White boy short cotton underwear. White bra.
Gray pants, white t-shirt, charcoal gray fitted cardigan sweater, black shoes. Short hair. Pretty lips, white teeth, crows feet around my eyes - blue. Make-up, just enough.
The outside matches the inside
I'm tired.
I've been going out more than usual lately. I guess, it's par for the course when you separate. You get out more, hook up with old friends, and... stuff. I was out last night, again. I got together with two of my oldest friends recently and have ventured out with them a couple of times. It's possible they're not the classiest chicks (understatement). Maybe I am a great big asshole for saying that, but there it is.
I love them both dearly. I love them so much that I let them, literally, drip off my husband (who came along for the ride). Perhaps, it is because they know we are currently separated that they felt it was okay to publicly molest him, or maybe they think we're still so tight that I'm going to share him, or perhaps they think they own a piece of him still given that we all went to high school together and, well... whatever.
Either way, I thought it was pretty funny. Weird but funny. By the time we dropped them off, they were practically screaming and giggling for a kiss on the lips. Are you fucking kidding me? Ugh. Ladies, please.
I let them have their fun because I am that comfortable with the husband and where we're at. I let them have their fun because it seemed they were living out some old high school fantasies. Watching them vulture over him though was... somehow humbling.
I would never do something like that. I felt a little sad for them and wondered how we ever had so much in common, and how, back then, they always seemed to be better than me. Their lives haven't changed much, they haven't really evolved. I realized that all those years ago, I never noticed that they didn't want more.
I also realized how much more I want for me and mine. How much I've always held the vision of what I want. Not more things, not money and toys (although I intend to enjoy those too), but just more better.
I don't know that I'll go out with them much. I certainly wont be taking the husband along if I do - they would be certain to force their tongues down his throat given the opportunity, and well, I'm just too classy for that.
Now, if you'll excuse me... I'm going to park my hungover ass on the couch, watch a double shot of Bridget Jones, nod off half way through the first one and sleep drool.
When I was about 15 and had braces (along with a weird contraption that consisted of three sharp prongs that came down from the roof of my mouth and made me have to suck my spit back instead of swallowing like the rest of you lucky people - it sounded something like, shhhlit, shhhlit...), I also had the fine experience of telling a hardcore chick-mullet wearing hairdresser that I wanted a "shorter in the front, longer in the back" haircut. Of course, I was thinking more of a Lee Aaron feathered haircut which is so not what I got. I got a mini-me version of what my sweet hairdresser had, a hardcore chick mullet. gulp.
It certainly wasn't my best year - I haven't even mentioned that none of my jeans fit the length of my skinny, knobby legs. I was wearing floods with slouch socks (not meant to be worn high, btw). Sexy beast? Yes, indeed.
However, I loved the way my hair felt. Shhh, don't tell anyone.
Back then, my hair cut didn't do me any favors ( who's kidding who, back then there wasn't much that was gonna help me but a whole lot o' time), but I liked it, a lot. Ever since then, I've wanted to, ever so slightly, recreate the event, and now, well...
I got my hair cut. I showed the new hairstylist lady the picture I wanted, and she did it. It's just... she did in away that it would grow into the haircut I want in about three to four weeks.
Ladies and gentlemen, it's a boy.
But, I am please to say... that it is not a mullet! Whew!
I've always wanted to try having short hair, it's kinda sexy. Again, it feels good. When the wind blows, I don't get a mess of hair all in my face, sticking to the lip gloss I always forget to wear, and when I look in the mirror, I see a different person. I like her - she's kinda nifty (at the very least, she'll do in a pinch).
This haircut reminds me (finally) of that army mullet I had so many years ago - how secretly free I felt not having hair hair, not being a slave to my tresses. I like short hair, it's fun.
Now, if I could just get rid of these boobs - I'd be a real boy for sure.
The husband still comes to the house a lot. He picks up our daughter and hangs out with her here and works out in his garage. Usually, he sorta leaves before I get home from work, it all works out. We can be in the same room together. We're totally sane people who understand what it's going to take to remain good parents and shit. Whatever.
Today, in the garage, he found my old journal, the one that I kept when I was first with him. He read a few pages and passed it along, nostalgically. He thought it was sweet how I professed my love for him so many years ago. I took it and read it in the bath; it was beautiful, heartbreaking, sad, goofy... and endearing. I felt for me, what me was in for.What was most heartbreaking was reading how much I could still feel the things that old me felt about my relationship. The things that were problems then just turned into the same only very mature problems. Although things changed, the inner burdens just hung on.
