trill

I'm going out tonight and I'm fairly certain it's a date. My mother is very concerned. I've apparently been troubling since my 21st.

You know, she thinks I lost my virginity at 16. Which is laughable and sad, because if it had been back then and with him it would have been so much better and meant so much more than it did. It wouldn't be akward looks and knowing you'll run into each other so often.

It's so cheesy to say this shit, but I'll always remember how his hair smelled like cigarettes in the best way possible and his eyes were so open and curious. His skin had almost no salt to it, like he was just out of the shower. The sliver of light from the parking lot coming through the curtains and the empty picture frame on his side table. The next morning he pulled the covers over his head when I left. We agreed beforehand that we would be nothing, and I don't think I should have. I don't love him. But. But but but...

So I'm meeting someone (a different someone) for drinks tonight. This is all new territory because I don't know him. I met him once, on my birthday, and have seen him out once and he knows that other someone. And... I don't know if I like him. I don't know if he's funny or anything. I know he wanted to go put our feet in the hottub, and he's from Brooklyn and he's italian. But oh god, what if I just don't like him? I have so little experience in all of this.

So, I'm not dead.

I am apparently, however, not desirable. I'm funny and I know a lot of random shit, and that makes me worth keeping around. And any guy that's worth half a shit is always into the girl to my immediate right.

I'm feeling bitchy tonight. I'm sick and I just filled the tub but the thought of actually getting up to get in is too much. And all I can think is that I found a guy who seems really decent and he's possibly more into my friend who really doesn't like him.

And what's so wrong with me? Everyone;s falling all over themselves about everyone around me. What's so wrong with me?

I feel guilty and angry and afraid and sick so much and I push it all down and I try to look out for everyone else and all I get is fucking shit on. And I can't even tell people when they're wrong or they're fucking up or anything.

So why can't I have this one thing? Why can't I be into a guy who's into me?

Can I just hope that people are reading things wrong? Because I saw something there, and now he's so mopey and weird and I just really want it to be something else.

I want someone I can call my boyfriend. I want to be in love. I want someone to hold me and tell me it will all be alright.

No one has ever brought me flowers, not in my entire life.

I can't seem to work up a decent panic attack anymore. Is it wrong that I find this a bit of a disapointment? I shattered a glass at work, a thousand tiny pieces in my neck and arms. Only one of them big enough to make me bleed, but still. What could have happened, you know? And then I spent the rest of the night half way there. Would've prefered to go through the whole thing in one go, not drag out the shakes and nausea all night.

Also, I can control the lights with my mood. It's quite cool. I'll need some sort of superhero name, of course. Nothing's coming right off, but I'll get it eventually.

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It's raining again. Hard and cold, but not right. People from Seattle keep telling you that the rain there's not depressing, that it's a fine mist and colors everything the soft blue of a TV flashback. But you're not there, and you never will be.

You're here, and now. Another year older, still in teh same job, still essentially the same person. You flick the half gone Camel light between your fingers and watch the rain pound down on the hood of his truck. Things should have been different by now. He should have been with you.

And the worst part isn't even that he's fucking her. It's that somewhere deep iside, you know that she doesn't love him. And so you tell yourself that it will end, and you try to convince yourself that if you just hold out, things will right themselves. Even when you know you're wrong, that the ending you wrote isn't the one that'll make it to the screen, you think maybe.

MY cell phone ring tone is "Moneymaker" by Rilo Kiley. Cause I can't figure out how to assign ringtone with my new phone because that might be possible and a song about porn just seems right for everyone.

Except at the shop, but I digress...

So apparently someone called me last night while I was asleep, because I had a dream about my ringtone. I was in Walmart by the men's clothes (and this is the Fort Walton Walmart and the old layout, which isn't really important unless you care.) And then I look up and Jenny Lewis and Blake Sennet are standing a few feet away. So I immediately go for my cell phone to turn off the ringtone, but it goes off right then. Jenny Lewis looks over at me all disgusted and walks off. Blake comes over, (on a skateboard. I'm not sure why either.) and he says she hates ringtones in general. We chase her down and corner her in the bike aisle. She then introduces me to Pierre, who she keeps calling Pierre LeCourte. Then we all skateboard around the gun department.

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I just fixed the brakes on my bike in less than 15 minutes. I'm gonna bask in this glorious slory for a bit. And then watch Red Eye. And the Inland Empire. David Lynch! Yay!

I may buy a truck. It's red. We'll see tomorrow.

I dropped a shelf on my big toe at work today, and it's still bleeding. And ouchie. *sigh*

This week is house sitting again. Really, I could manage to move out without getting an apartment if it keeps up at this rate.

The truely odd thing is, I haven't watched TV since Monday morning. I watched Heroes online at work today, but that's it. Haven't even had one on for background noise. My distraction level is way up, but the things my brain has been thinking about are just crazy. In a good way.

We got in some gorgeous green/orange sock yarn today. So Gina will be getting socks when I go up there. (June 16th!)

SO I had a fight with my mother this morning.

