Home Alone.

Someday I hope I'm able to trust men again.  I miss feeling like any man that acts as if he wants more than friendship from me is just going to want sex and nothing else. 

I almost miss the completely overwhelming fear of intimacy I was all but crippled by a year ago.  But now I've moved on from that.  I've actually just moved on.

I think after this semester I'm realizing that I'm actually ready to date again.  I'm just really afraid to because every man I've met in the last year has only wanted casual sex from me, which I am most definitely not interested in.

On that note, I guess it's time for me to bake some cookies.

Well, Then.

I'm done with classes for this semester.  That's a huge relief.

I'm going to Santa Cruz for the weekend and home for two weeks starting Tuesday.  I can't wait to finally relax.  I've been so stressed out.

Tonight I had a mini party with my roommates and some of our close friends.  Therefore, I might still be slightly inebriated.  Not a lot.  I mean, I wouldn't want to drive and I'm glad to be in bed right now.  But I'm not falling down and I remember all of tonight.

I spent about 20 minutes on the toilet for the simple fact that I still had to pee.  Has that ever happened to you?

Anyway, I made the mistake during that period of looking at the new setup of the Twitter app on my phone.  I started a Twitter a few years ago that I never use because Bambi convinced me to do it.  It was, for some reason, logged into that account instead of my blog account, which is the only one I've used in about a year.

Bambi is still following that Twitter.  He hadn't been on his since last November.  Until two months ago.  When he posted something about his girlfriend being a good cook.

He never enjoyed eating, but he gained a lot of weight when we were together because he actually liked the things I fed him.  So in a way it hurt me that he could and would enjoy someone else's cooking to that same degree.

Then I started thinking about it.  It was around that same time period that he started emailing me for no reason.  That he was telling me she bugged the shit out of him and he wanted to leave her.  As if I were going to give him my blessing and take him back again.

I didn't do that.  I told him I was sorry he was unhappy.  And that was pretty much it.  Not too long after that he stopped emailing me again because she found out he was talking to me and didn't like it.

Sometimes I wonder if he's still with her.  Sometimes I miss him.  Then I realize I miss the degree to which he loved me and having someone care about me that much.  I don't miss all the bullshit I had to go through to even attempt to be with him.

I miss the idea of what he was to me more than I miss him.

He was a fucking dick.

And I'm sure he still is.  Liars and assholes never change.

Despite the fact that don't necessarily like that he's with someone else, I think I've reached a point of clarity.  I hope he can be happy with someone else because I know he would never be with me.  I hope he finds some meaning to his life.  But I don't need him in mine because, while I tried my best to boost him up most of the time, he did his very best to bring me down to his level.  And I hate feeling like shit.

I really hope that one day I can find someone who loves me that much again.  I hope I can trust someone as much as I did him again.  I hope I can become emotionally vulnerable (more on that specific topic later) for that person and let them know the real me.  I hope that person only treats me the way Bambi did on good days and never like he did on bad days, because I will never put up with that shit again.

I hope that one day I can open up and learn to love again.

Until then, I'll have Churro and Toto.

Winding Down.

Last week I completed two of my courses, one of which I had to write a fugue for.  Today I completed the final exams for three others-- the big ones.  Tomorrow morning is my last final of the semester.

I'll be done with my coursework until January as of 11 AM.

I can't even begin to express how good that makes me feel.  Well, good and generally filled with terror.  I'm really nervous about the grade I might receive in my chromatic harmony class because the class was pretty hard and the final project was insane.

However, my music history final wasn't nearly as godawful as I was anticipating and my voice jury went very well today.  Those two things are a very big load off my back.

Now I'm just waiting for my extra financial aid to come through and then I'll be able to go home for Christmas.

Also, my roommate talked my into offering my music theory professor a ride to the airport in Sac on Thursday...  So, that should be interesting.  To say the least.

For now I need to practice for my final tomorrow and get some much needed sleep...  I went to bed after six this morning and got up at nine.  It's been a long day.

Long Days.

Today... 

I functioned on three hours of sleep. 

I completed a fugue (which is pretty bad-ass, fyi). 

I made breakfast burritos, complete with bacon.

I sort of ended my friendship with the guy I fooled around with this semester, who I will from here on refer to as Guac.

I saw a concert featuring the composition majors at my school...  It was weird.

I hung out with a guy who is four years younger than me for the second time this week.  He might be into me.  And I enjoy his company...  Even if Churro doesn't.  Then again, Churro doesn't dig any of the guys that, as my dad would say, come sniffing around.

I cleaned my room.  Kinda.

Oh, I also got kinda drunk and watched a bunch of episodes of How I Met Your Mother on Netflix.  Mostly because I wasn't sure how I was going to manage getting up off the couch and going all the way upstairs.

Today ways good, overall.  The only crappy part was when I cried because of my pseudo breakup thing with Guac.  But I'll be over that soon enough, anyway.

And now I'm going to sleep.

Endorphins... I See What You Did There.

I felt like shit today.  Not like I was ill, but somehow as if I was lacking whatever component it is that can create genuine happiness in a human being.

I was scared. 

I came home from a four-hour choir rehearsal and got right back in bed, utilizing that old trick I've used for years when I'm lonely and need comfort; I turned my heating pad on the lowest setting and pushed it against my back with a pillow.

I ate cream cheese frosting out of the container with a spoon.  I didn't even bother to sit up.  I just laid there, letting tears well up into my eyes while I wondered what happened to the rest of the roll of toilet paper I had next to my bed when I was sick.  It would come in handy when I needed to blow my nose.

That was my lunch.  Cream cheese frosting in a plastic container and crocodile tears filled with self-pity and probably a pretty good amount of bat-shit crazy.

I finally had to get up and go to the bathroom because I couldn't find the toilet paper and I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror on the way in.

Then I got mad.

I hate that I shut down when I get stressed.  And I was truly pissed that I was allowing my stupid little girl emotions rule me so much.

So I changed my clothes and went to the school gym.  I was only able to work out for about 45 minutes, but it made a world of difference.  I took a shower and shaved my legs.  I practiced for a half hour or so.  Then I took a half hour nap.

I got up and made dinner for Churro and a friend of ours from school who happens to live in the same complex we do.  Then I baked a cake.  And we ate it, straight out of the oven, with the same frosting I'd been eating out of the can for lunch.

Now I have a sinus headache.

But otherwise I feel about 150% better, mentally. 

It's amazing how a silly little thing like jogging and creating endorphins makes such a big change.  As if I didn't already really need to work out, I realize now that the closer I get to completing this semester, the more I need to make time to exercise.  Not only did I feel better, but it was easier to focus.  Which I've really been struggling with. 

Tomorrow I will write a two-page paper and finish memorizing the three pieces I need to know for Monday.  Oh, and sing in two concerts.  Then work on composing the fugue that serves as the final for one of my other classes.

Free time is so overrated.

Choices.

The summer directly following my 19th birthday, my parents forced me to spend about five weeks in Santa Cruz because, well, the offer was there and they were sick of me.

During that time period, I was mooning over some guy and I didn't know what to do about it.  I've always had a great fear of rejection and, as a result, very rarely pursue men.  The guys that typically pursue me are even crazier than me, so my dating record is starting to seem a little sketch. 

Anyway, I had a very dear friend from Redding (I will call him Yoda) who would help me out with a male perspective when I really needed one.  He was like a big brother to me for several years and, though we don't talk much anymore, I still hold him in a very special place in my heart. 

He gave me advice in an IM conversation that I deemed amazing enough to save in a Word document and print out. 

I think the Word document is somewhere in the dark recesses of my old laptop.  But, through some great feat of God or fate, the hard copy of the document survives.  And keeps popping up at very opportune moments.  Every time I read it I find it speaks more to me.

I found it when I moved and decided to bring it with me.  I read it when I was having issues really letting go of Bambi, then I put it away and forgot about it. 

The other day I was rummaging around in my trunk trying to find a good movie to watch and I found it again, underneath a stack of Scooby-Doo dvds.  It seems so relevant right now that I have to share it.  And hopefully that will help me gather my thoughts.  So, doubly awesome.

