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: 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: knightofend @ LJ (Default)

March 2017

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