Alright.

I read the highlights from the Chronicle of Higher Education today. There's been a special section on Virginia Tech since the shootings. I started to get mad. Where is the talk of gun control? And then I went to look for a different letter that had been written for a different publication, and I came upon a very short, student-written letter about students and faculty needing to protect themselves and that these senseless anti-gun laws on our campus should really be looked at in light of recent events.

WHAT?!! Fuck. Come on.

How many (school) massacres do we need to have in this country before we'll start to regulate the unimaginable easy access to guns in this country? How many deaths? How many? Whenwhenwhen will we stop thinking that guns are the answer to people dying by guns? When will we look at other parts of the world, and see that they have gun control, and that they don't have as many gun related deaths? When? How many more people need to die before we'll see this as a problem?

But here I go again with my ethnocentricity. How many people need to die in Iraq before we'll stop waging war?

Fun Fact

Y'know how if you have gmail they put those "relevant" banner ads up and down the sides of your email? Y'know, whenever my dad emails and he leaves his signature at the bottom, suddenly there are a slew of ads about buying property and real estate in Reno and Tahoe? Or if I write something about an ex, or a current, or my heart, or whatever, I get misguided pop psych about "how to keep him from breaking up with you" or "how to get her back" or whatever else genderific advertising that would probably make a really interesting paper topic, but I don't care enough, nor am I taking any Women's and Gender Studies classes.

The fun fact is, I really talk about coffee a lot. I pretend that I don't, but I don't think I ever ever ever don't have a coffee ad at the very top. I mean, always. It's like my weather/safety topic. For all you non-coffee drinkers, sorry. Just insert your own almost-always-acceptable-reason-for-whatever-you-want (smokers, you know what I'm talking about) and keep reading. Always always always, please, keep reading.

Break It Open

I think I really only have 12 minutes to be here, but it's 12 minutes I can have, and well, stream of consciousness--as that's definitely all I'm capable of at this point--usually works better when there's a time limit.

Sorry I haven't been posting. It's not that I don't have things to say. I have plenty to say, I guess, but I don't really know how, or which parts to share with whom. And I've been really busy. Really busy.

I'm playing the song. I blamed my mood yesterday on lots of frustrations, but I can't imagine that those minor everyday annoyances could really cause the complete loss of self and inability to breathe. It had to be the song. So I'm playing it again. Because isn't that what we all do?

It felt better once I started dancing. Actually, it felt better once I had the cheetos, because it was so honest and real, and sometimes a little reality is all I need to pull me back down. Cheetos are real and the friend offering is real, but it's easy to think that everyone else is pretending maybe just as much as I am most of the time, so maybe they all really hate me.

Or whatever. I'm still in a weird mood. I got to work on time which means that I woke up early. But I did it. All on my own. Last night was the first night sleeping in my bed in two nights. I changed the sheets and slept naked and it helped.

The cheetos and the smelly shirt that everyone was in on all helped. Agreeing about the gun, but kinda feeling that way about the whole number, it was nice to know I wasn't alone, at least for part of it. Dancing helped. When I got to the game, I thought she would understand, so I told her "I want to run my ass off, I want to just, drill it into the ground". But she didn't understand, and we were all getting ready so most everyone else heard too. It felt better when I took myself out as punishment. It felt better to have the incomprehensible pain of them scoring when I wasn't on the field. I went back in though, right away, and that definitely felt better. It's nice to know I know myself well enough to take away the good, just for a little bit, so that I can remember to appreciate it. I didn't stop running for the rest of the game, and it hurts today, in that really good way.

We told each other why we ended up not killing ourselves in high school. It was interesting. Our reasons were exactly the same, and utterly distinct, and that felt good too.
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I wrote something. Once I type it out (it's currently on the torn lid of a pizza box...) I'll post it here. I think it might be good.
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Sister Spit ruled, but either I haven't had enough human contact or coffee or whatever to give the story justice. It's a good one. It's a happy one. It's ... It was great. Have you gone here yet? www.sisterspitnextgen.com.

Seriously, I could use the cash

My parents sent me a gigantic box with four pieces of gourment chocolate inside. The box was lined with shiny chromy (much fancier than foily) padding and had two separate ice packs inside. I looked it up online: www.elbowchocolates.com. The 4-piece box.