It wasn't really a fight. I left from the living room (where I sleep from whenever the fuck she decides to go to bed until 6:30), and went back to her and dad's room to lie down there for an hour before work.

And I hear her telling dad how pissy I am, and how everything has to go my way and she's convinced that I'm going to end up alone because I can't adjust to anyone else's life.

And where does this come from?

Well, I'm working two jobs to try and be able to afford to move out. I love one, and I put up with the other because I like the people and don't think I could find anything that paid as well. I still can't afford to move out yet.

And then I come home and Casey, who does fuck all after school, has her shit thrown all over the floor in the living room. So I toss the box that her magazines were in on the floor in front of her and tell her that she better do something about them. She watches LOST.

I'm in the wrong?

I'm supossed to be taking my online traffic school right now because of my stupid ticket, but I left the ticket sitting at home because I just left after I heard her and dad. So I've been sitting in the back office at the shop since 7:30 with nothing to do but stew.

Is it wrong that I'd like someone else to pick up something? I clean the living room, mom buys more shit, the shit falls on the floor, and she watches TV all night. I clean the kitchen, and they keep buying food that doesn't get eaten, "but it was on sale" and so cans and boxes pile up and it's a fucking mess again, and she has the nerve to bitch that she can't find her god damned spices.

My clothes are in the living room. Everything else I own is piled on the bed I'd sleep on if I had a single fucking place to put anything.

And this morning I hear from her, again, "I've offered to have your dad box up that stuff and take it out to the storage shed."

No! When everybody else boxes up the fucking stuff that they DON'T USE, then I'll take out my stuff. When she boxes up grandma's things, since she's been dead for three years now, and I can have space to live, then I'll put some stuff out there.

I'm sick of being the only one who has top condense her life. I'm sick of being the only one who cleans, especially after I was the one to clean our house when the water heater burst. OOH, she gave me $200 whole dollars for that one.

But she's sure that I'll die alone. Because I'm the one that can't make consessions.

If it weren't for the shop, I think I'd load the tank up with gass and just drive as far as I could.

I drove to Freeport yesterday. I must note, in case any of you get directions from my father, Freeport is not "out past Seminole". Yes, it is further to the right of me than Seminole. But by many towns. Out past Seminole is a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad direction, and my cell phone had no reception and I feel so incredibly stupid and sad when I have to ask directions because I'm always right where I meant to be so I was crying a little and sure I was going to end up in Tallahasee because I'm stuborn.

But Freeport is just past Portland. So things got better.

I went to Freeport to go to a Spinning Guild Meeting. I'll not go into details ere because I've a whole nother blog for that sort of thing, but I had fun. And then I found my way to Seaside all by myself, sans crying.

On the whole, I hate Seaside. I hate how it looks and most of the people there and that my father had any part in crafting those hideous things people pay too much to stay in and you can't go on the beach and it makes me want to sunbathe naked right outside someone's back door.

I love the book store, and record store, and the little market that had my mango salsa. Mango Salsa and Chuck Klosterman books and 7 different Tom Waits CDs = love. The rest can fuck right off.

I bought a CD. Lost Highway, The Music of The Band.

I enjoy most of it. Jack Johnson is good, Guster do the AbFab theme, Gomex surprised me by not being as bad as I usually think they are, My Mornign Jacket, Rosanne Cash, Guster, Jakob Dylan, Deathcab, all good. I have a bit of an issue with The Roches version of Acadian Driftwood. Or maybe I have an issue with Acadian Driftwood. I'll have to dig out my vinyl to settle that, though.

But. But but but but but. BUT. Lee Ann Womack? KILLS The Weight DEAD. Who let her near that song? Really? Because I need to punch them in the face. With a tire.


Oh. And then I drove home.

That's a lie. I've dug up roots and centipede grass and a rather stubborn stump that does not end.
I have not planted an herb garden. I've not even finished digging up the stump.
But I have herbs. And a place to plant them. And vegetable seeds, and fruit vines and bushes. I'm exstatic.

And I burned my hand a bit with battery acid. It's a tiny burn, but it's a son-of-a-bitch because it's right in the crease of my palm.

I think I'm having a fight with Gina. I'm not entirely sure, but we didn't talk before we left. Of course, we didn't talk before she came, which is where the disagreement came from. Because I had made three plans for the 3+ weeks she was here, and we only did two of them (she went with me to get my tattoo and we went to a show). Because I had no idea that her boyfriend would be here for two of those weeks. So I had made all these concessions in my schedule at the shop so I could get time off that I didn't end up spending with her. And the only other thing I wanted to do was go to some of the galleries in Pensacola. I just really want to go to the Artel and not by myself. And I want to go to the book store not by myself and I want to wander around town and take pictures of the grafitti and the churches and not be by myself, because every fucking time I'm in Pensacola I'm by myself.

I've decided I'm getting a tattoo for my birthday.

Also, The Mountain Goats are my new favorite band.

Oh! And we found a bunny. I think his name is Joaquin, but it may be Happiness. Because Bunnies? They just want to be held. Least demandind animals ever.