And once that line is drawn, (as it has been made abundantly clear by reading my own words that I'm in serious need of a line...or two) is there ever a nice way to tell people they are cashing in on the benefits of a friendship long disintegrated? I, for one, am doubtful.


Love's Youngest Grandchild

He is Love's youngest grandchild, her favorite of the twelve or so she had at last count. He has curly hair, and the angelic face and mischievous ways classic to the cherubim. When he was six, he would sit on her lap and listen to her tales of great love. Some were tragic, some happy, but most were somewhere in the grey areas. Unlike his siblings raised by television standards of romance, he learned from Love herself of the complexities and compromise that were at her very core. By the time he was sixteen, he watched his friends seek out his grandmother for condoms when they couldn't procure them elsewhere. Love merely smiled sadly, knowing young couples thus inflamed would not be deterred by a lack of protection, and handed out contraception in hopes that today's fancy would not turn into tomorrow's regret. She did wish, though, she confided to her grandson, that they wouldn't keep confusing her for Lust, who lived several blocks down and did not keep her yard nearly as nice.

Now he's older and has moved out on his own, but he still visits her with flowers and looks after her rabbits whenever he can. He tells her the latest of his lovelife, and she knows that in his curret girlfriend he has found his match, even if he has yet to conclude this himself. It doesn't take him long. Later, she will be the first person he calls with the excited news that "She said yes!". He never realizes he's inherited his grandmother's power to heal broken hearts -and coincidentally- will go though life loving and being loved without ever having experienced one for himself. Some would say this makes him lucky, but his grandmother would argue it's the bitter in life that makes the sweet stand out.

More time passes, and of all her descendants, he is still by far the most vibrantly alive with love. Where others of her line love fiercely at first like a short-lived blazing fire, burning themselves out with the sustained effort, he loves simply, strongly and steadily. He is never aware of the profound effect he has on those around him, and for that, Love cherishes him most of all.

When she dies, she leaves to him in her will her collection of old love letters, a journal from when she was but a young girl, and a locket with a faded photo inside, the identity lost to time. He makes sure that on her tomb, there is a simple heart engraved where her name should be. He knows she is not really there.


even The Sims knows my boyfriend is a perv

A few hints that even my computer game can accurately recognize the pervy tendencies of The Boy, as demonstrated by his pixel-based stand-in.

Janelle: hey honey, look! Those clouds look like a pe....
The Boy: bewb. mmmmbooooooob. *drool*



Random Hussy: Heeeeey, room for one more?
The Boy: *stretches out* Of course! There's always room for more lovely boobies... er, ladies. *eyebrow wiggle*Janelle: *superglare*
The Boy: feck. >.< The Boy: Hehe, I can see up your towel. Ah, you shaved today. Niiiiice.
Janelle: *superglare version 2.0*

And now, a small segment called, "Things Iwould call the cops for if it were anyone but The Boy", aka TIWCTCFIIWABTB.

moment 1:
Janelle: dude, that's totally creepy. I can feel your eyes on me.
The Boy: boooooobs.

annnd moment 2:
Janelle: ooh, I see Wells Fargo stock is up. My portfolio is coming along nicel.....what the bloody hell is poking my paper?! That had better be your finger. Oh please tell me that's your finger.
The Boy: *innocent face*
Janelle: THAT IS NOT YOUR FINGER POKING MAH PAPER! Okay. Okay I am cancelling our subscription. Because I'd rather give up the paper than have this experience ever, ever happen again.

And those are our TIWCTCFIIWABTB for this week.

In other news, my sim-self seems to have none of the issues with PDA that my real life self does:


Janelle: C'mere you tasty lil Irishman!
The Boy: *is both surprised and aroused by this turn of events*


And apparently this lack of shame extends to making out mere inches away from a visiting coworker. I blame my pixel self's lack of decency on Boy Pixel's clearly corrupting influence.