"You have to be able to reduce everything to a series of one or the other choices.  Then everything becomes 50/50.  It doesn't make the answers more clear, but it will help to alleviate confusion, which then leads you to the heart of matters.

After that you're close enough to the truth to make sure you're only debating important issues with yourself. 

Some guy is not an important issue.

Therefore, he can be dealt with in choices.  Either you like him or you don't.  You want to be with him or you don't. 

Don't worry about making the right or wrong choice, just make a choice and be absolute and unwavering.  No matter what, in 20 years you're going to look back on your life and you're going to have a past.  You're going to say "I wonder..." and that's always going to be about the other choice, so it doesn't matter. 

With each choice there will come what feels like the wrong choice in hindsight.  But following that choice, there will be happiness.

All choices bring with them rewards and regrets.  Go with your gut.  I'm betting that if you stop thinking so hard and just tell yourself to pick one, you'll be able to do it.  If you have to, one day just stop in the middle of a street or store, or just some random spot when you're not thinking about it and say, "choose now."

Whatever you tell yourself, go with it.  It's probably your most basic senses talking to you.

Somewhere inside you've already made the choice, you just have to find it.

If you decide not to be with him then there is only one question: will you be friends with him or not?  If yes, go with that.  If not, tell him and send him on his way; next topic.  If you decide to be with him, then down the line it becomes do you stay with him or don't you?  Do you call him tonight or don't you?  Just take it all one question at a time. 

Don't worry about the past or future. Don't worry about him; worry about you.  If you're decisive and absolute, other things tend to follow.

Be a rock.

You can either be a rock-- water changes its path to suit you, or you can be a leaf and get swept away."



I am a rock.

I am a rock that would rather be with someone who desperately loves me and treats me like crap from time to time than even try to deal with someone who is fickle and doesn't really want me but treats me well all the time.

I am tired and my stress and anxiety are both at an all-time high.  I don't have the emotional capacity to deal with shit at present.  And I'm tired of drinking.

So I am resolute and I am moving on.

I think I'm getting pretty good at it, myself.

Giving Up.

I tried.

I tried so hard to let down my walls.  I tried to let him in.  I tried to allow him some semblance of intimacy; as much as I could manage.

But, even though he demanded those things of me, he didn't give me anything in return.

Except friendship. 

And that is not the kind of friendship I generally have with people. 

He will never be as close to me as Churro.  Not even remotely like Oose, Coyote, or Button.  He doesn't understand the way I forge friendships with people.  Not only did he go about it the wrong way, but he also doesn't know how to exert the right kind of effort.

I will never trust him.

Therefore, I'm done trying.


This is why I don't date. 

Sweet November.

This weekend I...


Caught a cold.

Saw the symphony band perform at my school.

Took a writing proficiency test.  Fell asleep on my arm because I wasn't allowed to leave the testing room when I had finished my essay.  Woke myself up breathing heavily.

Saw an opera in San Francisco.  Met Susan Graham.

Got up at noon.

Met a friend for coffee.

Spent the rest of the day in bed trying to get over my cold. 

Watched two hours of Family Guy.


Opera and Family Guy in the same 24-hour span. 

I even finished my homework for tomorrow.  That being said, I'm sure I'll be too congested to sing much in my lesson and I have two weeks to memorize four songs for my juries (basically the final for the lessons you take as a performance major).  So, that sucks.

But, on the upside, I get to see my family for Thanksgiving this week.  And then I get to go home again a few weeks after that for Christmas.  I'm finally starting to miss home a little bit, so I think it's definitely time for a short visit. 

Forever Alone.

Once again, I don't know what I'm doing.

I put myself in a position I know I can't escape unscathed.

I've been telling myself to walk away for weeks so I don't end up getting hurt, but I can't bring myself to do it. I don't know if it's because I am subconsciously masochistic or if it's because I enjoy hanging out that much. Either way, if I had left on Halloween like I intended, I wouldn't be feeling the way I do right now.

Is it worse to hide away your feelings forever, never get hurt, and die alone, or is it worse to open up and let yourself feel for someone, then, as a result, watch with wide eyes while they rip you open to examine your vulnerabilities and randomly wander away one day, leaving all your guts spilling out onto the floor?

I don't want to die alone.

I want to get married someday. Maybe have children.

I want to remember what it's like to know for a fact someone outside my family loves me again. I want to remember what it's like to want to be with someone so much it hurts and know that, at any given moment, they are feeling exactly the same way.

I'm really good at being a girlfriend. And now that I am finally starting to feel as if I might be close to ready to try to be one again, I am realizing that I am probably just too fucked up to do so.

Primal Scream.

I am about one negative event away from a full-blown panic attack.

I am on the verge of tears.

I have no money.

The gynecologist didn't deposit my check (from five weeks ago) until Friday, so my rent check may be short.  And I still have to find a way to get my piano from Santa Cruz to Turlock this weekend.  With no money.  No vehicle it will fit in.  And one day that people will be able to help me.

I am seriously fucked.

And not in a way that is at all pleasurable.

If I had time I would be at the gym right now.  But I don't.  So I'm stuck working and doing homework semi-simultaneously while almost hoping I spontaneously drop dead so I don't have to feel like I'm either going to cry (bad option) or throw up (worse option).

On the upside, I'm so stressed out I don't think I can eat anymore.  The reason this is an upside is that I don't have money for food until Tuesday.

Good thing I bought cat litter before I needed it.  Otherwise I would be training Hunter to shit in the toilet right now.  And to be honest, judging from the retarded way he pees in his litter box, I don't know that he could handle it.

I need to a) get drunk, b) get laid, c) find some woods to unleash primal screams in, or d) acquire a dying rich relative/significant other willing to leave me some money.  Upwards of or around $200 would do.

Thanks.

Fleeing the nest.

Up until two and a half months ago the closest I came to living on my own was the apartment I shared with my ex.  In a way that was more mind than my townhouse now because we were a couple and everything was ours, together.  Here it's more ours, separately. 

I love our house and the general dynamic of it.  I love that no one eats all the cheese I have in the refrigerator.  I love that someone doesn't take over all my space in the bathroom the second I move something.   I love that I don't have to make sure it's okay with everyone if I have guests over. I love impromptu sleepovers. 

I love our liquor fridge.

Don't judge.  We're college students.

(Speaking of liquor, I recently discovered you can put Malibu coconut rum in anything and it will turn out tasty.)

I love that no one gets bent out of shape if I leave after two AM, come home after three AM, or don't come home at all.  My roommates just call me a dirty hooker and laugh.   

And that's one of many reasons why I love them. 

Sometimes, though, there are things I wish I could talk to my mom about because she always gives the best advice, but I don't feel that I can.  Even though I'm pretty sure I know what she'd say.  And it's not what I'd want to hear.

Then there are things I try to talk to her about because I desperately need help and advice and I get nothing. 

Like the fact that I have to get my piano from Santa Cruz this weekend and I have no money and no way to transport it. 

I miss the days of two years ago when I thought my life was stressful.

Over the Hump... Finally.

I just realized that I hardly think about Bambi anymore.  Obviously because I thought about him.  But I was thinking about not thinking about him, so that only kind of counts.  I think. 

I also realized that when I do think about him, or even if I need to talk about him, it doesn't occur to me to actually call him Bambi anymore.  I had to remind myself to do it when I started typing just so I didn't give away his true identity. 

I feel like that's a courtesy to the people I talk about in my blogs, to not use their names.  Anyone who already knows will know who I am talking about, but any random nobody trolling the interwebs won't.  It makes me feel like I'm doing my part to protect those I love.  Also, it gives me a chance to use the nicknames that I come up with for just about everyone.  And who doesn't want that?

It probably gets confusing when I have multiple nicknames for people, though.  I would guess.

It's three AM and I have to get up at seven.

Awesome.

