Commitment Issues

Him: "Oh, I was 'interested' before based on lots of things. But when you displayed wit, intelligence, and cynicism with one statement... Yeah. That did it."

Me: "Oh, haha, thanks?"

Him: "Good luck getting rid of me now. (I mean that in a good way.)"

Me: "A good, creepy way?"

Him: "No... Nothing creepy about it. If you fear having a guy fall for you, maybe dating is a bad idea. haha."

. . . . . . .

Well, damn. He's got a point.

Unchanged Tastes

There are very few celebrity crushes I've had who've grown up along with me.

That is to say, I have not had many long-term celebrity crushes who also happened to be my age.

However, after watching Inception for the second time, I think it is pretty official....

Joseph Gordon-Levitt makes the cut.


Mmmmm..... You just keep on being in films, Joseph.

Crisis Mode

You know what would be cool? If someone called me back for an interview.

Seriously. I'm getting really tired of bursting into frustrated/frightened tears at my laptop on a daily basis.

What If?

I play the "what if" game far more than my sanity should allow. I apply it to basically everything;

What if I'd stayed a theatre major?

What if I'd never taken that year off from college?

What if I'd never fallen in love?

What if I'd stood up to my father earlier in life?

What if I'd never met you?

. . . Or you?

Or you?

What if we could have made it work?

What if I hadn't pushed so hard?

What if I'm sorry?

But also, what if I'm not sorry?

What if I miss you more than I'll ever admit?

What if it doesn't matter?

Oh, right.

It doesn't.

Still....

Dangerous Obsession

I want these. GOD, do I want these. Generally speaking, I've never been excessively feminine in the traditional sense... But my word, I absolutely adore shoes.

Of course, I also have this terribly inconvenient practical streak that hardly ever allows me to indulge in my.... habit. I own 5 pairs of shoes total right now. If I had the means I'd own 50 by this weekend, easy.

But I'm not asking for 50 pairs. I'm asking for one.

^^^This one.

C'mon, practical me... They're ZOMBIE PUMPS. You know you want 'em too.

...And the Lord Taketh Away

I try really hard not to hate religion.

It's like trying to hate the Girl Scouts. No matter how many times you shut the door in their preppy, hopeful faces, they'll just keep knocking on your door. Selling cookies.

Or guilt.

For the most part, I'm actually somewhat appreciative of religion. Being an atheist, I can't say I'm its biggest fan, but in some perspectives I'd even go so far as to say I'm grateful to it.

My mother is the best example for this. She's lived a hard life, pretty much from childhood on. She's endured unspeakable hardships at the intentional hands of others, and although she's worked incredibly hard to become as emotionally and mentally healthy as she is today, there are pieces of herself that I don't think she'll ever get back. If my mother didn't have religion, if she didn't believe that there was a forgiving God who loved her, and a heavenly eternity waiting for her at the end of this life, then she would lose all resolve to even get up in the morning.

What would be the point? Why endure the things she's endured? My mother needs to believe that there is a life after this one. That our existence here is not "wasted", and that in the end the good and righteous are rewarded and the wrong-doers are punished. She needs to know that all of her suffering will not have been for nothing.

No one likes to think about their parents dying, but in many (MANY) years when it's my mother's time, I am comforted knowing that she will go with the absolute certainty that she is passing from the love and warmth of her family into the love and warmth of God.

Just because I don't believe in heaven, doesn't mean that I don't hope beyond all reason that I'm wrong. If such a "place" exists, my mother deserves to be there.

So for the most part, I'd say I'm on fairly amicable terms with religion, at least as far as most atheists go. That said, out of all the issues I could be having with it (and yeah, I'd say there are a justifiable few) there's one in particular that I'm having real trouble with right now...

It keeps taking away my friends.

5th Grade: Sara. Abruptly stopped talking to me after your mother told you not to play with kids who weren't LDS.

8th Grade: Amber. After years of friendship, you didn't even have the decency to tell me you'd called the school and asked them to remove me as your locker partner for the coming semester. I found out months later, when school was nearly starting. I had had no idea that anything was wrong. The last gift you ever gave me right before you stopped talking to me was a Book of Mormon, where you had hand-written inside a note which urged me to save myself.

9th Grade: Christine. Suddenly stopped speaking to me. After finally tracking you down and asking what was up, you informed me that I was a bad influence on you, and that you didn't like how I was testing your faith. I was 15, I didn't even know I was capable of faith testing.