Wasn't me going to be surprised when I told it that after all that, I had left him. We were no more. Back then, in the middle, I thought we were invincible. Forever and always, no matter what.
However, the beginning of the journal read a lot like the end felt.
Yeah, me is going to be shocked when I tell it how much has changed. Me might cry a bit at just how much I've grown and changed since the last entry in July 2004 - two months before I would move to where I am now to be with my freshly rehabed husband, two months before my ex took my daughter from me and pulled me through court because of the husbands past and his addiction, two months before I would be in the town where I would become who I am, start this blog, write a book, believe with all my heart that I'm worth the job I want- worth, now there's a word.
How lovely and crazy stupid charmed my life has been. I wouldn't have it any other way.
It's strange writing this here as I don't like writing this stuff on Mantramine anymore, but somehow it just seemed fitting to write this last little bit.
Maybe, I might write more personally elsewhere these days. It's nothin' special, by any means, but I might even have some new blog friends, sort of. How fun is that? I'm cheating on all of you.
I know that there are some of you that come here often... I suppose, if you want, you can email me and, if I don't know you and you don't live in a close proximity to me, I can redirect you. I don't know what will become of Mantramine. I know I can't let it go, I will always write something here and there. It's just, I keep trying to come here and say stuff that's on my mind, but it wont pass my finger-lips, not here. If you don't care so much to follow me, then please know that I feel pretty good about that, too. Less is more.
yeah. so... whatever.
I feel like I'm missing something, some words that are supposed to go here, words that I might be forgetting. I feel like a girl standing alone in an empty apartment and it's echoing in a way that makes your heart quench.
I don't know if I'm moving in or moving out.
Love always,
That's what my neighbour asked me, if I was doin okay. Yeah, I am doing okay. So, why did her kind question make me wanna cry? You know, one of those times when someone looks your soul in the eye and sees your not doin' okay, so they ask, and your voice cracks, and you squeak out a "yeah. Oh, yeah. psh."
I really am doing really good and okay. I like where I am, except for feeling like I'm kicking the husband out of the nest and forcing him to fly, I am good.
"You're look'n a little skinny, again" my neighbour says.
"Oh, yeah, no... these are my super to big and comfortable jeans, " and they are a few sizes to big. I have actually put on a pound or two.
So I look like shit. Whatever. That's cause I ended up going out last night and staying up too late.
But, really, (throat closes) I'm fine....
I don't even know where to start. I feel out of touch with my blog, like it's a dirty, crusty sock hanging off the edge of my bed. Here goes:
I was out with some friends this weekend, and one of them happens to work with the person whose virginity I took, once upon a time. I popped a cherry and broke a heart.
Who would have thought this guy was a virgin, certainly not me. We worked together, he was good looking, a year or so older than me, and seemed like a brooding tough guy - what girl doesn't like that? Anyways, he didn't LOOK like a virgin.
The last time I had seen him was close to twenty years ago when he sat on the outskirts of the dance floor of my local bar and stared at me... like he was burning holes in my skin. I can't remember what he said other than things like "how can you do this?"
To which I said things like, "ummm, I dunno. I'm sorry?"
This weekend, I forbade my friends to use my real name around this guy for the short time we were there, and he didn't put anything together. All I could do the whole time we were there was remember those few nights we had together (before I dropped him like a bad habit to return to my forever cheat'n boyfriend). They were fun nights, we hung out in bed and I wore nothing but his leather jacket.
Turns out, this guy was/is one of the shyest guys ever, and I would find out later that I was his first. Weird.
Sitting across from him this weekend, I wanted to tell him who I was and tell him I was sorry for never returning his calls... he was so sweet sitting there drinking his beer without a clue, slightly drunk and make'n silly shy person jokes.
Whatever his life has been, he hasn't changed much from way back then, he's still handsome and painfully shy (and fairly neurotic, so I hear).
I gave him a hug when I left and said, "nice to meet you."
He said, "Wow... do you want my phone number?"
Oh, gees.
Once again, I really should be working, but procrastination pulls me down like a child's candy sticky hand. Whattya gonna do but lick it clean?
These jerks teachers got me writing p a p e r s and crap, and I'm thinkin' "I paid you for this?" They obviously have no idea how much I write and talk crap already. I wonder if I can just hand in my jazillion blog url's... and we'll call it a day.
whatever.
I bought the new Michael Buble album today. Some skanky ho's may say that he's all Mr. Whitey commercial... but I say 'screw you, I like it.'
