Friday, July 17, 2009

Death star cantene

Blah blah blah.

Life is a lot of blah blah blah.

You do some blah which will result in blah and get some more blah. Then you blah until you can't stand any more blah. Blah will rain from the sky and blah blah blah. Get a blah and a blah until you can pop out a blah. Live in a blah until you can afford a blah. Then you pay off the blah until you blah, and then you wait with blah until death comes and blah blah blah.

I totally mangled the Weeds quote...

But I hope the point comes across or something.

I'm on twitter now.

Check it out and crap

I just sent a small note to my grandfather who I haven't spoken to in ten years. Just to say hello. Just to make that connection again.

My intestines have turned into slush which does nothing for my mood.

I. Hate. Everything.

Blah. Blah. Blah.

Saturday, May 30, 2009

A million voices crying out in the wilderness

I've been in a mood recently. Just the past 36 hours kind of recently.

I've been feeling that strange, detached, looking at my hand and not really connecting to the idea that it's actually MY hand kind of mood.

I just started my second job at the pet shop, and it's going pretty well save for the massive amounts of reading that is required of me. Still, after reading a massive amount of BS at the pet shop all day, I come home to clean and read massive amounts of Terry Moore's "Strangers in Paradise".

Which is, by the way, one of the better comic book series that I have read. Previously I have stuck to the bizarre, the supernatural, paranormal and standard super-hero issue comic books. This is the only series that I have read that focuses on a more real-life situation. It's the only comic book I have read beside "Blankets" that is based on real life.

Blankets, by the way, is beautiful. Go out and read it. I cried for days.

Okay, if you're not in the head space to cry for days, don't read it, but I was in the mood and it did. It was beautiful.

Aside from that I have been playing with kittens, organizing my room for post-schooling, and riffling through the archives of Suicide Girls now that I renewed my membership.

I'm still recovering from being rather ill, and I have not returned to the gym yet, though I desperately want to. I need to find a schedule to stick to, something that does not hinder my usual day to day stuff, rather streamlines it.

Somehow, though, amongst all these normal thoughts and feelings, new and old feelings have been rising in me. This odd detachment is quite familiar to me. But there comes this new sensation of living as I have before, stepping in steps set out, that I have been here, done this, and I know the outcome. There is an intense feeling of... destiny? I'm not sure.

Of course, now I've multi-tasked enough to forget what I came here to write in the first place. Instead, here's a picture of one of my foster kittens, chilling out in our tiki mask.

Yeah, they sleep there often. Sometimes in a big pile. It's one of the cuter things that they do.

You can also see videos of them by going to my YouTube channel:

Super-cute stuff.

Buona notte i miei amori,


Thursday, May 21, 2009

She doesn't exist

I've been out, I've been in, I've been sick to my stomach physically and mentally, but I think I have finally pulled myself out of this god farted funk.

I said "fuck it" to two of my finals. This entire semester has been shit. I've been stressed and I have, for the first time in my life, been very ill for a good long time. Not really ill as in physically ill, though it did manifest itself as such every so often, but sick in the mind. I have been intolerably down in the dumps. I think I'm getting out of it.

There are still moments, though, when I'm falling asleep that I wonder if I will wake up. My therapist tells me that feelings of impending death are normal amongst those that suffer from depression.

I also know that this is the first time I have fully accepted that I am suffering from depression. Something rather serious that really puts me into a bad state every here and again.

I am taking next semester off of school, so I will not be attending for either summer (my usual time off) or fall semester. I don't mind this. It's not that I am tired of school, not really. OK, so, I'm feeling a little under-challenged... but that's to be expected in a community college with someone like me. I mean, I honestly wish that my teachers would call bullshit on me once in a while. I cannot even count the times that I have done homework or "term papers" in a matter of hours, with no real prior research, and received full marks. I wish a teacher would read the paper and go, "Teigra, this is obviously not researched thoroughly enough. Sorry, but I'll have to give you a C."

I would honestly feel almost relieved.

I don't feel like I'm learning much right now. But I know that, given this tremendous break I'm giving myself, I will miss school by the time I re-enroll next spring.

I also really want to read what I want to read, and I want to write. I want to feel like I can paint, draw, and do what I will without going, "Ah, lord, I have homework to do and papers to write." Even when I'm bullshitting, it still takes a while. Especially when I'm going to school full time.

I have accepted a second job and a local pet shop, but I'm already feeling that it's a bad fit even though I have not had a single day on the job. The manager is dropping big, stinky hints that she wishes I would quit my job at the bookstore so I could be their wage-bitch. Tough luck, I get paid more at the bookstore and I love it more than I ever would working at a corporate hell-hole.

