It's probably not fair to blame insomnia now on espresso six or seven hours ago. Regardless of where the fault lies (my brain), the fact is that I'm awake now, still, after staring at the ceiling and cuddling with a cat and listening to all my voicemail (16 messages, I should check those more than once a week) and for god's sake I even recorded a new greeting, I'm cold and shivery and my mind won't stop going.

And so.

I've been thinking a lot about family and domesticity and settling. Not settling down, settling like a negotiation; "this is what I will offer and this is what I will give up." I've been thinking about how I'm bored with everything I can think to do to myself, and whether it's worth the complete awkwardness and uncomfortableness of afterward to let someone else do things to me. Because I'm starting to think I could settle for love without sex, I have few enough people I like enough to want to have sex with and if history is any indicator sex just fucks things up, and I'd rather have people I like than (maybe) orgasms.

Things would be a lot less messy if I knew I could settle for that in the long run. Literally and figuratively.

I've also been thinking about daddy issues, but not in personal terms, mostly just because Kristin and I mainlined Heroes all weekend and everyone in that show has some kind of daddy issue. And also I think I'm kind of in love with Noah Bennet, shut up shut up shut up. I wish it wasn't another two weeks until Heroes starts again. I want MOAR.

I have an appointment with Dr. Gitlin in five hours and forty minutes. I have to bring the cats to the vet in six hours and forty minutes. And still I'm sitting here in the dark, a little bit cold except for the warm kitten on my lap, and I'm trying to seperate out my useless fears from my honest worries, what's important from what's not going to change no matter how I want it to.

All summer long I've been losing weight, a pound here, a few ounces there. I'd almost made it down to 175 at one point. This morning I stepped on the scale and saw 187 and I almost cried. It's not all milkshakes (although those aren't helping), it's a good deal of doing nothing, and that won't do any more.

I'm probably going to be put on probation as of the 24th. So I should stop now. And I'm so weak because I've been trying to convince other people to stop with me, and I let myself backslide just because no one else will hold up, and I need to grow a goddamn backbone. I'm trying and it feels like no one takes me seriously. And I wonder if they should or if my wanting to quit is a big joke to everyone, like a punchline to laugh at whenever I pass on a blunt or protest packing another bowl. And then I wonder if I am just a big joke.

But Minerva knows I'm upset, purring and pushing her face against mine. Sunrise in an hour and a half, the growl of a freight train shaking the tracks behind my house, and hey, it's September 11. Six years ago this was a fucking gorgeous day at sunrise. Clear blue sky and barely a cloud. Six years from now this could all be meaningless. Six years from now, god, who even knows? The internet might not even exist then. Maybe I'll be married, or dead, or maybe I'll be up at ass o'clock in the morning letting a cat knead my stomach and making a self-indulgent, fearful, hopeful post to LiveJournal.

I guess we'll find out in six years. For now, I'm just trying to wear my brain down to the point where I can sleep, and if I can't do it with words I'll do it with hot chocolate.

Plz note that I almost died in the shower while thinking this through (I slipped on the tub and almost broke my neck x.x), so hear me out.

I know a lot of you guys are sick of Fall Out Boy. I've been told so. I've had people defriend me because of it.

It's my fandom. Okay? I don't bitch when anyone else talks about their fandoms. I don't say "God, I'm so sick of hearing about the Office" or "if someone posts something about CNN again I'm going to cut a bitch" or "what's the big deal about Battlestar Galactica?" (to name a few, not singling people out, just thinking about the big fandoms on my flist I'm not part of.) I'm not making you listen to them, I'm not saying they're the best music that's ever been made.

I'm saying I like writing goofy fanfic about them, and wibbling over them, and obsessively looking up pictures of them. I make layouts and icons because that's what people do with their fandoms. And I know there's not a single fan on my flist who can say otherwise.

So: if you want to hate, that's your choice. And if you dislike my fandom enough to get rid of me, well, I'll be sad to see you go.

Just take a look in the mirror, mkay? Fandom's about having fun, or it should be. And this fandom makes me happy in ways that other fandoms have consistently failed to do. I wish everyone had something this fun and worry-free to indulge in, without the constant drama that plagues other fandoms.

But, in the words of the immortal H.O.V.A.: "I'm like, fuck critics, you can kiss my whole asshole, if you don't like my lyrics you can press fast forward." Or, you know, something like that? Anyway, it's either talking about Fall Out Boy or Justin Timberlake. If anyone wants me to go on to the Prince of Pop, y'all just let me know.

