LJ this is not, and it felt a bit weird mixing my more private thoughts with the multimedia sharing that Tumblr is so obviously set up for. So this journal will be relegated to random (private) thoughts and other quarter-life-crisis inaneries.
I’ve set up another journal to remind me of the things i’m grateful for and that inspire me and that i think in some way define me…generally more upbeat in tune
Even the journal names seem to reflect those differences.
puzzledu vs paisleypanache.tumblr.com
There you have it. My blog’s origin story. Now back to your regularly scheduled program.
Triflin ass motherfuckers….ackin like they ain’t got no home trainin…STOLE MY FUCKIN BIKE CHAIN (from under my nose, basically) A sad fact I discovered when I attempted to ride it and promptly went no-the-fuck-where (can you tell I’m upset). I was so proud to have finally fixed it too! City living, you will not rain on my parade (again)!
So the sketchy looking place (but apparently very reputable) place on Parsons Ave no longer fixes bikes. *cue momentary pouting* I considered walking/riding it to a place on Long St before I was like fuck it, i got this shit…
And so I did. Armed with Chels’ screws and Mike’s tools, I got that fender re-attached. All this without chipping my very-recently painted nails. Took it on a test run and all seems hunky dory. *cue w00ts*
So this song seems appropriate given the circumstances. And yes I am listening to it as I type. And yes I’ve been on a TLC kick since Left Eye’s … death anniversary…is there a proper term for that?
Everything is coming up Milhouse!
April 25th, how did I ever not know how important you were before.
Ella Fitzgerald, anniversary of her birth
Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes, anniverarsy of her death (seems so much longer than 10 years ago)
Danae and the Shower of Gold? Really? A painting commemorating (what-I-presume-to-be) the first golden shower? I always knew Zeus was into that kinky shit.
Adolf Ulrik Wertmüller. Danaë and the Shower of Gold. 1787.
Oil on canvas.
Nationalmuseum. Stockholm, Sweden.
Grin and bear it.
I was hoping that by going off of my meds I’d feel less…emotionally constipated? That I’d feel like giving a damn again. Part of my me plan was to write in this thing 3x per week and yet I honestly feel as if I have nothing to say/nothing going on…even though I simultaneously feel as if my mind is overflowing. I get so annoyed when I ask students, “how was school/what’d you learn,” only to receive a “fine” or shrugged shoulders. Yet, am I not doing the same thing?
And sometimes I do feel like caring/trying, I guess. But then I’m just paralyzed by my self-defeating thoughts of inadequacy (sidenote: You care too muuuuch….Observe & Report, anyone? Anyone? Bueller?)
I really had no intention for this journal to be so angsty. I feel like I’m 18 with none of the added benefits of a supercharged metabolism.
Sigh, (later) today is a new day and all that cliched jazz.
I just made some bomb-ass spaghetti with Italian sausage.
This after having tidied up the room, which now inexplicably smells of crayons….not that I’m complaining.
Keeping busy to keep sane. Now I understand why Serra cleaned when she was anxious/stressed/upset/pensive. Needless to say, her spot was immaculate.
… and simply be mine
So there’s this thing I do…
I worry endlessly, needlessly
I get lost in a brain that is clouded with the anxiety of swirling “what ifs…”
I play out every possibility in my head…verbal reactions, consequences, my response, etc.
I know I do it. I recognize it. But I still can’t stop it. And this shit goes waaay back…
My elementary school required every student in each grade to write a book to showcase at a parent-teacher night or some jazz like that. So, in 1st or 2nd grade, I wrote and illustrated a book with a pink construction paper cover entitled “The Little Worry Girl.” It’s the tale of a girl who worries she’ll miss the bus or being hurt by a paper airplane that could fly into her eye. I don’t think I was aware I was writing a fictionalized account of myself.
Also around that same age, I remember going to Busch Gardens with my mom and a cousin. It’s lunch time, and my mom leaves us alone to get napkins or something. Meanwhile Denise (cousin) and I feed some birds a few french fries. My mom comes back and asks what we are doing. ”Oh, just feeding the birds *doofy grin*” ”Didn’t you see that sign?” Not two feet away from us is a sign that requests park goers to not feed the birds or caged animals. I ask my mom why that is. She says that they don’t want the animals to get used to it and start taking guests’ food.
And that’s all it took for my imagination to run wild. I had nightmares about a family peacefully enjoying an overpriced, amusement park meal when suddenly, like Alfred Hitchcock’s Birds, birds swoop out of the sky violently pecking and grabbing food from their hands. After all, I had seen a goose attack/chase my mom, so that scenario seemed totally plausible to me. And that thought haunted me for years. In dreams or random, idle moments. I didn’t stop worrying about how I single-handedly (with the aid of a few fries) ruined the vacations of thousands of families until…oh, about 8th grade.
I’m feeling…a lot right now.
And I’m trying to get some of that out instead of making a bee line for the bowl.
I’m so.fucking.frustrated. I feel like I can’t do anything because…ohh, how will that affect Z’s feelings if he knows I’m friends with that person/doing this thing/etc.
I feel like he’s still controlling my life.
Because I’m like 98% sure his sudden change to the plan today was because I changed my FB status to “single.”
(side note: Why is that ppl can “like” my changing to “single?” I guess it makes sense in FB logic, but in reality it just lets creepers from my elem/middle school that had crushes to come out of the woodwork. [except Chuckisimo])
Kinda like when we broke up the first time…and he called angry, demanding to know why I’d do such a thing. Uhh, because YOU said we were over. Well, idk, i didn’t mean it like thaaat.
So I changed it to “it’s complicated,” and it has been that way for the past…year and a half. And when his friends ask when we’d make it “FB official,” we’d offer blank stares and say ohh yea, we’re rarely on…guess we just forgot to change it *awkward chuckle* NEXT TOPIC!
He has been so snide, so mercurial, so caustic, showing that vindictiveness that became suuuch a turn-off …but I’m the selfish, awful person. You aren’t the first person in the world to go through a breakup!
I don’t think I’m emotionless for putting up a steely front…I’m just dealing with reality how it is and not how I imagine it being.
I feel I must interject here you’re getting carried away feeling sorry for yourself
With these revisions and gaps in history