Not only did I have a bunch of homework (didn't quite finish) and work-work (finished the important stuff) to take care of, but my wannabe A.D.D. flared up big time tonight and I 'tarded out listening to the Yoshida Brothers.  Then my friend told me to listen to City and Color.  On the upside I have some great new music.  On the downside...  Shiny!

I want to go dancing this weekend. 

It smells like garlic outside.  For no reason. 

I mean, I guess that's better than cow shit.  But, still.  I hate Modesto.  I love some of the people I've gotten to know here, though.  And I love being two hours from Santa Cruz and San Francisco.

I still miss my mom and my dog and I miss working and not being a full time student. 

Did I mention I have to get up at seven?  And that it's three now?

I'm just going to fall into the world's shortest coma now.

Curvature.

Between work, school, and the social life I allow myself to have so I don't go crazy, I have no real free time.  And I get stressed out.  A lot. 

For the first few weeks after I moved I would binge-eat as a result of the stress.  We're talking two burgers, a large fry, and a slushie binge-eat. 

But now I'm getting better about that.  In part because I don't really have money to waste on fast food and in part because I don't want to be 300 pounds.  Or even 200, for that matter. 

I was really going to try to lose weight this semester, since I get to be in charge of every bit of food that I eat and unlimited use of the school rec center (which has a pretty nice gym) was included in my fees.  I'm finding that I just can't be bothered to take the time to try really hard.

I work before class in the morning.  I work after class in the afternoon.  I do homework in the evening and either work or try to find time to either be sociable or read.  The easiest day for me to get to the gym is Saturday.  Which I actually do try to do.  I need to get on a better schedule during the week.  I've just found that it's not as important to me as it once was.  I'd rather keep my job.

There are two reasons I know I need to try to go to the gym more.  One is that, while I can't be bothered to try really hard yet, it would be nice to fit into all of my jeans again.  The other is the main reason I actually want to go to the gym.  I want to jog more often because I need to have better control of my air flow and breathing when I sing. 

I know that I will never be 115 pounds again.  I am not a prepubescent teenage boy; I am a woman and I look like one.  I have boobs and a bootay and no matter how hard I try I will never be rid of either.  I will always have hips big enough to enable me frequent wins in that game where you try to knock your friends off balance by popping them with your hip.

I like ice cream and hot chocolate and french fries...  And, above almost anything else on the planet, I love Mexican food.  When I get stressed out I drink empty calories, then laugh and dance most of them off.

I've never really had what I would consider to be an exceptionally unhealthy body image.  But the older I get the more I realize that no matter what I do, no matter how small I actually am, I will never really look small because my boobs will always look big.  There's no way around that...  Until I can get breast reduction surgery, and that won't be for at least another decade.  Maybe more.

I guess it all boils down to this: I am done trying to be something I know I will never manage to be, or, in this case, look like.

I am not beautiful despite my curves.

I am more beautiful because of my curves. 

Poetry Release... Yay!

Apparently I'm just really good at being bitter.  Or at least seeming that way.




black
at night
is the moon
with branches
over
its shining face.

black
is my heart
at midnight
when you
all thoughts
of love from me
erased.

black
shall soon
be your body
when the charred
ice
in your chest
is all that
remains.

black
is your demon
heart.

Stressed? Nope. Not Me.

I'm only taking a full course load for the first time in four years during my first semester at a California State University while trying to work part time. 

And if you think I chose music because it was an easy artsy-fartsy degree, let me tell you something.  Fuck you. 

Music is hard. 

I have five class hours of music theory each week.  I am not good at it.  I think I would have an easier time learning neurosurgery than music theory.  I think theory belongs in the same category as things like trigonometry and calculus. 

I have a music history class that is so in-depth my head practically explodes on a regular basis.  And I have to have it all memorized for a mid-term this Friday.  There will be listening examples and essay questions galore.

I have to learn to conduct.

Who the hell decided that?

I have great rhythm when I'm performing music.  I have absolutely zero desire to lead others in a performance of that music. 

Also, not only do I have to learn the music for my voice lessons, but I also have to learn the music for the choir I'm required to take in order to retain my scholarship (in which I sing a different part for almost every piece of music) and for the opera class I'm required to take for the same reason.  Which entails all the choruses in The Mikado and the music for a scene I'm doing in Falstaff.

I had to compose a short piece of music for one of my theory classes last week, my mid-term in music history is Friday, and I have a test in my other theory class Monday.  Plus I think I'm going to have to bump my work hours up to 30 or more per week to do everything my boss needs me to.  And I've been sick for the better part of a week, during which time I drove to Santa Cruz to move a piano and back home in one day (story for another day).

I can feel myself winding up to explode from the stress.  I need some kind of release.  I should go to the gym tomorrow.

Next Friday I perform for our directed listening class, then a couple of my friends are having a party.  I think by then I'll be so ready for a party that I won't be able to stand it.  Then I'll die until Sunday afternoon, do all of my homework, and start over again on Monday.  Which is Halloween.  So it will be perfect. 

In other news, my cat is sleeping upside down on my leg.  And I keep smelling frosting.  I don't think there's even frosting in the house.  There are pigeons roosting outside my window.  But pigeons do not smell like frosting.  I would assume.  I've never smelled a pigeon, so I suppose they could.

I wish I could take a red marker and scribble "brain vomit" all over this post.

Me. BAMF. The End.

Last night I was starting to feel like I was catching another bug (which pisses me off because I was just sick in September), so I took some Nyquil when I went to bed last night to kick it out of my system. 

I didn't take into account the odd drug reactions I've had of late.

I woke up this morning feeling much better, though my throat still feels a little stiff.  I actually feel as if I slept off the three bad days of sickness and went straight into the tail-end.  (Definitely good news.) 

However, by the time I made it to the shower it became perfectly clear that I was going to be out of sorts all day.  Read:  I was feeling pretty loopy.

So I went to my music theory class this morning.  The class I seem to struggle the most with.  I was even early.  I'm really lucky I have a pretty good grasp on our current material, because I was not completely there.  I had moments of clarity during which I could answer pretty much anything the professor asked correctly...  Followed by moments during which I could barely figure out which notes were in a chord. 

Afterward, I came home and got back into bed.  For an hour.  Then I started working.  For two hours.  On collections, which takes a surprising amount of brain power.  I think it's the fact that you have to consciously be nice to people who you know are trying to screw you over.

Then I had to go to class again.  Luckily I didn't have to do anything but sit there and watch students perform. 

I was feeling less wiggy by this point, but still not normal.

Who am I kidding?  It's six PM and I still feel super funky. 

Anyway, I came home from class to work some more and take a test for my music history class.  The last test wasn't too intense.  But this one was on nearly every listening example and composer we've had for the last unit. 

Plus I have to go watch an opera at my voice teacher's house with the rest of his students later. 

I need a nap. 

And possibly a way to avoid Nyquil hangover.

Regardless, I got a ton of shit done today (and well) while feeling super drugged up from cold medicine I took last night.

I rock.

My Husband... Platonically, Of Course.

Yesterday Churro and I finally had to take a trip to the grocery store; it had been a few weeks and we were out of pretty much everything.

While I was paying I noticed a middle aged man the next register over look at me.

I'm finally starting to get used to the fact that people don't look away when you catch their eyes here.  It's a big culture difference from my very white upbringing, where we avoid eye contact at all costs.  But it doesn't really even weird me out anymore.  I've noticed myself holding eye contact for much longer than I ever have before just because, you know, everyone else does it.

So when the man at the next register looked at me I just looked back at him for a moment, smiled slightly (because I feel that's polite as a greeting or something for some reason), then looked away and went about bagging my groceries.

About a minute later Churro half-whispers in my ear, "Do you see that older guy in the black shorts?"

"Yes...?"

"Oh my God.  When he walked by he totally did this..."  Churro proceeded to walk around behind me and blatantly check me out from head to toe.   "Then there was this awkward moment where we locked eyes and he knew that I knew that he had just been looking at you.  And he turned back and looked at me again at the door!"

"Ew.  Maybe he thought we were...  Together?"

