50 little things that make me happy

1. the smell of sunblock
2. the sound of heeled shoes walking across a hard floor
3. popping bubble wrap
4. biting a goldfish cracker perfectly in half
5. coloring with a brand new crayon
6. amazon.com deliveries
7. remembering the name of an actor without having to look it up
8. singing along word for word alone in the car
9. free popcorn coupon when buying movie tickets with regal card
10. catching the clock at 11:11
11. getting 8 hours of sleep
12. catching the perfect, "that's what she said."
13. writing a poem
14. finishing a crossword puzzle
15. the sound of the river
16. star watching on a clear night
17. the moment the food arrives at a restaurant
18. when Lucy falls asleep an hour before her bedtime
19. rehydrating in the morning after a night of drinking
20. making lists
21. blowing a bubble, catching it on the wand, then using that bubble to blow another bubble
22. buying the perfect gift for someone weeks or months before their birthday or Christmas
23. sucking coffee through a Twix like a straw, then eating the melty coffee-soaked Twix
24. making the perfect scrambled eggs
25. driving past willow trees
26. whistling using a blade of grass
27. being the first one awake in the morning when no one has work or school to get ready for
28. getting into the car after work
29. singing the guitar solo
30. finding money (paper, not coin)
31. robot dancing
32. being alone in a swimming pool
33. facebook comment getting more likes than original post
34. heavy black rotary telephones
35. foot rub
36. tangerine colored cars
37. the sound of popping incandescent light bulbs when I don't have to clean it up
38. taking my shoes off after i've been on my feet all day
39. a cold beer after a job well done
40. starting a new book
41. saying something strange at the same time as someone else
42. zoning out to music over headphones
43. waking up at 5:30 in the morning long enough to remember it's my day off and I can fall back asleep
44. the first snow of winter
45. jacket weather
46. successfully hanging a spoon on my nose in front of witnesses
47. the word "pouch"
48. saying something abnormally honest while drunk
49. inside jokes
50. retracing a rambling conversation backwards to figure out what I was trying to talk about in the first place

How am I not myself?

Wow. I don't feel like me. I feel like a distracted potential. I can be more ME if I just (fill in the blank). How can I not be me?

This is worrying me stupid. It doesn't feel like a valid question, especially when I have other things, expected things, that I need to be doing rather than figuring out how I feel. I have a family to take care of, a new house to try and unpack. Stuff, man. Real stuff. The more of this "real" stuff, expected stuff, that I do, the less I feel like me. I am becoming what is expected of me. I've been Me before, and I felt right. All the right things are happening, I should feel right. Why don't I feel right?

I am going to have a drink, stand out on the deck and look at the stars...

Hardly any stars, but there was some heat lightning. I can't feel anything but confusion, annoyance, and that I'm not doing something that I should be doing. I'm uneasy and restless. I want to feel something else. I'm in a pretty house with a pretty yard across from an awesome river with plenty of trees around. This is what I want. Why can't I feel anything??? I keep myself busy, but when I have some down time, I feel like I'm grasping for some elusive emotion that I can never find. I don't even know what.

(an hour passes)

I just unpacked and set up Charlie's computer and cut my foot on some random broken glass on the kitchen floor. His computer is set up, so I know he'll be happy. But I couldn't care less. I'm such a shit.

Going to bed. Disgruntled. Pretty sure I need medication and I'm not happy about it.

Serious Things and Stuff

Alright, so today I feel a bit less desperate and depressed. I'm sick with a nasty but run-of-the-mill common cold, so that may have lent a little to my being so down in the shitter last night. I didn't do much packing or cleaning today, I had planned to do both, but FUNK DAT. I'm recovering, bitches.

My family is about to move. I'm anxious and excited half of the time, then I find myself uneasy and worried. It's about half the size of the townhouse we're in now. Which is fine, we've gotten rid of a shit load of stuff we don't need. It's not an issue of where our stuff will go. It's going to be the four of us crammed into a smaller area, getting into each other's faces. What I'm hoping is that the kids will want to play outside more. The yard and decks on this house are fucking amazing.