Clearly religion and I have a history of accidentally picking the same friends. Religion must have better perks than I do. I never know how to top that whole "promise of eternal salvation" thing. Things were better in high school, I found a friend who's only perspective on going to church was that it wasn't worth getting up on a Sunday morning. I even found a niche as the school's resident scandalous heathen. You know, the beloved kind, where others shake their heads and wag their fingers at your antics, but simply love what a character you are.

But I should have known this coincidental truce with religion would never last, except, like with all things, things are a bit more complicated when you're an adult. I have one dear friend who's leaving soon on a mission, and one that's just returned. The one who's returned is the only missionary I've ever tried to write. (All of my letters were sent back to me. That more than anything I've ever witnessed was possible proof that maybe God exists.) I attended his return party, and upon being surrounded by so many old acquaintances from high school, I found myself slipping easily back into my previous role as outrageous and scandalous life of the party. Back then, he used to laugh and joke along with me. Now he shakes his head and turns his gaze downward, as though he feels guilty for even listening to me. I've tried to ask him out to lunch, to catch up one-on-one like old times, but it's been days with no response. My old instincts are kicking in, and I'm starting to tell myself to stop hoping for one.

My other friend and I have drifted apart somewhat. Religion wasn't exactly what caused this, but I feel as though it's what's maintaining the distance. I feel like I have to watch my words around her, that I can only tell her about pieces of my life because the other sections will earn me only awkward body language and disapproving glances from her. This wouldn't be nearly so frustrated if not for the fact that I'm always willing to discuss religion/her mission with her. Even though I don't believe in it, I know that she truly does, and it's a huge part of who she is. I love all of her, and even though I don't share her views, I can admire her passionate testimony and desire to share it with others. It's just that I feel that this is entirely one-sided.

I don't understand why there can't be a compromise here? Even though we don't see eye-to-eye, isn't there a solution that allows us to still have a strong friendship? I'm so very tired of thinking of religion as this insurmountable wall between me and lasting relationships. It's like no matter far up I try to climb, they just keep adding more layers to the top. It's exhausting, and upsetting, and when I eventually lose the will to keep climbing, it's going to be a long, long way to fall....

Seeking Silence

"You’re an innovator whose “thinking outside the box” in relation to behavior yields productive results. No problem is too big for you. You’re more than the “all my friends tell me their problems” type; you’re quite the loyal friend who invests in her relationships despite the depths and severity of problems experienced by your friends. You definitely make a positive impact on the lives of others and you’re relentless in your efforts toward the public good."


This was my answer after taking a silly facebook quiz to determine what kind of psychoanalyst I was. It was... Surprisingly accurate. Almost disturbingly so. Normally facebook quizes are a cinch to crack. It is quite obvious from the answer choices exactly what your outcome is going to be. This one, however, was not nearly so simple, and so to have such a strangely applicable answer when I was not expecting such is somewhat discerning. It did get me thinking, though, about how true this categorization is to me.

All growing up, my relationship towards my family was a rocky one. I literally cannot recall a time when I have gotten along with every single member of my immediate family at one specific time. Perhaps in part because of this past difficulty, I think I've been somewhat extra attentive towards my friends, always preferring to have a few close, lasting relationships than numerous shallow ones. I can't recall when exactly this pattern of behavior began, but somewhere along the way I began to sort of act in the role of not only friend and confidant, but mentor and protector as well. Whether that was an unconscious action of my own, or an unconscious expectation towards me I haven't the faintest idea. Regardless, the result is the same; namely that I am now feeling an unsettling mixture of exhaustion and frustration at the role that is now expected of me because I have willingly played it for so long, as well as guilt for selfishly desiring to cease being the problem-solver for the ones that I care about.

Of course I want to be there for them. To support them and aid them when they require my assistance. I think a part of me truly likes feeling needed by them or I would not have found myself in this particular position for so long. However, now I find that I grow incredibly weary of the sometimes seemingly constant cacophony of questions and problems that require my advice or attention. "Do you think I have commitment issues?" "Why isn't my life going the way I want it to?" "Save me from unwanted male attention, but make it appear like I still wanted it." "Do you think I'm desperate....?"

I just want to shut it all out. Just for one day. I want to be blessedly, peacefully alone for a few hours and just try to figure out what it is that I need in my life right now. I spend so much time worrying about the problems of the people I care about, that when an issue appears in my own life, it is either pushed to the side and not dealt with, or blown completely out of proportion because I haven't any sanity or patience leftover to apply to myself. Therefore, I've determined that a day of solitude is definitely in order. I'm to go off on my own for a day, to perform an activity (or perhaps lack thereof) of my own choosing, and meditate on what course of action will be best for my current mental and physical health.