"Maybe?"

"I wonder how often that happens?"  I asked, more rhetorically than anything else.

Churro shrugged and I kept bagging as the woman on the lane next to mine (our regular store has two lanes from the same register, so you get to have a bagging neighbor if it's busy or you're slow) looked up from the bajillion Yoplait yogurts she had been organizing.

"I thought it."  She said.  "Like, maybe even married or something."

"Oh, so, all the time!"  I said, and we all laughed.

Churro and I laughed all the way to the car.  And later last night.  And again today at Costco when he called me his wife.

I see a new inside joke to alienate our friends and family with.

I love my platonic soulmate/roommate.

La Lluvia

It's raining tonight. 

The first real solid rain lasting more than ten minutes since I moved. 

It's beautiful.

I just wish Oose were here to dance in it with me.

The "I Can't Sleep" Update.

I am having an amazing day.

Well, except for that little issue I had during choir rehearsal.  Sometimes if I sleep in a new way or I have a really stressful event (especially in the morning) it sets off an emergency bathroom issue.  Which is what happened. 

It seems like it's been happening every time I eat this week and I can't explain why, other than maybe it has something to do with my not eating very much all of last week.  Either I work a lot and don't have time to eat consistently or I eat and don't get all my work done when I need to.

Anyway.

It feels as if having my cat here has made a world of difference for me.  I forget sometimes how attached I am to him.  He's finally starting to come out of my room more (though he obviously thinks of it as his domain in there) and venture downstairs for longer.  He is even starting to respond to my roommates, which was something I was a little concerned about for a couple of days. 

I was also afraid he would get depressed from such a dramatic change, but he seems to be okay.  Of course, when I'm not as school I'm pretty much constantly giving him attention.  Or I'll bring him downstairs and someone else will. 

I thought he was spoiled before, but I can tell this is going to get pretty ridiculous.

In other news, Saturday is Oose's 21st birthday.  One of my roommates (Churro) and I will be traveling to Santa Cruz to celebrate with her this weekend.  I'm at least as excited as she is.  I've tried to downplay it, but I've been waiting for this day since I turned 21.  It's definitely more fun when your soul sister can go dancing with you.

Three Years.

Three years ago I woke up sleeping on the floor at my parents' house.

Three years ago I packed up most of my possessions in a matter of hours.

Three years ago I left the only man I thought I could ever love to come home to an empty apartment.

Three years ago I moved out, but I didn't let go.

I realized today when I finally did let go. It was the moment I started to cry during the Blue October show with Oose.

It almost saddened me to realize how little I was affected when he contacted me this week. Not because of the loss of him or feelings I had for him. More because of the loss of the idea of him and the idea that I knew who I eventually would end up with. Most of all, sadness for him because he will never find anything else in his life as good as what I tried to give him, especially in that first year. He will never be as loved and cared for as he was with me.  Which is fortunate for me, because my life is quite obviously better without him in it, trying to control and manipulate me constantly.

To think, if he had been able to let go of his addictions for everything but me I would probably still be with him. I would probably have a baby now or be pregnant. I would not be at a school somewhere far-ish away from Redding learning from amazing faculty and meeting awesome people. But he never could and never will be able to live without those crutches he's carried longer than a decade.


I suppose all this is just to say something simple. Goodbye, Bambi, wherever you may be. I thank you for everything you helped me learn. I forgive you for the way you taught me those lessons. And I hope one day you find a way to forgive yourself.




Three years.

You keep moving on, unchanging.

Three years.

I grow tired and move forward, forgetting... 

...That once upon a time I was young and naive and you swooped in like Prince Charming on your fake horse to save me from perils that never really existed.

I Was Thinking...

I thought I was just having a hard time dealing with losing you for good.

I thought I cried myself to sleep because you weren't here to comfort me.

I thought I didn't know how to cope with change without you.

I thought I could never feel like myself again without you.

I thought you were the voice in my head that told me everything I did right and wrong.

But then I realized.

It wasn't you I needed at all. It was him.







He never let me down like you did. He never broke my heart like you did. He loves me without condition and he would follow me to the ends of the earth. He is the only worthwhile thing you ever gave me.


Oh, and by the way, no, I don't want you to manipulate me into taking your dishes by saying you'll throw them away otherwise just so you can see me. If you wanted to see me you should have nutted up and said so. So that I could tell you to your face that you have always treated me like shit and the lies you fed me to keep me with you will never again be enough to make me want to live through the abuse you manage to disguise as love.

And after I tell her what I'm sure you haven't, I'm sure she won't feel much different than me.


I'm so glad to have my baby back.

Adventure.

If you are easily grossed out by the functions of female reproductive organs, you probably want to stop reading now. In fact, I don't think you ever want to read anything here. Ever again.

Today I finally feel like I might be starting to come out of my funk. I don't know if it's the fact that I've been getting more sleep the last couple of days while trying to fight off a head cold or if it's because I'm going to visit my parents' tomorrow for the first time since I moved. It's only been about six weeks, but it feels like so much longer.

Actually, I think it's more that I'm bringing my cat home from my parents' when I come back on Sunday. I miss him very much.

Anyway, I felt like I glossed over my San Francisco trip a bit when I talked about it yesterday. While the main purpose of the trip was to see Blue October on Friday night (I'm still reveling in how amazing they were), Oose and I had a lovely day together Saturday before parting ways and heading to our respective homes.

We stayed at the Columbus Motor Inn on Columbus in the city. Since the garage was very small we were given one parking space and I ended up parking on the street. After the concert Friday night we managed to snag a metered spot across the street from the hotel in which to park my car. The only downside was that I would have to get up at 9 AM and put money in the meter.

I set my alarm for 8:52 so that I would have enough time to find some change, put on my jeans, and lace up my Converse.

This is the point at which I share too much personal information and everyone runs away, leaving me awkward and alone.

Since I'm not taking birth control I have only a vague idea of when my period will start. On the pill it was every Thursday of the fourth week of the packet. Now it's sometime around the middle of the end of the fourth week, maybe. If it feels like it. Which is frustrating for me because I've spent most of the last five-ish years of my life on the pill. I've pretty much forgotten how to keep track of my period; the only reason I had an idea of when it would start is that my last one was right after I moved. I'm turning into one of those women in movies that doesn't realize she's pregnant for three months because she's been too busy to realize she hasn't had her period in a while.

I knew that I was supposed to start last week. I assumed it would be Friday morning because sometimes Mother Nature is a dick and has to ruin my awesome plans. Luckily that did not happen.

It happened Saturday morning. As I was crossing Columbus to put change in the meter.

I checked to make sure I wasn't bleeding when I changed. Just in case I needed to take a precautionary measure before waltzing out of the hotel. And I wasn't. Then.

So I fed the meter and decided (half asleep still) that I would take the stairs back up to the room because we were only on the first floor (there was an office floor between us and the lobby, so there were four short flights of stairs) and the hotel elevator was excruciatingly slow.

Somehow my foot slipped off the second step on the third flight of stairs, causing me to fall up the stairs.

I know. I'm so talented.

I landed on my left knee and rolled my left ankle a little bit, which made me nervous because I tore a ligament in it years ago and I just keep injuring it. Fortunately for my ankle, my knee took the brunt of my weight in the fall.

I picked my pride up off the staircase and gimped the rest of the way up to the room, where I told Oose I fell up the stairs. And she laughed at me. Not that I blame her; I would have laughed at her, too. I cleaned up my skinned knee and found a tampon in my luggage. Then we walked to breakfast.

After breakfast we drove across the Golden Gate and drove out to investigate Fort Barry. We had to get out and wander around the batteries and some of the bunkers, etc. Which was awesome on the knee that I could hardly bend. But I was unwilling to let it interfere with our adventure. Except that I kept whining about it.

Then we wandered around Ghirardelli Square and over to the Musee Mecanique before heading back into the city to find the parking garage where Oose had parked her car. Since we hadn't written down the name of the garage, we had to find the curvy part of Lombard street and figure out where it was from there.