I'm taking more time off from school, too, and I worry that my family will assume I've given up. This time it will be a year, only because what with all the house hunting related whatnot, I stupidly missed that the college needed some extra paperwork for my financial aid. I thought I had everything done, FAFSA was completed and all, but, whatever. The deadline has passed. Maybe this extra time is something I need, though. I'll be unpacking and getting used to a new house, getting used to BOTH kids being in school this year (finally), and hopefully I can find a new job. I'll pick back up with school and I will slay it into the mother fucking ground, dammit. I will have my Bachelors. Someday.

I've gotten the notion into my head again that it might not be too late for me to be a writer. I mean, writing is the thing in this life that I enjoy most. Why can't I do that for a living? Maybe I'm no good at it. I've thought about that. I really haven't gotten feedback from anyone who isn't friends or family, and they will say it's good even if it's shit. Because they love me. Or they're afraid of hurting my feelings. And I totally get that, I have a hard time critiquing anything done by someone I care about. But also, I'm a bit conflicted about trying to "sell" my writing. I write because I can't not. It's like pooping. I ingest so much stimuli during the day and need to excrete it periodically in the form of words. If I don't write, it is a form of constipation. But really, who would pay to see this shit? Pun Fucking Intended.

Less than fuzzy feelings

I don't know what. Really, I'm sitting here feeling things and not feeling anything. I am down. I am really fucking down. I'm going through motions, but I don't have anyone to talk to about it that will really hear me and care. Everyone has their own shit going on, I understand that, so I write it down to feel some temporary relief. Things are happening that should make me happy, but instead I can't feel anything but confusion and indifference. The only things I do that hold any meaning for me is reading and writing. And maybe music and movies...by myself. I just can't force myself to enjoy doing things. I turn all of my limited energy inwards. I try to keep myself moving along, doing the things I'm supposed to be doing, trying to feel busy and efficient. It's like being on a treadmill. I put in some effort, but I don't feel like I'm getting anywhere.

Several times today, I've felt as if I was the only person alive. As if everyone I see are ghosts, figments, flat characters. They talk, they interact, but there is nothing said with meaning. I can agree with them, talk to them, but it's almost as if I'm talking to myself. I feel like life is a dream sometimes, like I'm going to wake up anytime and say, "None of that shit made any sense."

Great Plans

I just woke up from a nap, disoriented as hell and I can't remember what I dreamed about. But it put me in a mood. I had Great Plans to drink and come up with some witty and/or angst-filled poetry. OR! Or I could watch a movie. One that has great meaning and will leave me feeling either fulfilled or disturbed (either way, it would be worth it). Tonight was going to be one of the great alone nights. One of those heart-wrenching or life-shaking or even eye-opening but definitely alcohol-induced nights for me and me alone. But then I napped.

Why did I nap? I wasn't even really that tired. The hope fell away and now I'm trying. I'm really trying to get it back. See? I've got the first drink washed down, which is why my fingers even started to type this nonsense.

Tonight held the promise of being extraordinary, but the ordinary ho hum broke in while I was sleeping. Oh, that mother fucker. This calls for another drink. Everything calls for another drink. The end of the last drink calls for another drink. Oh, to be able to quit my job and spend the rest of my life on drunken adventures and sleeping in. How much poetry do you think would be written? Well, I'll tell you. Lots. I think I am feeling my Great Plans for tonight returning.

Something New. Soon.

If I don't do something worthwhile, create something NEW, soon, my soul will atrophy and die. I will be doomed to shuffle around bored, always in awe of what has been done by others, but never be a source of something fresh and amazing. I don't want to be another this or that. Same shit, different person. No. I want to be the proud owner of an Idea, of something that is purely Me but vibrates through the being of Everyone. I hope this random capitalization of words is lending emphasis to what I'm trying to convey as muy importante instead of making me seem an illiterate douche.

On another note, this is the second time I've used the word "atrophy" today in a sentence. Not that I'm keeping track. Okay, I am.