I've come up with a new theory: the reason people are so unhappy is because they don't lie to each other enough about the right things.

I think why people like me is because I have no hesitation in lying to people if I think that's the appropriate course of action. Hell, sometimes I do it for fun, just to see how long people will believe me (but I always fess up when I do that, and usually the lies are pretty fantastical then). Look at it this way: if my mother and father just lied about how much they liked each other, my house wouldn't feel like a war zone. If my sisters did the same thing, maybe there'd be a little peace. If people could just lie and say it's okay, maybe they'd get over whatever is making it not okay.

Or maybe I'm just an asshole. Either or.

Anyhow, yesterday I learned how to purl, and I started working on my stockinette stitch (messy. so, so messy and ugly: but still recognizably stockinette) on some yellow yarn Kristin had. I'm going to unravel the whole thing when I'm done and then do it again, which is going to suck, but I need to practice if I'm going to get any good. (Hell, my garter stitch still looks awful.)

Speaking of garter stitch, would anyone with an iPod like a cute monster iPod case for any December-arriving holiday? It takes me like two days to make them, and they just look like adorable little anime monsters when they're done (I'll post a picture later...) and I can do worse things than send slightly-sloppy-but-made-with-love things to my friends for the holidays. Also if anyone would like a postcard, I got eight from the Peanut Butter & Co, and I have some from the Kent DeLord house somewhere.

I always dry out in the winter, but my lips are already uncomfortably dry and it's only October. Looks like I'm going to have to do some serious looking-around at Bath and Body Works next time I'm there.

Another time it's good to lie: when you feel like making a cryptic, passive-aggressive comment in your LJ. So instead... Man, did you guys see Lost last night? That show is AWESOME!

...yep.

Okay, this'll be the more typical 'this is what I'm thankful for' post. So, woo.

First, and most, and pretty much everything, I'm so freaking thankful for my friends I can't even say how much. The people that put up with my mood swings, my insecurity, my bitchiness, my complete inability to follow anything for longer than ten minutes, they're the best and I love them dearly. I just wish I was a better friend; I'm doing my best, and I'm glad they put up with me when I fail.

( the rest cut to protect the innocent and uninterested )

Also, I'm thankful for skillz. New layout skillz. Check it out: speccygeekgrrl.

For some reason I am feeling belligerent. I want to start a fight. Not some pansy-ass LJ drama passive aggressive thing, I want to punch someone.

Don't really know why.

ANYHOW. Cleaning Rachael's room, which used to be my room, there's enough of my stuff in there to still call it my room except that's not me anymore. That's not who I am. God, I used to be such a dorkface. Beanie Babies everywhere, w0e, and clippings from Seventeen and other mind-melting insipid magazines. Notes from high school, middle school even. Why people confide in me I'll never know. Like David in middle school. Was his name David, even? Dated Lexie for a while. I don't remember, it might have been Jonathan. He didn't sign his note, but I can remember his face just from the note, the way he used to always get so excited about episodes of Felicity and Dawson's Creek.

God, I feel old. I found other things, like my first bottles of perfume, purchased at Afterthoughts in the Palisades Mall. Oh, I remember. Sniffing them, yeah, walking through Suffern Middle School's halls, sneaking off to cry after so many things in the auditorium. Little "thank you" cards from my teachers, when did I give them chocolate? The English teacher I adored, the Science teacher I was scared of and fascinated by at the same time. (Like Snape, but more Jewish, I realize in retrospect. Oh, roffles.) Little glass bottles I was always afraid of breaking. "Hyper," "Crazy," "Daring", such optimistic names, 'wear us and you'll get right past your shyness, your dullness, come on, put us on!'

An old feather. Raven? Crow? Dirty seagull? I don't know, but Oreo's fascinated with it. Such a strange kitty. I come home and find her up on my loft bed, how the hell she gets up there I don't know. Coming up to me, mewing, deigning to be petted for a moment and then struggling out of my arms to find someplace in the house to hide.

Cleaning, yes. I found my Chucks, the first pair I ever owned, bought in New York City on a high school field trip. Pale blue high-tops, laces traded for lilac ones from an old pair of roller skates. Not rollerblades, no, skated, foursquare wheels and heaviness. Size 11 cause that's all they had, a size or two too large for me but I wore them anyhow and loved them. Until they got lost, eaten by the closet, the only pair of shoes I've found both of in there yet.