The second job is to help save up some money. I have a necessity to either rent a small art studio or move into a two-bedroom with the boyfriend so that I can have an office. I desperately need my own space to be creative. Sharing a room is not conductive a creative atmosphere.

Yet, I have found myself within the last few hours, amidst the huge sigh of relief that I am finally almost over with this semester (one more easy paper to write!), with words floating in my head begging to be written.

Whenever I'm in my writers mood, I get words and phrases stuck in my head, in the same fashion as having a song playing over and over in my mind. The words tickle, they feel all bubbly and pressing, like first blushes and first loves. They want to be written down, they are innocent of the direction, intent, that I may give them.

I've been thinking a lot about death, as I mentioned briefly a moment ago. One of these things is the person looking upon the corpse of their dead lover. What is that like? Do they remember all those times that they held each other? All the times that she or he whispered "fuck me" or "love me" or "hold me"? Do they want to reach out and touch the cold, hard flesh, or do they know that this motion would be wrong, for it would steal away the memory of their warmth?

I've been thinking of my characters and my stories. As always, in the first blush of a new story, I'm thinking of new ways to torment them. I have also been thinking about what this says about me as a person. Do I torment my characters, who are like my only beloved children, because I myself have been tormented as a child? Do I want to give them a hard life to overcome so that I can satisfy my need to overcome my own demons? Are they the embodiments of my psyche to fret and worry about the pages in my stead?

But always in my stories there is love, there is hope after the hard storm, there is the joy in simple and pure things. There is always some lingering reason to go on and to keep fighting, no matter how small it may seem to be at first.

Sometimes I think that if these stories ever make their way to print, it will be very hard for the average reader to sympathize with my characters. For who has really gone through this hard of a life? Who wants to put themselves in these shoes for any length of time? I have found through hard experience that most do not wish to hear about my life, that it makes them uncomfortable. I've also heard people say that when they read a book, they often dream of it and imagine it while they are reading. Would people really want to dream these dark lives? Would I make them so uncomfortable that they would put my book down and recommend to their friends never to pick it up?

These things flick their way across my conscience sometimes, these doubts. Then the words and phrases get stuck in my head again and I realize that the stories, my stories, do not care for the world at large. I need and want to write what I have to.

My mind keeps going back to what people are like in the face of death. A part of me wishes that I had already experienced a death of someone close to me. Then that part of me turns to look at my boyfriend, whom I love. I have imagined him dead many times, imagined the pit that it would leave in my life, and I realize that I may be closer to experiencing a death then I want to admit. He is, after all, short for this world.

Not that I like to think on it much. Only that I do.



Suddenly a loss for words. Damn it all.


Thursday, May 14, 2009

I'm not caving, and I have not forgotten that this blog exists.

It's finals week -- I'm not only studying, I'm trying to make some extra cash and managing the ridiculous amounts of questions on the stuff I'm selling... really, how many questions can you ask about Sailor Moon DVD's???... as well as studying a zombie RPG book to memorize the rules and then create a scenario for my game that I'll be running at KublaCon over the weekend of the 22nd.

Also, I may soon be a foster for some kittens.

And my boyfriend and I are going between love/sex/passion/cuddles and hate/annoyed/frustrated/growling.

I'm also looking for a second job.

And I'm trying to finish reading the "just for fun" books.

And I'm so very, very behind on my homework.

Expect to hear from me more after the 26th.

Always, and in much general duress,


Saturday, April 25, 2009

Depression, cigarettes and apologies

I've started and stopped a lot of these. I think I have about seven draft posts saved on my computer from some point or another in these last few months. I cannot honestly come up with a good and valid reason why I have neglected writing, both recreational and for my "higher purpose", for so long.

I think, and this is a tentative idea, that I am finally rising out of the depression that has been encompassing me for the last few months. I am honestly unsure of what started it, or why it lasted so god damned long. I can say that it was (is?) one of the hardest depressions I've gone through since I was fourteen, and then seventeen, both during deeply traumatic times in my life. Nothing really traumatic has happened. I'm still living with my boyfriend, school and work are going as well as they can go, and there's no new argument with loved ones to spark such a thing.

Still, I found myself detached, crying, and just in a generally down and out mood for the last... ever, it seems. It felt like I was some kind of mechanical version of myself, going through all the motions while my actual self looked on in an emotional null. I was drifting, I wasn't all here, and the worst part about it is that I still don't quite understand why.

I continue, have continued, to go to therapy for these reasons, among others. The last three sessions have been devoted to trying to pull myself out of this slump and back into reality. It seems to have succeeded, for the most part.