Recycled Dreams

I had a vivid dream last night. Most of it has faded, but I seem to have recycled the setting and characters. I don't really know if this is a recurring dream since I don't remember exactly what the other dreams were about, but here's the one from last night (or as much as I can recall after waiting four hours to write it down).

:: Jenny's Dream Sequence ::

There was a mountain without trees. A few dirt roads crisscrossing the side, dotted with old trailers, junk cars and clothes lines full of sheets in the yards. The homes were distantly spaced, with large grass and dirt fields between them. The area was populated by the elderly, save for one guy who was maybe in his 20's. He rode around on a dirt bike. I've had dreams in this setting before, with the same character, but his appearance is always changing to match that of someone I've seen in a movie or in life. In this dream, he had the appearance of the actor that played Tomas in the movie I Am Dina, which I just watched last week.

The people that lived here were being blocked from the rest of society. I was trying to get to the residents there, because I apparently had some sort of connection with them, but there were blockades at the base of the mountain and armed guards. The male younger character made it out and together we tried to evade the guards and save the elderly people of the mountain.

This is all I remember.

:: End of dream sequence ::

10 things that are wrong with me:

1. I'm too concerned with what others are thinking. I can't read minds, dammit.
2. I obsess over things that I have no control over. Worry worry worry.
3. I can't control myself. When I want something, I indulge.
4. Weight. I feel like someone awkwardly wearing a fat suit. Not right in my own skin.
5. Teeth. Not wanting to stay in one piece. Crooked as hell. Overbite.
6. Conflicting views about the way the world works. Trying hard to be rational. Horribly sentimental. I try to give deeper meaning to things that are probably trivial.
7. Drink too fucking much. Drunk right now. Always need a vice.
8. Prone to depression. No will, no energy, just shit.
9. Lazy and messy. Procrastinator.
10. I make stupid lists.

Two Movies and My Sober Opinions.

I haven't been drinking. The past many times I've blogged, I haven't been sober, so this feels strange. I watched two movies tonight and now it's 3:30am and I am not tired. I'm not anything. Possibly a little down. Maybe it was the movies?

I finally decided to watch Human Centipede. I had this feeling I wouldn't like it, and it had been sitting un-watched in my Netflix queue for over a year. I have no problem with horror and disturbing movies, I love them actually. I think I was hoping for more with this movie but somehow knew I wasn't going to get it. But a girl can hope. Anyhow, Charlie was working night shift so I decided to get it over with, because I had to watch it. Much like with a train wreck, I couldn't help myself. I was curious.

It was terrible. I couldn't stand any of the characters. I couldn't root for the victims because they were terribly irritating and dull. I couldn't side with the crazy doctor because his character lacked any hint of depth. He was weird, yeah. Had the creepy look down alright, but beyond that he was nothing. I couldn't even laugh at this movie, it wasn't even, "so bad it was good." If they couldn't have made it more disturbing, the least they could have done was make it corny or funny. This movie offered nothing, I wasn't shocked or disturbed in the least. I was bored as fuck.

Next movie, I Am Dina. Great movie, albeit a bit depressing. I love the main character, though. Dina. Crazy and wild and broken. Strong and vulnerable. This character was all depth. Of course, it had Christopher Eccleston in it as well, and I am a rabid fan of his, so that could only help it. For some reason, any time I see him even almost smile, my eyes water a little. Le sigh.

A dark patch on a rainy day.

Today, I am void of emotion. I have no energy, no will to do anything. I don't want to be awake. I don't want to go to sleep. I don't want to be. I don't want to...not be. I don't know. Everything feels wrong today. It's like a dream, where I'm standing in a fog and feeling uneasy, not knowing if it's supposed to be a nightmare. Maybe a drink will help me feel something, jump start my soul. I feel like a shell, a husk. A...husky husk. Oh, that was mildly funny.

