The Quiet Ones Are Usually the Serial Killers.

I never really considered myself to be an interesting enough person to start a blog. But apparently wanna-be writers write blogs. Wanting to write never made me feel like the world needs to hang on my every word. In a sense, I want to be a writer just so I can spill my guts on paper, and publish it anonymously. Like self-help therapy so maybe one day the “memories” of my younger life won’t take up so much space in my head.

I’m not even 100% sure what I should be talking about on here. In fact, I just almost deleted this post accidentally. Technology isn’t really my thing.

A couple of my friends told me that I should write about when we all get together. Because something stupid or hilarious is bound to happen. But I can’t base a blog off of that. Maybe I’ll format it like chapters in a book, or maybe a diary.

Or maybe I’ll try my hardest to remember to get on here once a week and write something down, ya know, for the sake of my career.

My next post will be more interesting, I promise. I hope.

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Human Garbage.

I can’t wrap my head around how badly I screwed up yesterday, mulling over the words on an endless loop. My brain is doing it on purpose whispering to me, “this is what you deserve, just listen to what you’ve said to the person you love the most. Revel in your pain. You deserve it.”

And that’s what I’ve been telling myself. I deserve this. This feeling of a fall that wont end in a crash or even a bruise. The only thing I have bruised is his feelings.

So I guess I’ll tell the story since nobody I know IN REAL LIFE will read this, and I really need to write it all out to try and forgive myself.

 

Yesterday When I was at work my significant other called and said, I found a pretty beat up ring on the ground today, what size do you wear?” Innocent enough, right? I told him and went about my day.

When I got home that evening he said, “babe, I have this weird thing on my back that has been bothering me all day, can you check it out?”

Always eager to be his nurse, I obliged.

I lifted up his shirt to see a ring, the ring I thought had come from the gutter, taped to his back. I peeled it off, giggled, and without even inspecting the ring, I said, “oh, this is just costume jewelry!”

To which he replied, “No its not, I thought it was sterling silver.”

And this is where it gets ugly, even hard for me to type.

I said, “I could probably bite this thing in half. This better not be how you decide to purpose to me.” Followed by some giggles.

This is when he started walking back inside our house. I was still confused, still thinking ALL OF IT was a gag.

I walked into our room, as he lay on our bed and asked why he was so upset. He said, “that was really mean of you. I really did buy that for you, I told you that story about finding it on the street so you wouldn’t catch onto me buying a gift for you.”

Ouch.

I felt my throat well up and all my insides sink into the lower half of my body. I was speechless at how heartless I must have looked. I ran to the bathroom and proceeded to cry in there for 45 minutes. I called my mom while hidden away next to the toilet. She was honest, which I appreciated. But honesty always hurts. She said I did screw up, and that I need to pour my heart out to him. So that’s what I did.

I did the walk of shame back to our room, with my eyes almost swollen shut by now, I told him how sorry I was and that I hope after all the years we’ve been together that he knows that I am not the materialistic brat that I completely acted like. I also told him I thought the whole thing was a joke right up until the moment he told me he had spent money on it.

Our night was quiet, cuddling was rigid. Our morning was equally as quiet. Last night for the first time in my life, I felt like hurting myself, or disappearing.

Shame on me for tarnishing the sacredness of “us”. Shame on me for making him feel like a fool.

I keep replaying how excited he must have been at the jewelry counter picking something out, smiling as he left the store. Smiling and laughing with anticipation as his uncle helped him tape the ring to his back. And I just shit all over it.

I fear he will never fully forgive me, I know I will never fully forgive myself.

I usually share my blog on my Facebook page. But I can’t share this one. This post was for me, to just lay it all on the line. Hoping that writing it all out will give me some kind of relief. I don’t know how I am going to make this up to him, and this makes me question if he’ll ever marry me now!

If you have read this far, thank you for listening.

I’m hoping this is my “one big fuck up of the century” because I never want to go through this feeling of hopelessness again.

 

Note to self: Everybody has at least one of these moments in their lives. I think.

For My Family.

My name is drawn into the once wet cement of three different houses.

That’s not something everyone can say, I guess.

The first house was my great-grandparents house. A house I never thought wouldn’t be in my life. As I get older, the nostalgia wears off a little more each year. But every once in a while a memory will flood my head like when a holiday rolled around, every single family member made their way in and out of that house. Or when my mom threatened to chain herself to the tree out front because the city wanted to tear down my great-grandpas tree. There was NEVER a dull moment. We were THOSE people on the block. And it was fucking rad.

I knew a lot of people growing up that were really embarrassed by their family’s. I was keen to showing mine off. I was SO proud that my sisters and all my cousins were my best friends. So cocky that I had aunts I could tell things that I didn’t want to tell my mom, the uncle who could make you laugh till you peed, the great-grandpa that was literally handsome until the day he died, and Grandma Judy who held everyone in like glue.