Of course, somewhere in here, near the end when I stopped being depressed and started to break down emotionally, that I started to crave cigarettes. Crave them badly. Worse then ever, and it had been about 15 months since going cold turkey. I had not touched a single, solitary cigarette in fifteen long months, and though there were sometimes cravings, sometimes really bad ones, there had been nothing like this.

So, yeah, I did buy a pack of cigarettes last week. I took two drags off of one Marlboro Red and started coughing up a lung and wondering what the fuck I was doing. Of course, that wasn't the end. I did end up giving the pack of cigarettes to the boyfriend, who doused them in water, crumbled them up, and then threw them away. I did, however, purchase myself a fancy new e-cigarette (google it) which I am currently "smoking" away. So I'm back being a nicotine addict, but... I'm writing again. Here and in other places (not blogs), and my mood has improved drastically within the last week.

I will not attribute this all to the nicotine. Extensive therapy and a very understanding boyfriend have also played their (large) roles.

So I'm back again. Maybe on a more regular basis, though due to school and work I cannot promise a whole hell of a lot. I'm still trying to recover, I'm still trying to "find myself", I'm still trying to figure out how the hell to be a writer in the midst of having a real life.

While I was in this depression, though, I brooded on all of my past wrong doings. My therapist says this is perfectly normal for anyone suffering from depression to do, but I felt it would be even more therapeutic to spill my emotional guts to the internet community at large. Hey, you guys haven't let me down yet, right? :-)

Hrm, here goes:

- I'm sorry to all of those people and places that I used to steal things from. Among these are;
  • The middle and high school cafeteria, who kept me up in little debbie snacks and cheeseburgers without knowing it
  • My first job, where I constantly snagged those Lindt truffles from
  • My second job... there are about six packs of cigarettes that I owe you. Sorry.
  • The booths at the Ren Faire in Kansas City. I realize now how hard you worked to create the things that I stole. You guys are amazing, and because of people like me, you don't get everything that you deserve out of your craft.
  • My family-- perhaps the easiest to steal from because you don't really expect it. I've stolen (and kept) much from all of you. Someday I'll come clean in person and hope that you can forgive me.
  • Other, many forgotten, retailers. Now that I work in retail I realize how shitty it is to have someone walk into your store and steal something from you, when the product you have in stock goes to pay wages and overhead cost.
- To all of my friends and loved ones that I have lied to repeatedly. Sometimes I lie without really meaning to. Sometimes I lie and definately mean to. No matter what, most of these lies serve no purpose-- they are meaningless, petty lies designed to make me feel better about myself by fabricating a better life. But all that they do is harm our relationship, and that's really shitty of me.

- To Dixie (my first dog) and Maxwell (my cat), I'm sorry that I have raised fists in anger towards you. Animals are like children in that they are supposed to be loved and sheltered completely by their caregivers, and never be betrayed by them with feelings of hate. I am afraid that, once for Dixie and about four times with Maxwell, I have lost my temper and struck them. All of these times I was very young and did not know how to handle my anger, but that is not a fair excuse. I'm always going to feel sorry for the look they have cast on me, and for the way they have flinched afterward when I have tried to pet them. You can never really explain to an animal, or ask forgiveness, but I will say... I'm so sorry.

Lastly, on a very personalized note-- I'm very sorry to a certain blogger on here. You know who you are. I know that I should have the strength to just e-mail you, or even call or send a letter since I also have that information, but I'm kind of a wimp. I know that I must have hurt you, that I mistreated your kindness. Thoughts of you came up more frequently than any of the above apologies during this depression-- and don't think that I think about it just because I was depressed, I have though about it otherwise.

Anyway, I'm very sorry. You are a very kind, very loving person, and I hope that experiences with people like me will not change those traits. Sometimes I still have imaginings of us meeting and making a real friendship in person, but I'm almost ashamed to because of my behavior. Please know that I think of you and regret not treating you with the courtesy and respect that you deserve. You're a very kind and unique individual, and I am sorry for any pain that I may have caused you.


*le sigh*

So, there you go, 'internet community at large'. Just another rant from another anonymous person, trying to make sense of the senseless.

Yours always,


Saturday, January 17, 2009

And that white dress she's wearing, you haven't seen her for a while...

I downloaded OpenOffice today so that I could finally re-access some of my old files that were in that format. I transferred the documents over to Microsoft Word--since I paid for that software--and in so doing stumbled across an old poem.

I re-read the poem a few times and made some "corrections". The poem was initially in a different direction, but feeling as I did then, with a combination of how I feel now, I changed a bit. I still prefer the first stanza to anything else, but I don't feel I can share just that with you without showing the rest of the poem. And I'm feeling the need to share.