But, somehow at the end of the day...



whatever those two crazy kids are up to, it works for them. And really, that's all that matters.


For now. Myah ha haaaaa.


things recently in my mouth

My cookings, I know you want them.

Braised turnips in mustard sauce. First time I can ever recall eating turnips, and they were quite nice- very mildly flavored and slightly sweet. I used a mild, better quality whole-grain mustard for the sauce, and tweaked according to the family taste preferences. It turned out to be quite a subtle sauce that didn't overpower the turnips but did add a lil extra something nice. I can't wait to try the turnips mashed with butter next time. Move over mashed potatoes, I never really liked you in the first place. True story.

Amaretti cookies
. Never thought myself much of an almond fan, but I've discovered I like the flavour when divorced of the unappealing texture of the actual nut. These are definitely best the day you make them, they loose a bit of their chewy charm on day two, but still pack an intense punch of flavour. Like eating marzipan in cookie form. But better. Cause they're cookies.

Delishus rice pudding. So, the first time I made this, I skipped the almond extract, because- see above. But overall, it was a little bland, although I discovered the arborio rice does make substantially better rice pudding than other kinds. Despite the mediocre results, I made it again because I get intense rice pudding cravings that demand satisfaction, and this method is faster than the baked varieties. I added a teensy bit more sugar to kick up the flavour, and added in the almond extract at the end. However, the recipe was perfect as initially written, (aside from scaling back the milk) and the almond added that missing pizazz, but the extract plus extra sugar made for one intensely sweet final dish. Really good, substantially better than last time, but too sweet for my tastes. However, my mother loved it. Devoured it, in fact. And she's usually apathetic at best about my cooking, so... yay?

Buttery, moist scones. As someone used to scones as dry triangles of crumbly baked good that one dunks into tea to both soften and flavor, this was a revelation. They take only a few minutes to make, they're flaky, oh-so buttery, and very moist due to the holy hell so much butter. Actually, these upstaged the peach tea I'd brewed up to accompany these. They have too much presence to play second fiddle to some lowly leaf's bathwater.

I've also made peach ice cream, parsnip fries, green lentil soup, stewed parsnip, tomato, and red pepper compote, and Failcookies of Ultimate Failure. But I refuse to talk about those. It's still too soon.

As for other things I've had in my mouth.... honey, what's the timeframe on "recent"? ;)


worthless

I've had a bit more thinking time, a smidgen more introspection since writing this, and I've realized that the main issue I have with his lack of previous relationships actually has nothing to do with him.

I've realized -slowly, painfully- that my fear is that he has only chosen me because he doesn't know what else is out there. That he has decided to buy the first car on the lot without having looked around at other cars enough to know it's a clunker.

And that's the crux of it. In my heart, I think I'm a clunker. And that once he's more aware of the type of girl he could be dating, I'll be kicked out of this happy little existence faster than you can say "scrap heap."


At what point did I start to think of myself as worthless?


And how do I make it stop?


bloggy birthday

I realized this blog is a year old as of two days ago. With an average of one post every 19 days or so, I can firmly say that I have not accomplished my original goal of getting myself into the habit of writing more. But when I think of where my life was one year ago compared to where it is today, I'm tentatively optimistic that things are indeed improving. Things are different in so many ways- people who were in my life then aren't anymore. I've gained a love, made tiny movements towards regaining one of the most prescious friendships I've lost, and have started to take control of my life in a more adult fashion. Or I've been shoved into it. But it still counts. So there.

So while my original goal still needs some work, at least now there are more people in my life pushing me to write besides myself. And I can't help but feel this blog played a role in accomplishing that. So thank you, blog, and happy birthday. I got you some new layout-related shinies, I hope you like them.


"you did everything good, so..."

...he trailed off with a little shrug and signed my paperwork.

And with that, I, tiffany-janelle lastnameredacted, at the age of 23,
have passed my driving exam. ZOMG.

that is all.