However, due to the fact that I'm rather new at this 'mental health day' business, I haven't the first idea as to where I should go or what I should do. Perfectly ironic, isn't it? All of this indecision is doing horrible things for my nerves....

It's my blog, and I'll be emo if I want to

After getting getting bitchy and fed up with my roommate, I then childishly slammed shut both of my bedroom doors (it's an old house, so my room randomly has 2) and proceeded to sob uncontrollably for the next hour and a half.

I do not feel better.

A friend then sent me a text asking if I was awake to listen to his problems over the phone. Knowing my current emotional lack of stability, I warned him before he started speaking that tonight I was most likely not going to be the most understanding of listeners, but he continued despite my warning. After finishing unloading his woes on me, something inside me sort of snapped. I yelled at him that his so called issues were trivial in comparison to mine, and that he needed to grow the fuck up and start acting his age.

That didn't make me feel better either.

So now I delay sleep, spending my time worrying, crying, listening to very specific songs attached to very specific emotions, and taking surprisingly accurate facebook quizes. I feel angry and restless and desperate and exhausted.

And I feel like committing arson.

But most of all I feel hopeless.

Numb3rs

801 301 1524

Who the hell are you?

It's driving me nuts, this number I don't know but feel as though I recognize. As though it belongs to someone I used to converse with frequently, but no longer do. I was busy cooking in the kitchen when I received the text...

"Hi"

That's it. Just hi. There wasn't even a period to accompany the "hi". Just one lonely, maddeningly cryptic "hi". I replied 20 minutes later when I finally saw the message, asking who the sender was.

.....

No answer.

Ever.

I can't sleep, I'm so bothered by this number with no name. If it were simply an unknown number I would have be less frustrated, it's that I can't shake the urgent hunch that I've seen this number before. Why, oh why, did I ever decide to delete unused numbers from my phone? It's therapeutic, people say... Helps you to move on.....

Move on, my ass.

Father's Day

This post is in honor of Father's Day.

Not Fathers' Day.

I know, technically the apostrophe is supposed to go after the 'S'. It is the day belonging to all fathers in the world. That is, all the fathers in the consumerist, Hallmark holiday driven parts of the world. However, for myself, this holiday is to be celebrated in honor of only one father.

This post is dedicated to my brother-in-law, who is not only the perfect father for his children, but also the perfect husband for my sister. If any of the other "fathers" I have encountered had shown even a hint of the unconditional love and fierce protectiveness he feels for his family, then perhaps I would feel compelled to put that apostrophe following the 'S' after all.

Today I thank him; for completing my sister, and for being completed by her as well. For being patient while I demanded she read me a bedtime story (a LONG one) before they went on their dates. For being the life of the party at an awkward Daddy-Daughter Dance in church when I was 9. For contributing to the evolution of my nickname. For giving the best hugs in our family. For inappropriate jokes. For irreverent campfire dances. For not making fun of my mother's terrible puns nearly as often as he could be. For being a role model for my brother. For running practice marathons with his kids. For giving them creative nicknames. For teaching his son to fish, and ski, and play soccer. For loving his daughter's ballet recitals. For the talks he's had with them, and the ones that have yet to happen. For all the camping trips, vacations, renovations, school projects, performances, parent-teacher conferences, sports games, family events, ski trips, bruises, and experiences that are yet to come. For being the undeniably best father figure my family has ever known, just by being yourself.

Thank you.

Burn Baby, Burn

This is me.

Well, not really, but I do currently have a sunburn that is fairly deserving of at least one utterance of "fuck my life."

Before any of you decide to have cute, adorable, may-grow-up-to-become-a-doctor, half Asian, half English babies, think about how much they'll hate you when they discover their genetic inability to tan.

Sweaty Thoughts

It's truly amazing how a good, thorough run can make you feel considerably less hateful towards your fellow human beings.

Top 10 Childhood Animated Movies That Were Not Made By Disney

1. Fern Gully
2. All Dogs Go to Heaven
3. The Secret of Nimh
4. The Land Before Time
5. Rover Dangerfield
6. An American Tale: Fievel Goes West
7. Once Upon a Forest
8. Thumbelina
9. Happily Ever After
10. The Swan Princess

Considering the content of many of these movies, there seems to be a trend of "people bad. Animals good." Many of them have strong elements of environmental awareness. Most likely this was done in an attempt to inspire more Earth friendly habits and ideologies in my generation.

Clearly, something didn't stick.

I Dreamed A Dream

So, this post is going to be a tad dark... However, it's already been written and while I am greatly disturbed at how it practically screams to be psychoanalyzed, I am not ashamed. Thus, without further ado, I give you my awaken-drenched-in-a-cold-sweat-with-unsteady-pulse nightmare from last week. Enjoy.