I keep falling in loooovvvveee with all these unattainable guys, like I'm eleven-teen again with pics of Danny Zuko or Sean Cassidy (oh yeah, it's true) on my wall.
I would sit around and wonder what it all means... but,who cares?
Right?
Real shmeal. Nothing could ever compare with my imagination... so why bother. Is it so bad to just stay in the world of pretend?
Yeah, I foresee problems with this imaginary love fest of mine, too. Nobody in the world would or could ever live up to my mind's eye.
but why? Why can't some Michael Buble or crazy creative Ashley Wood... or "Ian" come and do that thing where they look me in the eye and make my fictional heart drop into my toes?
I told the moved out husband that he should not read this blog anymore - I wonder if he will (are you?) and then he'll question me about my stupid, weird fantasies.... that aren't about him and I getting back together.
Ugh. Whatever.
It doesn't mean that I don't have those, too. I do. He's read some Eckhart and LIKE I TOLD YOU(HIM), he likes it... and the truth is, he's hot and sexy and shit when he's responsible for his emotions and happiness...
doesn't mean that I still don't want the story. I do...
I want the story. I want happy. I really, really am the worlds most ridiculous romantic geek - and I don't even know why I'm telling you all this.
Probably, because I give up trying to not be a geek. I surrender - smoke em if ya got em.
I should be working. My ass hurts because I have been sitting on it in front of this computer for WEEKS! I swear (it's a lie).
I have been here for two whole days though. I haven't showered, I'm in sweat pants, my hair is a freak show, I have a sty in one eye (it's all redish, itchy, and pretty look'n). I am the very definition of hot.
Anyways, in all my 'working' I have been surfing images of Mr. Woods (and others) and came across a little something. So, I've just came by to 1) share and b) say how much I love Ashley Wood. I want to write stories that he can illustrate, we'll work together all night long, and, maybe, we'll accidentally kiss... and stuff.
This is the picture I found and felt things tingle in places other than my pink eye (what's that robot doing?). If you didn't have Wood before, you should now.
Leaving Normal was a movie I happened across one day on the TV, it starred Ms. Meg Tilly who I've always loved. It was one of those obscure movies that not even she, Meg, seems to mention in her credits, but it was good. It's about a two girls/women who leave it up to fate to find their way on a map after fleeing Normal, Illinois.
There is also a town called Boring, Oregon that, insofar as I know, has no movie made about it. I would like, if for no other reason other than feeling represented some what, to live in both these towns - at the same time (to make it interesting).
Or, maybe I'll just leave Normal and enter Boring while sometimes visiting Ravenna (Ohio).
Naaaaa, that's not gonna happen.
I think I'll just head on over to the East Side instead. I think it's time.
I love 7AM.
The world is still quiet and, right now, the morning is dark and a little cold. I like that the rest of the world is asleep and I get to be in it by myself - and a few of my other early morning look-a-likes that wander about enjoying the echo, like me.
I feel like a girl at a party; maybe it's some really interesting, strange, cartooned kind of dark art show opening, and I'm this girl in the corner, wearing some really cute shoes, watching with a suppressed but excited grin.
Like I am on the verge of a dream.
I feel disturbed because we were both young kids together, and look at him now. I feel disturbed because he walked up to me in the middle of that party and told me that what my step dad did to me, he did it to him (his nephew) too. That was probably at a time in his life where he was trying, he was gonna try and 'be good.'
I think back to us at the park, all of us rotten, dirty kids hanging out, up to no good, and feel a solidarity with him that I will never have with another. He knows exactly what happened to me. He knows my hate and my pain.
What were our parents thinking? I remember thinking, when I was about five, that they must have all been some seriously weak women. We would go camping in the middle of the (hillbilly) bush, the men would wear their army fatigues, gather their array of rifles, guns, and knives and go kill hunt, and the women would gather and make food, walking around the camp site naked from the waist up, pretending to be some version of a free hippy when really- they were just the result of some fucked up, male dominant, abusive, sexually charged, insidious commune. At night, they would all drink, yell, and fight (accept for the overly submissive females (like my mom), of course).
Everyone was some kind of a slutty victim, some kind of throw away whore. Personally, for those five years of my life, I lived in a constant state of fear.
And now, I get a u tube video link to see my (step) cousin, the only other person in the world that I know knows, you know? My cousin in solidarty.
and someone has filmed him junk'n out on the streets. He's all fucked up and high... and broken as all hell. It broke my heart to watch... because I know.
There but for the grace of somebody's god, go I.
