intaglio: knightofend @ LJ (hangups)
Jesus, I don't care.

I can't seem to do anything about driving, so, whatever. I flat out just got told that I'm not properly grateful and that I'm not acknowledging her enough and it's got to do with how I don't love myself or something, and I know she doesn't understand that I'm not really a person, that I don't feel things, that I just feel angry and tired and sick of her shit.

And then she does that thing where 'did we even achieve anything' well maybe if you would ever make up your mind where the fucking finish line is, I would know when I'm allowed to stop.

Maybe I'm not allowed to stop, maybe no one's ever allowed to stop, maybe we're all just supposed to hurtle toward a crash. At least it would wipe the slate clean.

I'll just compromise some more and be an adult about this; what else can I do.

God, once I have my own money, I won't have to do this anymore. Until then I'll write my little stories.
intaglio: thesuzylee @ LJ (talk talk)
Clocking in on the first break of my day; downloaded Illustrator and I'm gonna try using it again. Trying to freestyle it the way I remembered from my CS2 classes resulted in a lot of frustration. No shortage of people on Youtube who want to tell you how to do it, though. I should learn enough to at least not make myself want to die.

Keep calm and create the perfect system. I hope renting these things through the cloud doesn't come back and bite me financially, whether or not anything comes of it.

Whether or not anything comes of it is a pretty good way to live.

Culver City is a done deal! Looks like it'll be happening sooner than I expected, which is nice. And that's the story of how I'll get out to California twice in one year. I almost can't believe my good fortune, to the point that it's difficult to type the word.

I'm back to waking up with a sore throat and a stomach ache--acid kickback--not sure if stress or actually getting sick. Under the circumstances, I really really hope it's just stress. Stress can be Alka-Seltzered into submission.

Can you feel like you're living too hard when you're not actually doing anything and you go to bed at eleven every night? I do, sometimes.

This thing is no joke. My entire body is changing shape in ways I never thought it even could, so that's rad. I mean, I'm not even doing it right, because lol I can't quite lift it.

And there's the bell. Gotta dash.
intaglio: crucified @ LJ (silver fox)
Getting sorted with my coffee to the beat as it's been for years, for all the years, for always--Pendulum helps.

Autumn is my favorite, and the neat thing about hurricane season being so long is that I can wake to driving winds, hard enough to pull the door from my hand and kiss my lips, pulling for breath on the exhale, trying to suck its way inside.

Nobody ever stopped to find out if I had an oral fixation. Being an eight and looking too young is a lonely fucking business, but it ought to pay off well within the next three to five.

I have some awesome opportunities staring me in the face, if I can marshal up the courage to go after them. (I've always confused marshal and martial; I confuse words with the same sound, regardless of whether the spelling is remotely close--see, aloud for allowed.)

I dreamed all night about organizing and opportunity: something that I don't remember now, that had to do with apartments, with the way they look looking out, all the balconies facing each other in that square, that compact rectangular yard. A lot of staircases and elevators, proceeding up and down, motion and change.

No, dear. When I have sex dreams, somebody gets stabbed. Blood and fire are more my speed.

This is an organizational dream, a dream of preparation--structural layer dream about changing living habits. Compare the subway dream and the highway dream, both relationship-issue dreams.

I have a recurring nightmare about dying horribly in an elevator shaft, in a crash or a straight fall, or being crushed when the cab returns.

In general, my dreams are intense, recurrent, and largely locale-or-setting-based. I don't know, I've met so few people that remember their dreams, let alone get in the habit of writing them down, that I don't know if that's how everybody does it.

We spend a third of our lives asleep. That's 33.3-bar percent of our entire lives. Why wouldn't our dreams be important? Even if they're junk cycles. Partial files. Chance music, interesting for its own sake.

I can tell I'm getting older when I'm excited about my purchases, and they're as follows: a closet rack, a lint roller, and a pretty beach towel--a conscious act of not-like-the-others.

Look at all this cleaning I'll be able to do.
intaglio: knightofend @ LJ (lightning rod)
Recently, I finally found amazing writing music. Downloadable massive mixes of slow ambient dubstep. This is what the stars sound like. It's perfect for writing to, which I don't seem to do, lately.

I talk and talk and talk about writing, and vomit ideas into the ether of the internets, but I don't write them; I talk and talk and talk about tagging, and slowly manage one or two tags a day before I collapse into bed.

Some of this is biological, cyclical. Some is just pervasive. Some is the constant distraction and general loud atmosphere I work in and am expected to function in. Some of it is just that the gloss is off the hobby and even hobbies, lately, seem more like work.