Ultimately we found it and both of us made it home safe. A little bruised, a little changed, and a little happier than when we had arrived in the city the night before.

At least, I like to think so.


By the way, my knee is healing quite well. I just have a nice green bruise right below my kneecap. It's hot.

My October is Always Blue.

Last Friday night my soul sister and I took a day trip to San Francisco so I could finally go to my first real rock concert. We saw one of my all-time favorite bands: Blue October.

Their biggest hit was “Hate Me,” which, oddly enough, I don't really like much. The rest of their music is great, though.

I had heard probably two Blue October songs when I met Bambi. Then he gave me a bunch of his music and later (when I finally got an iPod) put all of his music on my iPod. We used to listen to Blue October and Avenged Sevenfold all the time. After I left he started listening to more Avenged and Hollywood Undead, but he always said he wanted to see Blue October in concert. Which made the whole experience a little bittersweet.

I was there with Oose and completely ecstatic that she was the one I got to see them with, since she is my soulmate in many, many ways. But there was still a tiny part of me that wished he could have shared that with me. One of many promises he never kept, I suppose.

I realized a half an hour out of town that I had forgotten our tickets (which I had printed out days in advance) on my bed. So we had to find a Kinko's near the concert venue and somehow we got stuck with the dickest cab driver in San Francisco. He didn't even drop us off at the Kinko's. He dropped us a block away from it.

I didn't tip him.

I was also running late because I got stuck in traffic on the way into the city. Needless to say, I was pretty antsy.

We got to the venue just after eight, which is when the concert was supposed to start. Luckily, the opening act (IamDynamite; they are awesome, just so you know) didn't even go on until 8:15. And even though the doors opened at seven we still managed to get pretty close to the front.

I was very pleased to find that the band is as good (or better) live as in a recording.

Surprisingly enough, I only cried once and I was very lucky that Oose was there to hold my hand. Of all the songs I could have cried during (which is pretty much every single one of them), I spontaneously combusted during this one.

Afterward, I got a t-shirt that fits me pretty much perfectly. And we found a pizza parlor close to the hotel that is open until two. By the time we got back to the hotel and got into our pjs it was almost two. We both crashed pretty hard.

The next morning we got up, had some breakfast, and wandered around a bit.

Here are some pictures of our adventures. Enjoy them.

Also, please forgive any graininess. I still can't get my digital camera to hold a charge and I was trying to be polite by leaving the flash on my phone off.

It's Getting Depressing in Here.

One week from today it will have been three years since I did the hardest thing I have ever had to do in my entire life thus far. I left the one man I had ever truly loved alone in our apartment with a hamster named Mimi, an empty closet, and no bed.

I started missing him long before I moved out. That was why I had to leave. The man I loved wasn't there anymore. I saw pieces of him in small chunks of time after I left, but ultimately the monster always came back. From Bambi to Beezlebub, a transition that took mere seconds. If he could have consistently stayed Bambi, I could have stayed in that apartment. With no money and both of us working two jobs. It would have been worth it if I had felt as loved as he said I was.

Ultimately I was too young and he was too impatient and unstable.

Ultimately I ran away, then pulled him to me and pushed him away. For years. Too afraid to be with him, but unable to let him go. In all honestly, I really don't feel I'll ever be able to truly let him go. But it doesn't feel as if whatever was between us was meant for this life.

Three years and my heart is still broken. Three years and I can't listen to certain songs. I can't wear certain clothes. Three years and the sweats I stole when I left are still balled up on the floor next to my bed.

I think those sweats are a testament to the fact that I left my heart with him in that little apartment and I assumed that one day we would be together again. I've reached a point now where I want to get rid of them, but they are the most comfortable sweats I've ever owned. So I keep wearing them. But it makes me a little sad every time I do. They are the only thing I still have from him. Besides the jewelry box.

I keep telling myself he's dead. But I know in my heart he's out in the world, not too far away from me, with someone else who will never love him half as much as I still do. But he's better off with her because we will never be right together.

God, relationships are hard. I almost never want to be in another one again. The only downside is that I am not one to easily indulge in casual sex. I enjoy the feeling that someone wants to be in my company, wants to take care of me and let me take care of him.

I think I'm ready to give up. On so many things I can't even begin to list them.

Monster.

This is a continuation of a story I posted a couple of weeks ago.  Remember this is a work of fiction.  Mostly.

I quickened my steps. So did he.

My hand shook as I unhooked my keys from the strap of my purse.

He got close enough to need to slow down in order to match pace my speed. He walked about a foot behind me and just to my left. He stepped in front of me just before I reached the door to my car and leaned against the driver's door. There was no way I could unlock it, let alone open it to get inside.

I briefly considered running to the passenger side and sliding over, but he had always been much faster than me. Especially when it counted. I was trapped in the bar parking lot with him.

“Where the fuck do you think you're going?” he asked, his arms folded across his chest, the neon of his Avenged Sevenfold t-shirt showing above and below his brown skin.

“Home,” I answered shortly.

He laughed. It was the evil laughter of the maniac he became every time I crossed him. I had known this would happen. Why did I intentionally trigger it? Of course he cared. Even if he didn't care, he still attained some sick pleasure in torturing me.

“You're not going anywhere, you stupid bitch. You brought out the Monster and now you have to deal with it.”

“Why are you even upset? I thought you said you didn't care.”

“I just like to see you suffer, idiot stick. Now I'm not going to stop until you feel the pain I went through for you.”

“You put me through worse that I could ever imaging doing to you. I told you I was sorry. And I meant it. But there is nothing you can do to make me feel or act the way you have. For two reasons. One: you've already done worse. And two: I am not a crazy bastard. Unlike you.”

I know how to push his buttons just as well as he does mine and I can't stop myself from inciting him. Every time I speak I wish I would have just held my words inside me. But they fly out as if they have wings and minds of their own.

“I am not crazy. But if you want crazy, I can show you crazy.” His eyes no longer held any trace of the chocolate brown I was so accustomed to seeing glow with the embers of warmth and love. Now they only held blackness. Blackness and hatred and death.

I was getting too used to seeing these eyes. Yet somehow I didn't find myself getting used to the fear that accompanied his turning into the Monster.

I tried to swallow my fear. I was tired of the constant anxiety of having him in my life, but I didn't know how to live without the non-demonic side of him.

“I'm going home, Bamb.”

“Fine, bitch. I'm going with you.”

“No. You're not. I don't trust you enough to come home with me right now.” I measured my words very carefully, lest some unchecked tone-of-voice drive him over the edge. There was no one else in the parking lot. I knew from experience that no one would come if I screamed and someone would be unlikely to help when he hit me. If there was no one in the parking lot when he did it, I had a zero percent chance of being saved from his wrath. I had let my anger and frustration to get the better of me before, but I was on ice too thin to allow a show of emotion now.

“I don't care. I'm coming with you. Give me your keys.”

“No. Even if I felt safe letting you come home with me, I am not comfortable letting you drive. You've been drinking and you're upset.”

“I'm not upset. And I had two PBRs. I'm fine. Give me the fucking keys.”

I wrapped the key to my Honda as tightly in my small fist as I could. I knew he would ultimately get it out if he tried hard enough, but my hands were strong and it would take him a few minutes to pry up enough of my fingers the pull the keys out of them. That might buy me enough time for the two bikers that had looked as if they might be packing up soon to come out of the bar. It seemed unlikely, but I was grasping at any straw I could conceivably reach. Even biker straws.

“No. It's my car. I pay for it. I pay for the insurance. You've never paid for any bit of it. Plus you already have two DUIs. And you're girlfriend is going to start wondering where you are.”

“That retard is probably so high right now she won't even realize I'm gone for another three hours. Give me the fucking keys.” My ring finger and pinkie were both up already, his right hand keeping my left out of the way with minimal effort.

“Why do you stay with her?” I asked with genuine curiosity. I'd asked this same question many times before, but he'd always managed to somehow avoid it.

He sighed, agitated that I wasn't giving up already.