Last night, I dreamt I killed my father.

Twice.

Or was it three times? The killings rather seemed to run together after a while…

I was living with my family in the house in Lehi my mother currently resides in. I had 3 younger siblings, all with varying oddities, and none of whom bore any resemblance to me whatsoever. All three had pale blond hair and blue eyes, and ranged between the ages of 5 and 2. The oldest girl was chubby and awkward. She looked the least abnormal of the three, but she had the most difficulty moving around due to her unfortunate obesity at such a young age. One phrase seemed to spring immediately to mind when gazing upon this child.

“White trash.”

The second youngest was a little boy, who looked physically healthy and perfectly normal. His oddity came in the form of his attire, for he was dressed in girls’ clothing that were far too small for him. The clothing seemed somewhat jumbled, as though he had rifled through a chest of dress-up costumes and had picked whatever items caught his eye, paying little to no attention to matching or style. His toddler belly poked out from between the top of a ruffled skirt and the bottom of a striped tube top. He sported a necklace of purple beads that swung low to his waist, and he tottered around in tiny plastic heels, like the kind that come with the purchase of a Disney princess costume. To complete his ensemble, he wore bright, garish makeup that clashed gaudily with his pristine blue eyes. I somehow sensed that the boy had been the one to dress himself, although this was never actually made clear.

The youngest girl was most freakish of them all. She had been born with a deformity in which her left hand had fused with her head, and her facial features and formed in her palm. It was as though her hand was glued to the front of where her face should be, palm facing out, but this did not hide her facial features for they were located symmetrically in the center of that palm. Two blue eyes, a nose, a tiny mouth… All while five digits wiggled distractingly above them.

Although none of these children bore any sort of familial resemblance to me, I still felt responsible for them. I knew they were my siblings. I knew I had to protect them.

Protect them?

Oh, right. The killing.

Throughout the dream, numerous attempts to take my life were made. It was not clear who was trying to kill me, but it was obvious that someone certainly was. So far I had been lucky, managing to narrowly escape every trap and mishap that had happened to befall me. Around the time of each attack I started to catch glimpses of this girl. She looked about my age, perhaps a little younger. She was a few inches taller than I, thin, with brown hair a few shades darker than my own. She looked fast. Athletic. Like someone who had done track and field in high school. She was dressed in summer clothes. Simple tan shorts and a tank top, her brown hair held back in a single ponytail.

The first thing I really noticed about her was that she was watching me. Always. But when I tried to reach her she would disappear like an apparition. Since I kept seeing her around after very clear attempts on my life, I started to assume that it was her. The problem was I just couldn’t catch her. She was always just barely out of my reach…

Until, suddenly, she wasn’t.

She was there. Right in front of me.

And she was bleeding.

She had what appeared to be a stab wound in her stomach, and she was losing blood at a fairly rapid pace. She told me we didn’t have a lot of time. She told me she had come to warn me.

She managed to tell me that the person who was trying to kill me was my father, just before swaying and blacking out from blood loss. I caught her before she fell, pulling one of her arms across my shoulders and started to take her back to the house where I could try and call for help. I remember thinking of my mother, but only fleetingly. I knew my mother was there. That is, I knew my mother was in my life…. But she wasn’t there. She wasn’t present. I knew, no matter what I tried to do to contact her, she wouldn’t come.

I knew I was alone.

We made it inside the house, and I lay the girl down on the floor while I searched for a weapon of some kind. I found a kitchen knife. A large, sharp, kitchen knife, the kind one always brandishes when one is trapped in a horror film against an invisible enemy. Only I didn’t want to use this knife. It was too large, too lethal. When I held it, I knew how easy it would be slide it into someone’s gut, how the skin would give way and the blood would lubricate the blade as it pierced flesh and organs. I didn’t like knowing how easy it would be, so rather than use the knife, I hid it instead.

For my weapon, I chose a spoon.

I went back to where I had left the girl, and found my father standing there, looking down at her. I started to move slowly toward him, spoon pointed forward in a warning. I remember he said something, but I didn’t hear it. I saw his mouth move and form words, but I couldn’t hear above the roaring in my ears as I advanced upon him. I don’t know if he was pleading for mercy. I didn’t want to hear it if he was. I just knew I had to kill him.

Suddenly the spoon didn’t seem like such a good idea.

Then I thrust forward, expecting extreme resistance against such a pitiful weapon, but the item in my hand slid easily through the flesh, and I realized that instead of the spoon, I was somehow wielding the kitchen knife instead. I pulled back in shock, staring blankly at the blood that ran down the blade to drip rhythmically onto my hand. I looked up and saw the mild surprise on my father’s face. And then I thrust again. And again.