Nothing I write feels sincere enough. This is the way I am today, in the words that I know, but the words that accurately describe my mind today have not been invented. I will read this tomorrow and it will seem like a lie. Like a melodramatic whine. I write these things down because I want to let myself know how bad it can feel. Because when I'm feeling good, I can't remember what bad feels like. When I actually have the energy and will to do something about it, I block it out and my mind pretends that everything's fine. Reading these words once I bounce out of a dark patch, they don't describe it well enough. I'll think, I couldn't have been feeling THAT down, I was just being silly.

Shut your lip, bitch.

Aaaaah, so fucking sick of humans. They have a way of tearing me down to bring themselves up. Not cool, assholes. Not cool. Just everyone, try leaving me alone and letting me be myself. Without all your snide, selfish, petty, pseudo-intellectual, hipster, pretentious, hateful and self-absorbed MOTHER FUCKING BULLSHIT.

Tunes. I like them.

I'm floating above myself as I run on my treadmill. I drive to and from work in another world. When I shower, I do so in a karaoke bar. Know why? Music. Because I'm either blasting it or singing, I am not inside my skin anymore. Or I am all skin, a ball of nerve endings and breath. I simply exist in the ether, connected to everything.  Sometimes I don't know what the fuck is happening afterward. I inject the audio and trip balls. Of course I didn't hear you, my headphones were making sweet, sweet love to my ears. I'm not driving unless the bass is vibrating my bones, stirring me up, mimicking my soul (or vice versa). It drowns out the thoughts of others. I am not me, I am anyone, I am the color red or a wild animal.

But...but...I wanna go too.

I need to get out. My brother is taking Dave to a death metal show in Luray this weekend and it seems probable I'll have to stay home with Lucy. Dammit. I love my daughter, but sometimes I just need out. When Dave was little, I just brought him with me to parties and such (nothing too wild, and he always had proper supervision, I'm not a terrible mother) and I was so free. It felt delicious. I'm pretty goddamn stuck lately.

Sending up my Bat Signal

I hate those nights where I feel like I'm the only one alive. The only one aware and listening. Only one with human emotions. In overdrive. Like...now. Somebody?

Looking up

I should be kept away from blogger when I'm feeling down. The stupidest shit gets written. I cringe at how angry and pathetic I sound sometimes. Today is a nice day. It's warm. I went outside barefoot and blew bubbles with Lucy, which felt good (aside from the apparent wasp problem we have around our front door, that's rather shitty). I'm losing weight. Lots of it, actually. I'm finally starting to feel good in my own skin. I just need to drop a little more weight and BOOM, I will finally fit into my Mr Bubble pajama pants, and that will be glorious, my friends.

My mom's been in and out of the hospital. I was seriously worried for awhile, because she had to undergo three operations (she had to have her gallbladder removed, then had some sort of nasty bile leakage that needed to be fixed after that) and then still had to go back after all that with pancreatitis. It had me a little crazy, I guess, because I'm very close with my mom. But now it looks like she's in the clear and will probably go home tomorrow. Whew.

I've been getting my stomach aches again. Every morning. Sometimes at night now. Fuck, I think this has been an issue now since at least high school, but it's been just about daily the last 12 years or so, since the birth of my oldest. I don't think I'll see the doctor about it, because I've done that and the medication they had me on made me too drowsy to drive. Fuck that, man. Both doctors I'd seen attributed it to stress. I thought maybe it was IBS. Thought maybe drinking was making it worse, too, but I stopped drinking for awhile and there was no change. Still have no idea, also can't afford a doctor visit. No damn insurance.

But anyway, bitches, I'm feeling happy today.

High / Low

My highs and lows are becoming unpredictable. One minute I want to throw things, scream, sometimes I feel like curling up and dying, and then I'll be so happy that my face hurts from smiling (random RHPS reference, "Even smiling makes my face ache!") and all's I want to do is robot dance. When there is none of these extremes, there is numb. I hope that getting regular exercise and eating better helps my moods, but they seem to be getting worse these past few months. I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.