“Maybe because she actually wants me around? Because she's not you? I don't know.”

“It's not that I didn't want you around,” I said quietly. “It's that I didn't, and still really don't, trust you around me. For good reason.” He managed to get under my middle finger and push it away. Only my index finger and thumb were left. It would be seconds now before he was pushing past me into my car.

“Bamb.” He ignored me. I fought against him. “Bamb!”

“What?” He said, exasperated with me.

“You're too drunk to drive, honey.” I didn't even mean to say it. I didn't want him to drive my car, especially not right now. I just didn't mean to be so... Sweet about it. “You had shots earlier. Then some Sierra Nevada. Then you had the two PBRs. And you haven't been here that long.”

“Fuck,” he said, releasing his grip on my hand and leaning against my car beside me. “Fuck. You drive, then.”

“Where are we going?”

“I don't fucking know. Somewhere. Anywhere.”

“Okay.”

I unlocked the car and he held my door for me and closed it before walking around and climbing into the passenger seat.

“Let's drive to Reno,” I joked. The last time he kidnapped me he had planned to drive to Reno and marry me so he would have me forever.

“Whatever, bitch. Just have me back by two when the bars close. Where's your fucking iPod? I want some Avenged.”

I sighed and turned on the heater so the warmth would help me stop shaking, then handed him my old silver iPod. He plugged it in and chose a song as I turned left out of the parking lot. He chose the one song I never in a million years would have guessed he would put on.

Our song.

He crossed his arms and looked at me as a teardrop slid down my left cheek.

“I guess you can still feel something in that icy heart of yours,” he said.

I guess I could. More than I ever wanted to feel again.

The Problem Is...

I've been avoiding sleep lately.  As much as I possibly can.  Because I've been having stress dreams about Bambi.  Which is pretty much what I consider to be a nightmare.

The downside is that I'm still just as stressed out.  But more tired and therefore less able to deal with the stress of my life now. 

The sad thing is that I'm lonely and having issues dealing with all the accumulated memories I have of him.  So I just feel like I'm sinking deeper and deeper.  And I miss my cat. 

I'm afraid my depression is coming back.  On the outside (for the most part) I'm happy.  But on the inside there's still lingering sadness. 

Today was especially hard.  I dreamed about him last night.  Then I got in trouble with work before eight this morning.  Then my roommate asked if I'd be able to give him a ride to work because his bike tire was flat, which I didn't mind but for the fact that it completely reminded me of when I'd get up to take Bambi to work after I got fired from my office job when we lived together.  I was too late to make it to the gym because of those two things.  Then I couldn't find parking in my usual lot on campus and was therefore late to class. 

I feel like I need to cry but I can't. 

How is it possible for me to miss someone who treated me so badly?


On a happier note, Blue October with Oose is in two days.  At least I have something to look forward to.

Anger.

Dear Bambi,


I hope you still read this.

I hope you know how deep the scars you caused every day for the last three and a half years run in me. 

I hope my mere existence and happiness without you tortures you to the core of your being.

I hope this is how you feel forever.

And most of all, I hope that when your girlfriend finds out what you did she leaves you.  Cold.  Alone.  And without even an inkling of a plan in your mind.


Sincerely, 

Bunny.

A Little Later Than I Really Intended, Part II...

Tattoo number two.



I just got this one done in June of this year. As you should know from this.

Not too long after I got the elephant I realized I wanted another tattoo. I decided I wanted the words "never forget" on the right side of my ribcage, since the elephant is on the left. Originally I toyed with the idea of getting the text done in Italian or Latin, since I regularly sing in both those languages. But I didn't feel much of a connection with either language and was less and less satisfied with the idea every time I thought about it.

Last summer my grandfather was diagnosed with cancer for the third time. Each time was a different kind of cancer, starting with prostate nearly 20 years ago. It was by some feat of grace or magic that he lived as long as he did.

A few days after his ninetieth birthday I was in Santa Cruz for Oose's birthday. I had an eye infection issue and had to wear an eyepatch under my glasses all day. We also had to take a windy road up to a lake in the mountains and I get carsick. So I almost yacked in the car. Which pretty much would have completed my day. Luckily for everyone, that didn't happen. Barely.

I woke up early on Saturday because my eye was swollen and hurt from driving most of the day before. I slept on the couch with an ice pack for a while, but not very soundly. I couldn't get comfortable. I was in pain and I had had a funny feeling all morning.

My brother started texting me to see if I was up. Then he called without warning. As soon as his name popped up on my phone screen I knew what he was going to tell me. My grandfather had passed away sometime around four that morning. After being bed-ridden and drugged up on morphine for a couple weeks. He held on until he knew they were going to take him to the hospital, then he just left in his sleep.

My dad's side of my family is Cherokee. Very Cherokee and very proud of it. As we should be. Some of my friends helped me form a quartet (group of four singers) to sing a couple things at my grandfathers funeral and one of the pieces my dad requested we do was Amazing Grace. For some reason my old Methodist hymnal includes a verse of Amazing Grace in Cherokee, so I decided we had to sing it, which was really pretty much perfect.

After that I started looking at actual Cherokee words and the language just looks beautiful on paper. So I decided to go with my heritage. That's what the lettering is. Cherokee. To remind me that I am a strong, capable woman and that I should never forget everything I went through to get to the place I'm in today. I should never (despite how much I desperately want to) forget Bambi. Never forget everything we went through with and for each other. All the things we did to each other. Never forget what it means to love someone and be completely loved, but still not be able to functionably be together.


My dad had an especially hard time with the death of his father. And I thought more and more about how hard it would be on me if I lost him. Since my other tattoo came from my relationship with my mom, I wanted something representative of the relationship I have with my father.


My neighbors when I was a kid always called my him Chief Two-Feathers. They even made a sign to hang in our driveway that said "Two-Feathers Reservation". Obviously I wanted to incorporated the Two-Feathers idea. Initially I wanted a dream catcher in the middle of my back, but the closer it got to my appointment date the less connected I felt with that idea.

About four days before I went in to have the work done I decided I wanted just the feathers tied with a leather strap and some beads. I looked up some color symbolism in Cherokee culture, chose the colors I wanted represented in the tattoo, then added turquoise because I love the color and it just seemed to fit with the design. My artist created a perfect conglomeration of my two tattoo ideas that sort of wraps around my right side.

I don't think of it only as a representation of my relationship with Bambi and my relationship with dad, though that is the general idea with the individual pieces-- except that the Cherokee tattoo is really about much more than just that.  Overall, I consider the whole piece to be a representation of my strength. It reminds me that I can overcome anything. It reminds me when I am weak-minded that I am a strong and adaptable creature.


My mother is on my left and my father is on my right. No matter what happens they will always be there for me and I will have constant mementos of them when I feel weak. The red flag of my past life is a palm across my ribcage that I touch now on days when I still feel as if my heart is breaking. 

A Little Later Than I Really Intended, Part I...

But I said I'd do it.  So here it is.

I got it done in 2010.  I thought about it for months before I got it done.  Which I highly recommend doing if you intend to have ink done.  It is not a decision to be entered into lightly.  It is PERMANENT and it HURTS.  Also, YOU WILL BLEED.  And not in a "oh, look at this little papercut on my pinkie" kind of way or a "I'm going to need stitches" kind of way.

It's exactly the kind of bleeding that makes sense in this situation, actually.  It's sort of an "hours of needles drilling into the layers of my flesh, but not actually piercing of cutting me" kind of bleeding.

Go figure.

Also, tattoos feel like exactly what you'd think they would feel like.  You know, if you sat and thought about it logically.  Which I only did after.

It kind of feels like someone is taking a vibrating needle and dragging it around on your bare skin.  Again, go figure.  Because that's pretty much exactly what it is.

And if you get color you get multiple needles.  It also feels like the artist is pressing harder.

There's also shading.  Imagine someone is scrubbing the same bit of your skin over and over again with a couple big needles.  Because that's pretty much what it feels like.