And again.

Five. That’s how many times I stabbed him. Excessive to say the least, but he was still standing, still staring at me, so just kept going. I felt each sickening slide of the knife into his body, felt each easy penetration. The sensation is difficult to describe. It was rather like being on a roller coaster. It was disorienting, I felt queasy and anxious. I wanted to close my eyes until it was over.

But it was also indescribably thrilling.

There’s a reason people wait in lines for roller coasters.

After the fifth wound, he finally fell to the floor, a pool of blood already waiting to greet him. I dropped the knife and went to check on the girl, shaking her awake and telling her that we were going to get her help. That it was over. That I’d killed him. She blinked dazedly for a moment and I watched as terror and despair seeped into her expression. I didn’t understand, she said. The man I had just killed, the man who was my father, had had hundreds of families before mine. He would marry a woman, start a family, and eventually he would destroy them, one by one, before moving on to another town. Another woman. To start again. Leaving a trail of dead children in his wake.

She told me that she was the only one who had ever managed to escape with her life. That at one time, he had been her father as well. I ached for all of the innocents he’d already murdered, but I tried to console the girl and tell her that at least now it was truly over. He couldn’t hurt anyone else. She sobbed and told me again that I didn’t understand, that she had tried, that others had tried, to achieve what I thought I had. He’s impossible to kill, she said. He never dies.

I turned and looked back to where I’d left my father’s body. The pool of blood remained, motionless proof of the scene that had transpired, but my father was gone.

I had never felt terror as I did in that moment. I bolted into action, hoisting the girl to her feet and dragging her outside. He must have gone out the door adjacent to where he’d fallen. It was a moonless night outside, pitch-black and difficult to see. The girl and I were chasing at shadows, trying desperately to find him before he could find us.

I found a new weapon near the garage. An ax. I’d never held one before this, but I’d forgotten my knife in my haste to get outside, and although the weight of the ax was unfamiliar, at least it beat using a spoon.

The girl was starting to babble about nonsense, the severe loss of blood appeared to finally be taking it’s toll. I grabbed hold of her and told her we had to go back inside, that my siblings were still inside and that I had to keep them safe. As we opened the door and stepped over the threshold, I saw a shadowy figure moving into the living room and I sprinted after it, leaving the girl to follow me on her own if she had the strength to do so. I skid to a stop at the entrance to the unlit living room and flipped the light switch. The scene that greeted me was unnervingly gruesome, for there was blood drenched everywhere. Blood was spattered across the furniture, dripping from the walls and ceilings and seeping into the carpet. The most unnerving thing about it was that I couldn’t tell where it was from. Was it my father’s? It wasn’t my siblings’, I knew they were safe because I saw all three of them, gazing up at me, seemingly unaware of the carnage that was around them.

Then I saw my father. He was injured, but standing, and clearly alive. He looked different though. Clean shaven. He was missing the dark, bristly moustache he had sported through my entire childhood. It altered his features so drastically that for one heart-stopping moment I thought it couldn’t have been him. The reason it was heart-stopping was because my body had already taken action, lifting the heavy ax and swinging it towards his head.

Just as the blade made contact, I knew that despite his changed appearance, he was definitely still my father. He opened his mouth to say something, or perhaps to scream, but although I didn’t hear him, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t a scream at all.

It was a laugh.

The ax sliced through his open mouth, severing the top of the jaw neatly from the bottom. He crumpled to the floor, the majority of his skull thumping heavily to the side. I exhaled in relief that I had killed him before he had hurt my siblings, and the ax slipped from my hands as I drank in the sight of my abnormal but blessedly alive brother and sisters. I then remembered what the girl had said, about my father being impossible to kill, but surely severing his head would have done the trick? I glanced away from my siblings to look again that the body, to assure myself that he was well and truly dead.

The body was gone, as was the head.

No sooner had I registered this when I heard a sudden noise immediately behind me.

And then I woke up.

Once More, With Feeling...

I don't like writing.

For me, this is upsetting.

It wasn't always so for me. I used to write quite frequently, keeping journals through most of my life and recording whatever angry, emotional, teenage hormone-infested thoughts were jumbling about in my head at the time.

Then I started going to a little thing called college... And then writing became work.

What I'm hoping to gain from having a blog is to regain the flow I used to have with writing. What's more, I want to enjoy doing it again. I want it to be the creative, liberating experienced it used to be, before I started outlining my thoughts into arguments and striving for the perfect sentence that would clinch my A grade.

I want to remember what it's like to write for me.