So, here goes:

No Title

The pillow cover is stiff and smells of detergent still,
Fresh from the wash as of yesterday,
And it reminds my young mind how the scent of a person--
The scent of me--
Can be washed clean in an instant,
As though I were never there,
Sterilized, fragrant, pressed and folded, tucked into the cupboard,
Just another token from someone's sordid life.
And here I am, again, as a young girl,
Thinking about the death-feeling, close at hand,
Blankets are no comfort here against the coldness of mortality.
Darkness whispers and pulls me into its shadowy thoughts,
Until I cry bitter tears at the thought of my own life,
So lonely and broken and scared, even as a child,
Realizing how cold and empty is the world.

Somewhere amidst the dark there comes the sense of hope,
It is small, it is a fragile pinprick of light,
And even though my eyes pass over it occasionally, I see it,
And in it I found the scent of you--
Suddenly the night was full of deep mystery,
The warm wrap of primitive musk and sea salt,
Fallen, dreaming, past my mortal fears,
A smile flickering at the corners of my lips, so oft in the hard set of a frown,
That pinprick of light widens to a tunnel,
So that in my dreams I am upon a vast landscape of adventures,
Often returned to, often longed for, in waking times
And here I finally glimpse his face,
The hard set of jaw, darkness of eye and brow,
That lips curl upwards in the most beautiful expression of,
Openness, honesty, casual lust and a mind full of wonder,
Hopelessly I fall in love—with this dream.

This beauty I see is less physical, more a feel from deep within,
Settling my fears until they become a low hum,
Until I finally smile without reason to smile, just to feel happy--
Giddy with my dark-faced lover in dreams--
Whom I name, in my mind, after a god of love and passion,
Even though I know nothing of him, being a mysterious smiling face,
That brings me much joy even during the waking times,
And through torments, trials and tribulations that the world brings upon me,
I hold a secret inside of my mind which I pass into,
Each time my eyelids shut to the darkness of night,
In this I form the courage and the ability to love myself,
Mirrored in the blatant truth of his smile, the bond that I feel within me for him,
Though I may never know his name,
Or the real reason he smiles,
Still I can spin tales about him in my mind,
Wondering—as I have always done…
If he is real.


I also wish to share a song. Since I'm unfamiliar with the linking actual video to this site, I'll share the link to the youtube video of Airborne Toxic Event's "Sometime After Midnight". I quoted part of their song in my title for this post. As my step-father said, "I wanted to curl up into a ball in the corner for hours. How dare they. How dare they invade my life."

I don't have quite the same intense feelings as he did, but I do feel that this is a nice new piece of artistry. Please give it a try.

Today was a great day at work again. My new shoes are giving me pains, but that's to be expected. Otherwise, life is peachy.

I'm also thinking of going vegetarian. I'm reading "Skinny Bitch". It may be corrupting me...


Monday, January 12, 2009

Oh lord, please don't let me be misunderstood

Working at a bookstore is marvelous. I don't suppose that I've mentioned that before.

A lot of people that come into our store think that it is a lot like Powells books in Portland, but we're nowhere near the size. Powell's takes up an entire city block! Hard to imagine. I asked my co-worker about it today and he said that their mathematics and engineering section alone is about the size of our store--and our store is not small.

Today went by like a dream. I entered books, entertained, helped customers, talked about books, shelved books, talked a little politics and dream interpretation with my co-workers, and generally had a good time. I can't believe I worked a full shift and I barely feel it.


Last night I spent about two hours working on my story. Being alone has helped the process along.

I came to the realization that I'm not, for a long time--perhaps never again--going to get the solitary lifestyle I have been accustomed to for so long. I need to find a way to fit in my writing time without other people being a problem. So I've told myself that, ok, even if you can't write every night, you can at least have one or two nights a week when the boyfriend is not around and you can just go at it. And I need to abolish the "only at nighttime" trend I've been going through. Yeah, night is a really nice time to write for me, but there are going to be a lot more opportunities if I just take the time, any time, that is available to me.

... and it was bloody lovely, by the way. I forget. I always forget. I don't know how I do, but I can't seem to hold onto the memory of how great it feels when I'm writing, the keyboard under my fingertips or the pen in my hand, and just streaking across the page with words. Fully going at it, delving into it, half in this world, half in that one. There is absolutely no experience that I have yet had that can compare.

It's a lot like falling in love for the first time. Like spending time with your oldest, closest, most comforting friend. Like being somewhere new for the first time, but feeling like you've been there before. Like a dream.

I know that later it will get worse and I'll become agitated, but for right now it's bloody marvelous. I wish I could go on feeling like this for forever. This is what heaven would be like.

All my love,