I'm not saying this to deter anyone from getting a tattoo.  I would never do that because I think they are beautiful.  But I also think they should be done for the right reasons.  And "I kinda like butterflies and swirly shit" is in no way, shape, or form a good reason to get a tramp stamp.

Unless you're over 40.  Then I figure you can pretty much do whatever you want.

In all reality, though, I am a firm believer in the symbolism of tattoos.  So here are both of mine.


Tattoo number one.



When I was in my early teens my mom told me elephants are good luck.  I locked that information away in my brain vault for a while and nearly forgot about it.  In 2008 (while I was living with Bambi) I was having trouble choosing a birthday present for her...  Until I saw a crystal figurine of an elephant.  It was perfect.  It even had a box with a shaped foam pillow.

When I gave it to her, she put the box on display in the dining room, but didn't take the elephant out of it.

During this time period I started having terrible stomach pains pretty much all the time.  I would wake up sick to my stomach every morning and I couldn't even think about food until mid-afternoon, so most days I wouldn't eat until after I got home from work.  My doctor had no idea what was wrong with me.  So she scheduled an ultrasound on my gut.

The ultrasound was first thing in the morning, which was terrible because my stomach was so sensitive that the slight pressure from the ultrasound was like someone grinding the end of a baseball bat into a bruise.  Bambi sat in the waiting room because the ultrasound room was small, but my mom came in.  I was lying on the table in my paper gown with my hands clasped protectively over my stomach when she reached into her purse and pulled out the box with the elephant in it.  Just in case we needed it.

After I moved out of my apartment we started collecting elephant paraphernalia.  Usually figurines and things.  But it became more than just luck.  It's more like a symbol for our bond now.  One that not even the worst relationship I could have ever imagined having could sever or damage.

When I started really thinking about getting a tattoo I pretty much automatically knew it was going to be an elephant.  I wanted it to be triumphant-looking with its trunk upraised.  Then I started thinking about what I wanted to incorporate because I initially assumed this would be my only tattoo as they aren't a great idea for opera singers to have.

I really like the idea of magical realism.  If you don't know what that is you're missing out on a very cool Latin American writing style and you should read some Gabriel Garcia Marquez.  I knew I wanted to add something magical in there, not only because of this but also because I am so lucky and blessed to have overcome a lot of my past.  I didn't want it to be purely magic or cartoon-ish, however.  Then I stumbled across an image someone had drawn of an elephant with some stars on it.  There were several things I didn't like about it, but overall I thought the image was perfect.  And my artist is a rock star, so she just changed it and made it exactly what I wanted.  She added a moon and made some of the stars be "white on black" instead of "black on white".

The last part is the music.  Obviously I had to get some music.  And since I'm a soprano I definitely wanted a treble clef.  I also knew for sure I wanted it to come out of the elephant's trunk like water, which she did perfectly as well.  The notes are the very beginning of an aria from the opera Madame Butterfly called Un bel di.  I performed it in 2009 very shortly after I started singing again and I still feel a pretty deep connection with it.  The aria is the lead female character saying that one day her husband will return to her, then explaining what she will do when he arrives.

When I got my tattoo done I was in a very hard place with Bambi.  I had been dating someone else.  I tried to date this particular man twice but, wonderful as he was to me, he just couldn't compare.  I found myself getting angry with him frequently over little things and when I thought about it, the only reason I could find that I was really upset with him was that he wasn't Bambi.  So that didn't last very long.

From a time long before I moved out of my apartment I would wish every day that the person I had fallen in love with in 2007 would come back, but he just kept slipping further and further away from me.  At the time it seemed fitting that the music on my tattoo would be a song saying "one day he will return to me".  Though it may seem as if I would by now wish I had chosen another song that had different meaning, that is never a choice I've regretted.

To a point, I still feel that way.  I will always love him.  I will always want him to be the person I fell in love with, the person who loved me with all of his heart.  But he will always choose alcohol (among other things, now, I'm sure) above me.  I really don't think he will never be the person I would need him to be in order to spend my life with him.  So maybe he will return to me in another life.

Thursday Night.

I was having a hard time falling asleep last night.  This is kind of becoming a trend because, for some reason, I'm not used to sleeping alone after three years of doing it.  I decided not to read because I didn't want to get caught up in a book after 11 (my technical bedtime) as I would never sleep.  But I didn't want to lay there and get all cranky and lonely, either.  So I decided to write.

This is kind of a portion of what I hope will be at least a short story.  It is (mostly) fiction.  I have never aborted a fetus.  This particular event never occurred.  Many of the feelings involved in the idea of the story, however, did.  

I think quasi-fiction is the best way for me to get out any residual feelings I still have about my ex.  I also think that one of the biggest reasons I have so many residual feelings is that I never dealt with any of them until earlier this year.  Right now the stories make me feel better than anything else (short of ruining his life completely, like he almost did mine) possibly could.

Hope you enjoy.

“I aborted it,” I said flatly. He hadn't even known I was pregnant.

He stared into his nearly full pint of beer, expressionless. A drop of condensation slid down the once-frozen glass. He watched it come to a rapid halt on the top of the Sierra Nevada coaster he probably intended to steal when he left the bar in three hours, completely intoxicated.

I waited for something in his demeanor to change. For his eyes to flash black like they used to. For the reaction that showed he still cared, still loved me.

He cleared his throat, a noise barely audible above the general Thursday night raucous of the sports bar. He came here frequently. He'd been choosing beer over me for three of our four years together. He'd been choosing beer over everything else for thirteen.

I guess that means I should consider myself special.

I don't.

He lifted the PBR to his lips and took a long pull, emptying more than half the glass of beer, then turned his face to the television behind the counter and the football game on it.

“Did you hear me?”

He took another swig of beer and kept his eyes on the television screen.

“The third time really must be a charm. I didn't miscarry this one.” His eyes narrowed and darkened slightly. “The other two didn't last to eight weeks on their own. This one was stronger. It was finally our boy. I know it was.”

He dug a packet of cigarettes out of his jeans and swiveled around on his stool, pausing for a mere second before he got up and walked outside to smoke.

I followed him.

“I know you won't leave her. So I couldn't keep him, Bamb. I'm sorry.”

He turned around to face me. His eyes were on fire.

“You fucking cunt,” he said. “You are such a goddamn liar. You weren't pregnant. There was no boy. There were never any babies. If there had been I might still be with you. But you are so good-for-nothing you can't even get pregnant. You stupid fucking bitch. Stop being such a lying fucking whore.”

Ah, sweet reaction.

I put my face within inches of his.

“When you told me to break up with my boyfriend, I did it. You were always the one. I only dated other people because I was lonely and I got tired of you using and abusing me in every way you possibly could. But you... You will not leave the stupid bitch you're dating for anything. Not even me. Which is funny. Because I could swear to God you told me you would never date another woman after me if anything happened to us. I guess you either lied or didn't realize that you were going to be the thing that happened. You and your fucking liquor. Maybe you should marry some PBR. It's the only thing that doesn't care when you abuse it, like you do every single little thing in your meaningless life. You fucking piece of shit.”

He took a drag from his cigarette and tried to blow it away from us, but an air current pushed it back into my face, as usual.

I shook my head and decided to just finish my verbal assault. “You are worthless. I don't know what I ever saw in you. I don't know what could have possessed me to want to have a family with you, ever. You are a bad parent, bad boyfriend, awful friend, horrible husband, terrible son, and an overall evil, selfish, and vindictive human being. You disgust me.”

I turned and started to walk away from him and the bar. The sooner I got to my car and drove away, the better. The safer I was. I knew it with most all of my being. I just couldn't stop myself. I turned around right before I stepped off the sidewalk. He watched me with his cigarette still burning between his fingers and his eyes were as black as coal mined from the depths of hell.

“Fuck you,” I said, and resumed the walk to my car.

I glanced back using my peripheral vision just as he put his cigarette out in the ashtray by the bar door. I didn't know what he would do next; go back into the bar and drink himself into oblivion, or follow me to my car. Both were pretty undesirable.