Now, we all struggle to see each other, even if we are only a couple miles apart. But like I said, as I get older I see that there is reason behind all this. People move, and have kids, and have jobs. This is what was supposed to happen, for the most part. And since it was the way that it was growing up, when we do get together, we have so many memories together that our conversations could be endless.

It has never been said out loud, but I feel our family motto has always been, “If you have the choice between laughing or crying, try laughing first. And pass me a beer.”

 

 

 

Side note: I bought a planner so I’m gonna try really hard to actually plan out my blogging! Because I know I suck at it!

Note to self: Sometimes distance means success.

 

Friday.

Tonight is the first time I have craved a cigarette in a long time. Probably because my friend left her pack on our table before she left, so I sniffed one of her butts and now I’m hitting my vape zoning out to emo music in the garage.

Tonight was one of those nights that made me appreciate how small my life is.

A card game, some alcohol, and friends underneath the starry lights I bought at Walmart for $5 a strand.

I have been so lazy about blogging, but I am slightly drunk and feeling poetic.

 That’s artistic, right?

I recently got in touch with someone from my past, and am realizing how loved I am. Simple as that. People like me, and I have made an impact on people, and I’m coming to terms with the weird feeling of that.

And now, as I type, I am surrounded by guys. In our garage, just like the (not so) good old days. With my love, and the rest of the crew.

Shooting the shit, realizing that these are some of my very best friends. Friends are made in the strangest ways. Sure we used to party till we puked, but the “us” feeling never left after we all slowed down. 

I miss this, but I don’t. I have kept my drinking to Fridays for the most part, and it’s really satisfying to be an adult about it instead of raging and feeling like death the next day. 

There are profound moments in sitting in a dingy garage with some of your favorite humans.

It’s late, and this will probably be the end of my ramble. 

Note to self: life is about the little moments.

The real beauty behind a holiday weekend.

I’m laying here at 10:30pm looking up at a piece of dust dancing on our ceiling that ive been meaning to cleam for a while.
But for now, I will just watch it dance. Ive become accumstom to watching it move around every night, either happy to be here, or waiting for me to move it.

Am I really talking about a piece of dust right now? Yes, because tomorrow, Monday, belongs to me and that is a fantastic feeling when you have to drag your feet to the same place every day. Yesterday I swam for 5 hours like a kid, today I saw some friends and we assisted them in the middle of a shitty situation, tomorrow maybe I will be a Netflix potato? (but I do really need to go grocery shopping!)

As you’ve seen in my previous posts, I have a tendancy of panicking. I have felt a serenity lately. A serenity of which can only be attributed to, shit, I really don’t know. I do know that as I get older I am more comfortable in my own skin. Also, this massively empowering feeling of humanity. I am human, I am woman. (I am cavewoman?)

When I say “humanity” what I mean is the ability to express oneself, and feel your heart beat in your chest. The ability to see a picture, a face, a story, or a fucking tree and laugh…or cry at it is a beautiful fucking thing.

Hopefully I’ll have some poetry soon…that well has been running a little dry lately.

Thanks for reading my nonsense.

Note to self: laugh instead of cry. Walk away with your middle finger held high instead of staying to argue. stay weird.

Yea…so…I write poetry, too.

I like to think of my poetry as this little emo kid who lives in between my ears that scratches at the inside of my forehead every time anything goes slightly wrong or unexpectedly. Because that is usually when I want to write poetry. The only time I remember writing slightly less-depressing poetry is when I was in a huge Bukowski phase. Because the word “fuck” has always made me smile.

Good news: I have not felt like running away for a while now.

Bad news: I just bit my tongue while aimlessly eating a PB&J.

I started this post because I had the beginning of a poem in my head, but it is completely gone now.  I hate that. Not even carrying around a notebook helps me write down little blips that are literally only in my brain for .35 seconds.

A couple times I have said them out loud in a whisper, my sacred words, so that my boyfriend over hears and sees me running to a notebook. I am wholly aware that my words really aren’t that important to the outside world, but I have looked back at my past writing before and it helps me realize that life does fluctuate from good to bad, bad to good, and back again.

This is a random, unplanned blog post, so be prepared for scattered thoughts.

 

I find myself with friends now. Like actual friends who don’t feel obligated to hang out with me just because we went to High School together. In fact, I hardly talk to anyone from High School. It’s funny how a few events, (like falling behind in the “how-to’s” of becoming an adult) can steer people away from you.

The past two Monday mornings I have not felt like jumping out of the bathroom window mid-shower and sprinting down the street naked and wet, looking for the next bus station. It’s the little things that you have to give yourself a pat on the back for.