That fucking thing was $8! Y'know, I enjoy going out to lunch, more than I enjoy painted gourmet chocolate pieces. For real. I could go to Uprise, get lunch and a loaf of bread for $8.

I know I'm whining, but I hate them. And no one gets it, so I might as well complain about this shit, so I'm not hurt when no one understands.

I totally love her, but she sounded skeptical when she said "you get more presents from your parents than I do". Usually I try to keep my biting remarks inside because I don't like telling people about the sad parts of my life, not unless I warm them up for it. I let it come out, and I don't feel bad: "Your family gives you love."

It's not a complaint or worry or compliment-bait. My mom does not love me. It's not even a secret.

Yeah, it's easier to talk about the chocolates. I guess I'll go try them. Oh yeah, I also really enjoyed the card with the forged fucking names at the bottom! (Not on the card from the chocolate company. I know they hand-write the card at the store. I'm talking about the corny Easter card I just received tonight.) Like I can't tell?

Let's end on a positive note: it's soccer season, and I just got two shiny and new ice packs. They'll work well for picnics and bike rides as well. Nice.

Posty Post

Yeah, I quoted poetry to her, but Maya Angelou quoted poetry to us all, and I decided I wouldn't be embarrassed anymore.

Why did I so easily lose myself?

I lay with my head on her knee in a darkened living room, holding my third glass of wine, and nothing happened. I was honest, in ways I haven't been in a long time, and nothing happened. I talked, I talked it out without thinking about what the point would be first. Nothing happened. She didn't say anything. She didn't say anything back so I just kept talking. I know how to do that, I guess, but I stopped. Now: "Why start again?"

Am I coming into my own, or am I creating the person I've always wanted to be? And to be for whom? For me? For my past self to feel okay about all that happened? To be happy now? Am I happy now? Well, I'm happier than I've ever been before. No. I'm happier than I've been since The Ex and I first started.

Maybe that's it. Maybe I'm really happy for the first time since I ever felt actually happy (since I actually felt happiness; does it make sense what I'm trying to say?). It's an odd thing to realize that I never was happy. Not that I'm realizing it now for the first time, just that I'm still surprised by it sometimes. I'll tell the "happy" stories from when I was younger and by the silence and avoiding eyes I can tell that it's not really happy, and I'll have to look at it from my adult view point, to see what really happened. Oh, having my mom believe me for one of the few times ever, I think that's a good story. But everyone else seems to hear that the thing she finally believed was that I was the kid who got made fun of at school everyday (yeah, that was me), and, y'know, that whole part about my mom never believing me. These negative strands (my mom never believing or listening to a thing I said; being made fun of everyday at school) are the reality that I lived in. So the happy stories are the ones that finally combated it.

I was happy with The Ex. I know it's easy to focus on how much she hurt me and all the fucked up shit she did and that whole broken heart thing, but no one really knows what it was like before her. She was my Missouri, before I had it as my own. I didn't know that I could be loved or cared about or wanted. She taught me that. She fucked it up a lot at the end, and maybe she would have to, because look where I was coming from... Let's not forget the beginning, and have nothing but hate for her because of the end. (I don't know why it's "us", I know it's really just me, but it's easier to write that way for whatever reason.)

I'm not going to apologize for my current happiness because I worked hard for it and I deserve it. I'm also not going to apologize for when it still hurts, within this new state.

And I had spurts of...maybe not happiness, but I had spurts of good times, like knowing I could be loved or wanted, but it never set in. It was an idea of temporary relief and that I better enjoy it because it could disappear again at any moment. It was the night Jenn Geney let me sleep over. It was the lunch period Danielle took me to the park. It was the two weeks we played soccer in Europe and Lindsey chose to sit next to me on the bus and train. Why would anyone do that? It was that two weeks when nothing else mattered except soccer and how well we played together and it was fun. I still put my medal on when I'm home alone and feeling sad. Not because we won--although that felt really good too--but because it was a time when I was loved and accepted and even liked and enjoyed. My dad was genuinely proud of me. It was the basketball game I went to with Holly and all her friends and I made them laugh as they gave me a ride back to my house. They drove me. She let me in her car and talked to me and laughed when I said something...

Yeah, I had spurts of happiness without Laura, and without them I wouldn't have been ready for her, and without her I wouldn't be ready for this. This life, this feeling, all of this.