Other things, pictures, letters, cards signed by Nana and Grandma that I'm so glad now I didn't throw away. The whole detritus of the girl I was in high school, tucked away in a closet and stuffed under a bed. And I'm pulling her out, exhuming her, poking through her bones and throwing half of them away to rebury the rest somewhere new.


...oh, fuck, is it snowing? Fuck.

would be a good title for something. I should run with it. I haven't indulged my mythology habit in too long.

I should hit the library. Grab some myth books, some Ginsberg and Eliot and something deep and incomprehensible I can force myself to have to focus on, something dense and looping around itself until it's hung with its own words.

I don't know what to do with words anymore. Most of mine seem to be lies, happy fronts when I just want to lash out with them and drive people away. And I don't know why I don't, because the ones I want to keep near me, I don't want to lash out at in the least. Just the people I should have cut ties with ages ago, the ones I have nothing in common with, the ones that make me feel angry just to think about. but I'm not the kind of person to lash out, so I'm sinking with these albatrosses around my neck, too scared to cut the damn things off.

God, fuck this timidity so much. I wish I was half as brave on the outside as I am in my head. I never would get into these retarded positions if I just spoke up and said "fuck off" once in a while when I meant it and not just joking around with the people I actually care about.

Also, I am a hypocrite and a bitch, and I'm starting to enjoy that. So. I don't know. Where do I stop being nice and start being a coward? I would take my bravery back at the cost of my niceness. Because being nice just gets you stepped on, and fuck that.


I just miss being able to sit in a room and focus on what people are saying. I feel like such a jerk because I'm a space case whenever I go out with Kristin and Amber and they deserve better of me than absent-mindedness and the constant "what?" I miss Kierstin and Carol and Maggie.


Today was okay. I'm still all worn out and stressy, all breakouts and oily hair and bleh. And I feel bleh. I want it to be November or at least not this week any more. I would like to skip the next 24 hours and go right to payday, to movie day, to sit-around-and-rp-until-ridiculous-o'clock day. Or right up to November and being on the greyhound heading south, the big event of my fall.

I'm just fed up and mean and annoyed at myself for not growing a pair and just getting rid of these life-sucking weeds strangling me out. People lead to stress lead to more stress lead to ranty self-accusatory hate-filled LJ posts, lather rinse repeat.


So in better news, I might be getting BPAL tomorrow. And today I got a nifty grey zip-hoodie from Old Navy, where I never shop, but it's soft and warm so yays. And I'm totally getting another one of the awesome hats via garbarella's talented fingerses, which I am excited about, and I should take pictures wearing the ones I have because hey, happy customer things are good for selling more things. (If any of you like awesome floppy hats, hit that lady up. I adore my berettamsnoods!)

And, um, Lost: I totally called it. Now let's quit with the Jackbacks and get with the OTHER plotlines.

CSI tomorrow! And OC, which I missed last week, and oh please you mean Ryan and Marissa haven't done it yet? Yeah, that's believable. I so need to catch up with that whole show. Like everything from 01x04 on. :D I am such the loser. YAY TV.

thank you, Kristin, for putting up that blurb for me.

thanks, everyone, for your hugs and prayers and well-wishes.

My brother and I are okay. His car is fucking wrecked, but Jettas are sturdy little shits with good airbags and we're both all right. His arm is fucked up, bruised and scraped but not broken; we have identical contusions on our left thumbs. I have lovely flower-colored bruises on my knees where they hit the dash, and rug burn from the airbag deploying.

I still have glass and metal and plastic dust all over me, and I'm never going to forget the way the air tastes after an airbag hits your face. Never. This was just a refresher.

I don't think I ever want to drive a car. On the ride home that Erica gave us, my nails were biting into the plastic door handle. I'm sore and tired and headachey and hungry and scared, I want my daddy to be home right now please, I want today to go back to about 1:30 when Tom offered to drive me to the bank and I should have accepted.

But mostly I'm just glad that my little brother and I are okay.

(when we climbed out of the wreck he was so pissed he threw his hat on the ground and forgot to pick it up when the paramedics got him. he was sure he'd never see it again. we drove by the crash site, on the street I live on, and it was still lying on the grass. I got out and got it for him.)