Cheating, or How to Be an Asshole in 1 Easy Step

Dear people dating my friends:

Cheating. DON'T DO IT.

I'd think I'd not have to go into detail why, but apparently there are way too many people out there that have the moral fiber of warm butter. So let Janelle asplain you something: in real relationships, you open yourself up to the other person, and vice versa. Sometimes quickly, sometimes it's a slow process. Different people open up emotionally to different depths, etc. I'm sure you know all this. Unintentional hurts are bound to happen, it's natural, unavoidable, and overcomable, if both of you are willing. But cheating on your significant other is an intentional hurt. Even if you "get swept up in the moment," it's pain you are intentionally inflicting on someone else, damage you are purposefully doing to your relationship. And if you are too "swept up" to see that, then respectfully, you are probably too selfish and inconsiderate to be in a relationship with anyone. Nevertheless any of the select group of people I call friends, over whom I am ridiculously protective. (I re-wrote that sentence three times so I wouldn't end on a preposition. Mr. Zuroski, my 11th-grade English teacher would be so proud.)

*Ahem.* Anyway. Life is about choices. If you choose to kiss, cuddle, sleep with or otherwise engage in romantic intimacy with someone other than the person you're monogamous with, you are choosing to break their trust, choosing to make the connection you two have that much less special, sacred, worthwhile. And I'll think you're a class A asshole for it, personally.

When you find yourself in circumstances that look like they're going to get compromising or complicated, grow a pair, call up your significant other and tell him or her that you are no longer going to be considering your relationship a monogamous one- before, not after the fact. If you care about someone enough to date them, you at least owe them that much, no? But that's the mature, responsible, non-assholish thing to do, so I can see some people might not even consider that an option.

But if you can't handle that, do all the decent, single men and women in the world a favour --and stop dating. At least until you get your shit together, and can know what you want and how to get it without trampling over others in the process.

And as my phone continues to blink at me with the news of yet another friend's fresh pain brought on by the extreme selfishness of his other half, I can't help but think how pointless all this is. This isn't the first time a friend has come to me with this news. And unfortunately, it won't be the last. There was one that cried into my lap. One who stained my pillow with his blood after punching a wall because his anger and pain had to go somewhere, anywhere, before it destroyed him. And one who has only just told me -who won't cry- but will withdraw the rest of what little trust he places in people as it is. And my heart breaks every time. Not just because I've been there myself, and know well how deep that betrayal goes, but because such pain is just so avoidable. So easily preventable if we'd just stop holding ourselves to such low standards when dealing with the feelings of others. Gah.


other fish in the sea

I've had previous long-term relationships before. He has not. And this worries me, because something about this, about him, feels very different. Potential isn't exactly the right word, but for the first time I've met someone that I involuntarily picture myself with in five months, in five years, in five.... well, you see where I'm going with this. And if you know me at all, you must know that I am officially scared shitless. Part of me wishes he'd dated more,so that one day he won't wake up wishing he'd "tested the waters" a bit more before being rushed to the altar by yours truly. (I hope I don't have to remind you that last bit was indeed facetious.)But I do feel something truly serious developing between us, and to take his word at face value, he does too. But I know I wouldn't have been ready for this relationship at twenty, and I'm secretly skeptical that he is. Instead, I keep picturing him as a lovestruck youngin' who only thinks it's love because it's the first time he's been serious with someone. And I'm probably doing him a great disservice to have these persistant thoughts, but I can't help being scared that that is the case. Because I so desperately hope it's not.

And I haven't had a place for hope in my life for a long time.


And by way of apology- I'm sorry. Some fears are just easier to share with my text editor.


utterly


beautiful.


God's Publicity Manager?