Cursory Googling suggests that others with grief-based PTSD have reduced dream recall. This has bothered me, off and on, and my total empathy score has taken a long, slow, almost sixteen-point slide over the last three years in particular.

In brief: grad school has turned me into a noxious bitch.

I am going to play Tetris and then I am going to power through this decaf coffee, and then, THEN, I am going to write, whether it's tags or fanfic or something else or just more (and more personal) bloo bloo bloo, woe and torment, bloo.
intaglio: crucified @ LJ (can't walk)
Taking solace today in two facts:

I will, within 98% probability, be going to Culver City later this year. Tron fans know what's up. It's just that it usually looks like this, in one's head.

Two: Barcade is a real place and an excuse to go to New York that isn't the Met. (You try getting your friends on board with cultural opportunities and then try beer and videogames. See which one works.)
intaglio: on the West Coast (if you love me)
Driving was a no-go, this morning, after weeks of waiting for it.

Still not sure if I'm happy or sad. Relieved, maybe; at least the pressure wasn't all on me, and it looked like I had made some effort. I don't wonder that some of the reason she thinks I'm such a fuckup is that I pull stunts like this.

I just get so scared. I refuse to identify the why or the source. Not identifying it keeps me in my safe little bubble of a routine, which, let's face it, if I left, I would have to start doing something else; isn't that horrific.

There comes a time, as an adult, when you just have to accept that no more of the things are getting done today, and that you cannot do the blogging you wanted, and that it will not get completed. It is not special. You are not special.

They should amend that to read you are not more special than anyone else, which is, after all, what we take it to mean: license to grind others into the dirt, in the name of our own uniqueness.

I could really go for a sandwich.

Apropos of nothing.

I had all this shit I wanted to say, and then when I got here, it vanished. There was a hole here; it's gone now.

Anyway, almost through my responses to my classmates' work, and happily many of them are very smart and actually also write like it! This is going to be a good thing.

When life gets harder, you must have just leveled up.
intaglio: crucified @ LJ (poindexter)
If I can just get a driver's license.

That was the crowning thought, last time, of the prior draft. And wow, rather than take the time to deal with this, to write at length about anything I feel or am going through, I did a touch of design work essentially devoted to making my desktop as drab as possible--though I was just struck with some wonderful inspiration that should liven it considerably; yes, that works nicely.

Bathroom's done. I've gone from having knock-down, drag-out scream 'n' slap matches with my mom over housework to getting compliments. You don't understand; she doesn't compliment anyone. She prides herself on tellin' it like it is, which usually means being sarcastic.

(If it sounds like all I do is rag on her, just guess what I never actually get to do IRL. I've lived with my parents well into adulthood. Try being treated like a teenager for sixteen years, and then we'll talk maturity and self-restraint.)

Still terrified to look at job prospects and driving prospects, but I've finally got my house under control, and I never once thought that was possible.

I hate cleaning, and I'm from a family that hates cleaning, and it shows. I'm saying this because, guess what?

With very, very few exceptions, no one wants to live in dirt. Nobody is really attuned that way. Some people have health problems, or cognitive or emotional health problems, that make cleaning extremely fucking difficult.

Like, I am not ragging on those people at all. God knows. Knowing your limits and how to live with them is the hardest part of, well, living.

I think a lot of us just--don't know how clean. I mean, we don't know to do it right. We never actually had someone tell us the steps, just the consequences of what would happen if we failed, and how disappointed they were when we did, and how we're lazy, no good, worthless, immature, childish, or plain fucking stupid, all for not doing it right.

When no one ever taught us how.

Guys? This is how.

Seriously, just follow this and adapt it for every day instead of weekends.

I personally consider a day victorious if I get through the first four:

Cut because my personal confessions are a little gross, but they needed to be shared. )

Like I said. I may not have control of my whole life--yet--but I have control of my house.

And I did it by myself, with no one helping me, like an actual adult. Not like playing one on TV. Not like adult but living with parents and still getting in bitchfights with mommy about it.

Sorry, Mario. Your princess already conquered the fucking castle.
intaglio: meezardra @ LJ (butterfly)
That feeling when you wake, and it's noon, and you've slept 'til noon, and you earned it. Hours later there's a slow, luxurious kind of languor still living just beneath the skin, cool and slick.

I appear to be physically incapable of calling the driving school; it's the only logical explanation. Well, no, but the truth requires hashing and rehashing things I don't want to think about anymore, things I'm done fighting about.

I've officially stopped expecting my mother to be happy in the mornings. Like. Just. She kind of greets every day with a squint and, "You're the sun. You're round. You're orange. So whaddaya want, a freakin' medal?"

I hate it when the windows in the living room are open. Minimum, I'm investing in some sheers if/when they ever get their travel shit together.