I'm going to take a shower and have dinner and tylenol.

eta: Okay. The ultimate asskicker of this day? Once I got out of the shower I ate one, ONE SINGLE, chocolate munchkin donut.

And I choked on it.

Clearly, my life is far too stupid to go on.

I was supposed to go to Derek's today, finish watching Casablanca, hang out, you know.

Sadly, as we were pulling into his driveway, he was leaving. So I hung out with Dennis and his friends all afternoon. Have I mentioned before what a trip my little brother can be? He's really a lot of fun sometimes.

So we cruised around, blowin' trees and listening to Snoop and sweating because Plattsburgh is hotter and more humid than the entire football team's collective balls, until we ended up at Friendly's for ice cream. Mm. I love me some Friendly's gummi bears. You know the little ones that are tangier than normal-sized gummi bears... yeah.

So for Dennis's birthday (two days after mine = Thursday), I'm going to give him pot and a mix CD, because I know he'll use at least one of them. xD Does anyone have any reccommendations as far as rap goes? That's practically all he listens to; while I want to make him a mix of GOOD music, I want him to actually listen to it, and he isn't exactly a big fan of Dylan or the Beatles. Maybe some Ramones, maybe some Clash, I'm trying to piece it together, but I need rap reccs like whoa. (hm. grey album version of dirt off your shoulder, maybe?)

Came home, baked off my skull, and saw no call telling me to come back, so I slept off the afternoon. I think the town just got more muggy, because there's no way I can sleep now, but I had no problem at 5:30...

I don't know how I feel about school starting in a month. I'm kind of looking forward to it, but not really so much. I just know I can't stay here. Being at home gives me the feeling that nothing I do here counts for anything; being at college makes me certain of it, and makes me worry that I'm getting farther out of touch with the real world, and just... I'm worried, honestly. That's all. Worried.

Anyhow. Too hot to sleep down here. I'm probably going to end up crashed on the couch with the air conditioning killing my ears. xD

Tomorrow I have a package to mail, and an apartment to visit, and a movie to watch with Pedro (and Amanda and Jamar? yes?), and dunno what after that. Then Tuesday... aaaaaaaaaah. Tuesday is my birthday and I don't actually have any plans, not solid ones anyway. Anyone want to weigh in?

My dad. I've been working on a post about him for days now. But basically all I have to say about him, if I have to boil it down, is that he always surprises me.

He's got insomnia-- might be a side effect of the PTSD, or the anxiety, or the depression. But when I can't sleep, chances are good he's got the TV on upstairs when I go to get a glass of water, and if I've got the TV on when he comes down he's as likely to watch with me as to go into the bedroom.

About an hour ago he went into the bedroom, asking me "Do you plan on working tomorrow?" Yes. Whether I'm rested or not, I have to.

And then he came back out and sat down at the family computer. I felt guilty, thinking I'd kept him up, but he said I wasn't to blame for it.

Then he asked me about some web address I'd never seen before. And told me to check out the blog on the page.

It was interesting to read, for sure; the X-Files fan in me liked it, and the ex-propagandist in me didn't think it too unplausible.

But the fact remains that it's ten of four in the morning and I'm talking government conspiracies with my dad. And I'm still not really tired. And I don't know who to trust in any case, can never tell when he's joking or when he's serious or when he's baiting me into saying something dumb, which he really doesn't do often at all but I think he's doing all the time, pretty much whenever conversation gets deeper than small talk.

And I have so much to say about him and no idea how to put it. And I wonder if I'm really my father's daughter as much as I am my mother's; it's so easy to see what she gave to me, but everything of him is less blatant, just hints-- the thickness of my hair, the freckles that all faded, the way I want to believe the best in people and give them everything I can to help them, the way I can't sleep and sometimes I just can't handle leaving the house. Nothing you can tell at first glance.

It's rare, but now and then someone will say I look like my father. And I have to wonder just what it is they're seeing.

So. Because I'm horribly self-conscious... I mean, because I want to make being friended to me a more enjoyable experience for you all.... okay, a little bit of both, plus the fact that hey, I'm going to have this journal forever now, I should at least see what people dig about it and work on making it more digable....

I present to you a poll! :D (Please indulge me. I'm heatstricken and sleepless and desperate for something to do.) So go ahead, be honest, be honest in the COMMENTS if you have to go past the ticky things and clicky things.

[Poll #522005]

Merci beaucoup and thank you for helping me make my journal a better place. :D