"She's disgusting and I feel very sorry for her children. God doesn't honor gay unions and she's bringing poor innocent children into having to deal with her sinful lifestyle. Shame on her. For all you liberals and gay supporters, I will pray for all of you, your all so misguided . Read your bible and see what god says. He doesn't support you!!!"
Wanda Sykes is my utmost favorite comedienne. While browsing People.com to catch up on the latest in the entertainment world, I came across the story that she and her wife just had twins. I was briefly surprised that she had a wife, having not heard anything previously about her dating life and marital status. But I was happy for her. Until I started reading the article's comments.

Hate is nothing new. I know this. Religious fervor against gay marriage and parentage is nothing new. But I am still surprised at how deeply it cuts every time I encounter it. But it was the last sentence of that particular comment that caught my attention amidst a sea of equally rabid condemnations and fiery rebuttals: "He doesn't support you!!!" Pretty bold of the poster, to speak on behalf of his or her deity like a publicity manager who's lost his temper with a nosy reporter or pushy fan.

I'm not religious. In fact, thats a fairly hefty understatement to those that know me best. But- I was raised in a deeply religious household. I was raised to believe (it didn't work, but stay with me) in a god that supports us and loves us all, regardless of the right or wrong decisions we make. I was taught Matthew 25: 34-46. A snippet of verse 40: "Whatsoever you do to the least of My people, you do unto Me." Or, Romans 14:10, "You, then, why do you judge your brother? Or why do you look down on your brother? For we will all stand before God's judgment seat." And lastly, Matthew 11:28-30. "Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light."

Now, my point is not to throw verses and counter verses to win a religious argument. My point is that I was raised amongst people who believe in a loving, forgiving deity who ultimately wants us to care for each other, and to be beholden to something larger than just ourselves. And my sincerest atheistic hope is not that the bitter person who wrote that comment stop believing in a higher power, but that he or she finds their way to the god that my family and their friends have found- one more full of acceptance, love, and forgiveness than condemnation and ugly disgust.


this suffering of sunshine

i'm suffering from sunshine of the soul
and i'm redefining suffering for all you that don't know
it's the gap between what should be
and what is

and they can take their map back
cause no one's ever gone this route before
i've thrown out my prescription
for their generic destinations
and i don't intend to stop along the way

i have far to go and i'm far too tired
to waste more breath cursing at my fears
philosophy doesn't interest me
and geography has got it wrong
because my travels weren't supposed to lead me here

and still somehow it all works out
though happiness was never on my route
and i've ended up here anyway,
learning from ever misstep that I take.

and this suffering of sunshine
doesn't seem so much like suffering
when you look at me that way and start to smile
and my journey's getting longer
but i am getting stronger
and learning to take things mile by single mile


Good news: I'm still alive.

Well, it's good news only if you're not one of the people who wants to kill me for basically disappearing off the face of the Earth.

My life is kind of in a limbo right now, as it's been for the past year and a half, and it's generally not a great place to be. So I've been withdrawing from people for a long time now, because human interaction with those who've known me when I still semi-had my shit together tends to remind me of everything that I'm NOT doing with my life right now. It's too painful. I hope you'll forgive me.

It took a lot for me to admit that, even to myself. And somehow saying it here is easier than over the phone, in email, or IM. Yes, I'm mostly okay. And no, I'm not ready to talk about it.


~~~

Now, in recent news, I'm being forced to learn to drive against my will, as the idea of driving makes me very very anxious. On the other hand, I fully admit that I need to know how to drive, and would like to not be dependent on others to get me where I need to go.

Also in recent news, I've met the most wonderful guy. (Our monthiversary was the 9th. ^__^ ) His worst quality? He's turning me into a big pile of mushy mush. Oh, and since we met online and he lives three thousand miles away? We've never met in person. Although I'm trying not to hold his location against him as a major character flaw.

To end a post here on a good note for a change.... I'd just like to say that I can't remember the last time I was with someone who felt lucky to be with me, every day. And who told me as much, every day. It's humbling, and endearing, and flattering, (and inaccurate :P ) and so utterly eye-opening.

This is what a relationship should be.
I'm a lucky girl.