I miss the gym. Not the part where there were other people in it, but that's cost of doing business. They're gonna quit, of course. Doesn't matter. The last couple of times I went, I didn't get to do what I wanted, anyway, and if I can't have catharsis, it's a meaningless activity.

If anything I was probably working out too hard and eating too much on the rebound because of it, because ha, what's a healthy diet and how would you eat well?

I think what makes me want to scream the loudest is that I've tried to have this for years. And they just don't listen. Still not listening. The new diet is giving me mysterious physical problems and I'm gonna get told to suck it up. I always do.

I don't know what I was even talking about, what I am talking about, I just want to whine somewhere, so I can keep going.

I want to get out of here, but I think it's not to be.

I think I'm gonna end up hooking up with the guy who's been doing a lot of our repair work. I just have that feeling of inevitability about it, and he's cute enough for a first go. Like, I can tell looking at him that it'd hurt, everything always hurts, there's always a payoff, something I give away for something I want, but it wouldn't suck, I wouldn't hate it.

I want to watch Demolition Man and scare up some Fruit by the Foot and pretend I'm thirteen and have my life ahead of me.

I'll probably just end up back in bed.
intaglio: knightofend @ LJ (rise reise)
There's so much to do today, but nothing that I have to do; it's all on me, whether I do this right or not, whether I get it all done, and I hate days like this. I always end up disappointing myself.

It kind of pissed me off yesterday, running through the house unfucking it and finally getting somewhere, like with things that have bugged me for months or years or forever and watching them go away and actually stay clean for a whole day.

And she was like, "Oh, thank you! I want you to know that we notice," and I fired back "Who cares?" under my breath before I could even catch myself. I'm just lucky she didn't hear.

Pretty sure the psychs would tell me, "You have trouble accepting compliments and it stems from when you were a child and didn't get enough hugs."

But you know something? It was just this instant, reflexive, white-hot flash-in-the-pan of entitled rage.

Fuck you, I'm not cleaning the place for you, I'm doing it for myself 'cause I'm sick of living in a goddamn dump and I'm tired of waiting for someone else to clean it; fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

In sum: my motives are rather less love-starved and rather more selfish.

I would like to write today, but not fandom, but I do hope to climb into his head eventually, to descend a staircase, naked, and lick those wounds into a fine and festering kind of anguish.

Just to review: call driving school, fix financial aid, pay bills, do minimum cleaning, try to write, pray for rain.
intaglio: knightofend @ LJ (stripes)
I'm going to see about moving to New York. I know, I say that a lot, but the truth is it's a fuckton closer than Seattle, it's not Virginia, and it might actually have some opportunities for me. I think I'll get that book by Richard Florida off the shelf and see what's to do.

I refuse to be negative about this. I need out of here in six months, and I think I can do that, zero to sixty. I'm just so tired of where I am and the way I'm headed, which is pretty much nowhere. Fast.

I'm excited for classes in a way I haven't been for two years. The one I'm currently registered for has an immensely practical title and purpose. I mean, I did and do enjoy learning things for their own sake, but in a lot of ways I feel cheated, with this Communication degree. With both of them. I have two!

I thought I was supposed to learn about my fellow human travelers.

I thought I was going to be able to take these skills and, y'know, make friends--not come out of it burnt up and brainfried and hating almost everyone, except faculty, and with them? I mostly feel guilty about not staying in touch.

I'm feeling a real attraction and repulsion, psychologically, to body horror right now. Not sure what that's about. I do know intrusive imagery is common for hyperactive people, like me, and I'm getting a lot of it.

I'm also really excited about rainbows. Specifically, rainbow food, sweets and cakes and sprinkles. Something about it is just incredibly satisfying to look at. (I know, logically, that I don't want to eat it; the dye always tastes horrible to me--so, so bitter.)

Maybe I have other things to say, maybe I don't...

Other trends you're gonna wanna watch: glitter in everything, this shade of teal, peacocks, mercury glass, and that French curlique stuff is gonna continue to dominate girls' interior decorating for a while.

Retro-futurism is the next big thing, along with a revisit of the good parts (yes, there were good parts!) of '70's design.

Remember when quatrefoil was everywhere last summer? I can't wait to find out what the next big shape will be.

I kind of hope it's ovals. I love ovals, and teardrops, which are ovals with volume and depth, like a perfect rain droplet.

I can't figure out what the conclusion to all of this should be, so I'm gonna jet while I still have an actual elevated mood to my name.

intaglio: knightofend @ LJ (blue)
We're going to start blogging again, she said desultorily.

This is long. )

I'm just going to stop now.
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