Right now I'm in a shitty angry mood. I was fine while I was running the treadmill, I could just daydream and think and listen to my music and everyone left me the fuck alone. I need a punching bag. I need to hibernate. I need time for myself where I don't have to be mom for awhile. I want to fucking be ME sometimes, not what everyone else needs me to be. AAAUGH, HULK SMASH!

Just not my night.

I can't form a fucking thought with this kid constantly talking and jumping around. I just want some time to myself where I don't have to listen to a four year old's stream of thought or have someone bugging me to look at this, look at this, looooooook. My patience is wearing VERY FUCKING THIN.

I just need time to think. I get time to do that on the treadmill, which is why I treasure my time on it. That or in the shower or car -- no one interrupting my thoughts. I feel selfish. I'm a mom, I'm supposed to put my kids before myself.

I just want my writing back. I write a little, but not nearly everything that I need to. When I have something like a feeling/poem that needs to get out, but I'm not in a situation where I feel like I can write, it's like being constipated.  I can't write until everyone in this family is in bed, I'm just completely uninspired until then. I need to drink to get all this tension out, all this anger I have about...life.

I thought I would quit drinking (it's hell for trying to lose weight), but I can't. When I'm sober, I feel that sort of numb, much like when I was on Celexa but none of the calm. I couldn't write then, either. I want to cry and scream and throw things and curl up into a ball and escape from the world.

time passes...

Nevermind. Kids in bed, amazing smiles now. Drink is good. Laughs to be had. Whooda thunk. It's turning into a better night.

Southern Comfort and Soul Stuff.

"Can't stop what's coming, can't stop what is on it's way..." Just another intoxication. It certainly makes my obsessions clearer. And I speak in very cryptic and obscure sentences. Because for some reason, when I drink, I convince myself that I am plugged into some collective conciousness and those relevant minds hear me. I am however, merely drunk. Still, it would be neat if my mind was really broadcasting this. I suppose blogging it is as close as I'm going to get. Nobody really even reads this. I'm just a drunk girl with stupid theories, talking to herself.

Listening to Peter Murphy. I really like it. I think I've had almost enough Southern Comfort to...I dunno, actually, I've almost finished the bottle. Drinking makes me feel lonlier sometimes. It's almost as if my brain is disappointed that it doesn't get a response when drunk, even though I have no one to talk to but myself. I feel...not all there. But not in an insane way. I feel...partial. Is that normal? Do I make sense, or am I really further gone than I thought?

I think...this is really me. I need to drink and get over all the outward jumble to show my soul. If the soul is really...real. Too bad it's always late and when I'm alone. It makes me love me even more, I am fucking AWESOME. Anyone who disagrees, you are what is wrong with the world. I feel like the bright center of everything. Kiss me, I'm Irish. Or whatever, yeah, I am quite drunk.

My thoughts on country music. It's shit.

This job wouldn't be near as bad if the same mind-numbing country songs weren't played over and over from my bosses offices. Really, if given the choice (which I never am) between country music or none at all, I would pick silence. And there's nothing that makes me feel more irritable and unpatriotic than hearing the shitty twang of a country music rendition of the Star Spangled Banner played every day at noon. Way to ruin the national anthem, people, it sounds like you're singing it out of your assholes.

After Christmas Shittiness

Had a nice holiday, though so many of the family were sick (myself included). Now to tackle the feat of making it through the rest of winter. The endless stretch of cold and dark. After Christmas, all I want to do is curl up in bed or drink. Or curl up in bed AND drink. I've got kids constantly yakking in my ear so I can't form a fucking thought. I used to write poetry when I was down. It was depressing and angsty poetry, but it felt good to create something that represented the shit that I was feeling. Hell if I can do that with Spongebob Fucking Squarepants blasting on the TV.

All I want is Southern Comfort and nachos and to watch back to back episodes of Sherlock by myself. Followed by typing out drunken poetry while listening to the Doors. Maybe light some incense. The only way I get over depression is by wallowing in it. Roboting through it all and pretending it's all okay is not helping. I want to open the front door and scream.