His hand grasped the handle of the bar door for a moment before he changed his mind and set out after me at a pace nearly double mine.

He was going to catch up to me before I reached my car.

Broken Promises.

I never guessed I would be this busy. 

I thought I'd be pretty busy, but I didn't think nearly every minute of my "free time" would be completely consumed with work, homework, friends, or rehearsal.  Don't get me wrong, it's pretty amazing.  But I'm SO tired.  All.  The.  Time.  Not only have I not had time to post, I haven't seen a movie or episode of a tv show since I moved three weeks ago.  I still have the same Netflix dvd I've had since early August.  I haven't read a bit of any of the books I thought I'd get to.  And I have yet to have one weekend during which I'm not up until four AM at least one night.

I guess if this isn't college, I don't know what is.

In all reality, I'm super happy.  I love my house, my roommates, the new people I'm getting to know, (most of) my classes...  I've settled into my life here pretty easily. 

While I hate the town I live in, I love how close it is to cities I like.  I'm two hours (depending on traffic) from Santa Cruz.  I've gotten to see Oose twice already since I moved.  And I'll get to see her again next week when we go see Blue October.

I'm excited about this for multiple reasons.  I get to see Oose.  I get to go to San Francisco with her.  And this will be my first real rock concert of my choosing.  Most of the other concerts I've attended have been classical and/or were with my parents, so they chose who we were going to see. 

I absolutely LOVE Blue October. 

I just find that I'm experiencing a bit of sadness with the happiness and excitement I've been feeling. 

Bambi loved Blue October.  Until last year he was the reason I had most of their music on my iPod.  He is the reason I know almost all of their songs.  They were one of the bands he really wanted to see in concert and he'd never been able to. 

Last year they released Approaching Normal.  I cried the first three times I listened to it, at least.  This year they released Any Man in America.  It was almost as bad.  Particularly this song.  And this song.

I just keep wondering when I'll get over it. When I'll stop randomly crying.  When my heart will stop hurting.  When I'll forget.

Because what I really desperately want is to forget.  It gets so tiring, remembering everything. 

The scary thing is that, tired as I am of being and feeling alone, I almost never want to date again. I really think I would rather die than go through anything like I what I did with him again.  And I'm afraid no one will ever love me or hold my interest that much again.  I'm afraid that maybe I don't want someone else to. 

Maybe part of the problem was that he was supposed to have been the one to take me to a concert like this a long time ago.  Maybe part of the problem is that I always thought he would.  But instead I'm going without him and, for some reason, feeling like it's a way to figuratively wave my middle finger in the air at him.  I know it's not.  And I would want to go to this concert anyway.

I think more than anything it's the change and this Blue October cd, coupled with the Adele cd I got a couple of weeks ago. 

I suppose it's time I tried to put it out of my mind, did some homework/work, crawled into a hole, and died.  Maybe things will seem better in the morning.

Settling In.

I unpacked my last box yesterday.  It was a beautiful thing.  Now I just need to find somewhere to recycle the cardboard and take out all the trash bags.

I have a ton of shit.

I never want to move again.

But I will.  One day I'm sure I'll be living in a little shit-box apartment in San Francisco or Chicago trying to make a living as an opera choruster.

Or I'll be an accountant.

I'm feeling much better about things.  I love my house and my roommates.  My room is organized and uncluttered (mostly).  I think I'm going to be okay in my classes.  My voice lesson times are pinned down and I even have a deal with my roommate that we'll go to the gym together three times per week. 

Moving was tough, though.

I hadn't sorted through most of my things since I moved out of my apartment and I had to deal with all those sort of residual feelings that still hadn't been exorcised.  Last Monday night I packed and listened to Adele's album 21 for a good three hours at least.  I spent much of the time weeping.  Music is such a powerful thing and can affect me like nothing else in the world has the ability to do.  Sometimes I can relate to it far too well.

I kept finding little things Bambi had given me or I'd saved from the time I was with him while I was unpacking.  Most all of it is torn up and/or in the garbage now.  The Cork is there where it belongs.  I probably should have burned it, but I don't have a barbeque.    The clothes are in a bag that I'll be taking to Goodwill soon because they are in good shape and some of them are pretty nice.  Plus, poor people can always use sweatshirts. 

There's only one item I'm not throwing out.






It's silver and definitely old.  When he gave it to me he told me it had been his grandmother's jewelery box.  She was the only woman I ever felt he had more love for than me.  She was the only woman I think he ever respected. 

I can't bring myself to throw it away because it's too nice.  I don't feel right giving it to Goodwill yet because it represents a relationship I had with a woman I unfortunately was never able to meet during her lifetime, but who I feel was there with me through many of the terrible things I've experienced in the last few years, especially with him.  I would not be the person I am today without her.

However, it was still a gift from him.

So my plans for it look a little like this:



I can blow these up for days and never run out, thanks to the Women's Clinic in Redding and their insistence on giving me a lunch sack full of condoms every time I went to get birth control or a bv check.  And this made me happier than using it as a candy dish or q-tip holder.

I feel like I really am finally free.  I think that's why it doesn't hurt to get rid of all these things anymore.  I just don't want them around because I will get tired of being reminded of him.  There is so much more in store for me than wasting my life on someone that...  Pointless.

Please excuse me while I take out the rest of my trash.

Out with the old, in with the new mentality. 




Oh, and by the way, I'm pretty sure I'm falling in love with my new life.

But It Feels Like My Eyes Are Shut.

It's hot in my house tonight. 

I was sweating while trying to print stuff earlier.  Which, by the way, is kind of a pain in the ass right now.  I thought I had my printer fixed after purchasing new ink and installing new drivers to my laptop.  And it works perfectly...  As long as I only have to print in color.  It's kinda sketchy looking if I have to print anything black.  And by sketchy I mean it doesn't wanna. 

This would be fine if the one thing I really needed to print wasn't blank music paper.

I'm almost through my first week of University. 

So far it's been a mix of completely amazing/exciting and incredibly frustrating.  The end result was that I took two naps this week.

I moved to Modesto only a week ago.  It feels like I've been here a month already.  I've hardly had any free time.  And what little free time I do have has pretty much been spent unpacking, cleaning the kitchen, or hanging out with the roomies. I'm almost completely done unpacking; there's just my box of dvds that I don't know what to do with.  They may end up under my AMAZING bed.  After maybe I'll post pictures of my room. 

Either that or I'll go to Santa Cruz for the weekend and forget completely.

Sleep Blogging.

Dear Blogland,

I thought I should probably check in.  It feels like it's been a while. 

So, I'm finally moved into my new house with my amazing roommates.  I've been here officially for four days.  I feel as if it's been weeks-- in a good way.  An excellent way.

Friday night one of my best friends in the world came to stay a night and help me unpack.  She didn't leave until today.  We did almost no unpacking.  You should see my room.  It's terrible. 

Side note:  I really wanted to be super organized and unpacked by the time school started (tomorrow).  I failed miserably; most of my clothing is still in the bags and boxes it's been packed in for over a week, which are all sitting on my obviously chaotic bedroom floor.  And you know what?  I don't care.  For the first time in a long time, my neurotic and anal-retentive self doesn't give a fuck.

I feel amazing.

I know it will get done in the next couple of days and I'm okay with that.  I had a lot of errands I had to do and a lot of experiences I would have missed out on by being a fuddy-duddy at home with my clothes.

My bed is set up and beautiful.  My furniture is all in the right places.  I have my stereo hooked up and the rest of the house has been done forever.  My roommates are amazing.  And it's awesome to feel so comfortable and at-home in our space.  I love it.

Today we took a road trip to San Francisco to see the opera in the park at Stern Grove.  I have never been.  It was FABULOUS.

The park was ridiculously beautiful, full of Eucalyptus trees and green grass, and the singers were beautiful people with beautiful voices.

Plus, we got to meet up with an old friend from our "high school" days (one day I should probably explain to you all how I spent high school) for some laughs and good food at Pizza Orgasmica.

All in all, I think I'm starting off my university experience perfectly.

Just perfectly.