Another random thought: I hope that best friend feeling between my boyfriend and I never goes away. His presence gives me so much confidence. I don’t feel like a little hairless rabbit that the universe sometimes makes me feel like.

I wonder if anyone is still reading this. Cause I’m barely writing it.

Boobs.

If you’re still reading this.

Boobs.

 

Note to self: Make yourself laugh, don’t take yourself so seriously. Because honestly, but were all going to die some day. So why go about it all with a stick up your butt.

What Does Anxiety Feel Like?

You know that feeling of falling from 5 feet or higher, where you can feel electricity wash over your skin and your breath sputters telling your body that you’re probably going to get hurt when you hit the ground? All your limbs automatically get tense as your body prepares for the landing. That’s what my anxiety feels like when it’s at it’s worst. That, and I constantly have a stomach ache and/or migraine. I also find myself reverting back to an emo 7th grader.

Today’s playlist: My Chemical Romance with a hint of Taking Back Sunday.

I have felt like this for two days, like something has been right behind me waiting for me to ease the tension that has built up in my shoulders, even just a little bit.

I can usually figure out why I’m so anxious, but I haven’t been able to pinpoint it. Something tells me my brain is getting restless. Again.

Something tells me my brain is tired of all the passive aggressive energy that always seems to be present. I need to see my mom. I need her energy and her unwavering, relentless and sometimes annoying positivity.

Now, you may be reading this thinking, “wow this chick hates her fucking life!”

But I don’t. The thing is when my boyfriends great-grandpa passed away in February, we were all walking on thin sheets of glass. He was the patriarch of our existence. You wanna talk about “godly people” well he’s the closest to the real deal I ever saw, and probably ever will.

I was literally just some 17 year old girl his great grandson was dating and he didn’t bat an eye when I wanted to move in. I mean, this man wanted to give me 20 dollars just for folding his laundry! The definition of a “give you the shirt off of his back” kind of person.

When he passed away we didn’t know what to do with ourselves, and 6 months later the feeling hasn’t gone away. My boyfriend is utterly lost, having been grandpas caregiver for over 6 years. And I’m just holding on to that epiphany moment that I know will come to him.

Life will never be the same without him, but there has got to be a positive side to that. I just haven’t found it yet.

 

The last time I talked to my mom, my fellow poet. She told me that life is made up of little blips of events, like chapters in a book.

Childhood, drug abuse, kids, more drug abuse, being alone, getting your shit together, even more drug abuse, fighting, maybe finally getting your shit together for the last time, and laughing throughout all of it.

(Her timeline, not mine. I learned how not doing drugs can do wonders for your well-being through hands-on experience.)

Redemption is a hugely significant part of that book. And to my mother, I will give infinite do-overs. And I shouldn’t have to explain why. You only get one mom.

Now, MY book is still in the beginning chapters. I am trying to ignore what upsets me. And if that means ignoring accomplishments of others because it reminds me of how fucking behind I am, then call me selfish, call me immature. I would rather ignore others positivity while I’m working on creating my own.

After writing this I feel a little less anxious. Recently I have been questioning my desire to be a writer, but it’s the one thing that can turn my mood around.

Note to self: Be yourself, everyone else is already taken.

The Best Things in Life Are Free

Today I learned that one of my favorite parts of my work day is going to the (public, usually disgusting) bathroom right after the older Filipino women go gargle with mouthwash after having their overly spiced lunches.

This may seem minor, but walking into a dark bathroom with tiles from the 1980’s with a fan so loud you can’t even hear yourself think, and smelling cool mint fill the air is weirdly satisfying. It’s also a nice change of pace from smelling an entire office complex’s “morning shit.”

Weird way to start a blog post. I know.

Bare with me as I sit at an empty desk with one assignment ahead of me that should normal take an hour, which I am trying to stretch out over the course of an entire day for the sake of having something to do.

As I’ve been browsing Craigslist recently, I have strongly considered becoming a day laborer. Or maybe a welder. Or a lumberjack?

I am still so lost, and the time is fast approaching when “finding your path in life” isn’t going to be cute anymore. In fact, I think it has already expired.

I had a job interview yesterday and felt so discouraged to see his face after telling him I am not bilingual nor do I have a lot of experience in Photoshop. I have a little, but clearly not enough because he has not called me back.

Positives: – I still have a job.

I might be losing weight. Too uninterested to actually weigh myself.

I paid all my bills and was STILL able to buy food. Win!

Aaaaand, as far as I know I am in pretty good health.

Negatives: Too many to list without sounding self-deprecating.

Every time my co-worker walks by my office, I have to panic and pretend I’m working.

Every time a truck drives by outside the office I look like a scared squirrel and have to remind myself that it was not an earthquake.

 

Finishing thought: Could be worse.