May 5, 2004

I've recently taken to wearing a belt. Do I have a use for a belt? Well, no, I always wear the warmup pants with elastic waists, but it's decorative. The belt is olive green and woven with a metal buckle and end. Parts of it are a little frayed. Always the same way; shirt half tucked-in on the right, falling left, belt above my waist on the left, below it on the right, buckle on my left, slack going behind. I like the way it looks, and hey, it makes me looker taller than I am.

I find myself on the bus going home. My friend, to whom I haven't spoken for a while, takes a seat next to me. The first four words to leave his mouth are "What's with the belt?"

I answer him the same way I answer everyone else. "Chicks dig it." There really is no reason, I just like it, but it's a more interesting response than a shrug of the shoulders, regardless of veracity.

"No they don't!" he retorts. I don't see why my half-serious remark got him so excited, but he continues by saying that I'm terrible with women. He may have a point, but that's its own anecdote. I turn to the girl behind me and ask "Hey, what do you think of the belt?," snapping my fingers excitedly.

"Oh, that's real sexy. I love the olive green with the purple shirt."

If the Internet has taught me anything, it's that by far the most effective technique in any dispute is twisting words. I hardly consider sincerity an important criterion at this point.

"What'd I tell you?"

Not ten seconds later, he expresses surprise at this girl doing well on one test or another. She yells at him for what must be five minutes. Then, a lull. Here it is, that fleeting fulcrum for a witty remark.

"And you say I'm bad with women."

Adendum, four years later: Well, in retrospect, the thought that I really used to go around in warm-up pants, a purple polo, and an olive green belt about my waste is more than a little embarrassing.

Would you believe that SPAM prompted my visit here this time? Yep, for some reason there were loads of spam to my sms-e2 mailbox. So, this time after about 8 months from my last visit, I came to change the email address on my home node. Anyway, here are some other things I did and noticed:

• went through all the /msgs (more than 20)
• sadly clicked through the messages (more than 5) from anonymous writeups killers and some from sid
• updated typo on node_id

Some of my thoughts while noding this ...

• E2 looks very familiar after more than half a year
• it seems to be slightly faster than I remembered ;-)

Until we meet again, SLATFATF.

I was sitting at the local tavern last night, nursing a couple of after work cocktails with a couple of buddies of mine. One of the televisions was inexplicably turned to Fox News where Neil Cavuto was doing his usual hatchet job on the events of the day. He got to talking about the latest headline grabber and expressed his opinion (and, in a strange way], my own) about how this was indeed, the actions of the few that took away from the actions of the many. He then went on to interview a soldier and his family who had recently returned from Iraq. After tossing up some questions about all the good work that was being done, he offered up one along the lines of “I bet you can’t wait to get back to your unit?”

The gentlemen looked a little puzzled. He then replied that, no, he wasn’t looking forward to going back and that anybody who was probably a little nuts. His family didn’t say a word.

Apparently, this wasn’t the answer Cavuto was looking for. Thank you for your time, fast- forward to commercial.

A couple of moments later, we were blessed with the dour face of Brit Hume who brought up the whole John Kerry medal fiasco, he then paraded a group of Vietnam era veterans who proceeded to call into question Mr. Kerry’s past service record (all of which is public and available for viewing at http://www.johnkerry.com/communities/veterans/service.html, which is more than can be said of a certain President).

My buddy, an ex-serviceman like myself, looked at me and said something along the lines of…

“Hmm, John Kerry, Silver Star, Bronze Star, three Purple Hearts, two tours of duty in ‘Nam. George W. Bush, the only silver he got was a couple of dental fillings while serving in the Texas Air National Guard, the only bronze he saw was probably the footrail from atop his barstool and the only purple he caught a glimpse of was probably from the inside of a bordello in Vegas."

My buddy is a wise, wise man…

Maybe Someday the Night Fears Will Leave me Alone

But for now I am left laying here, rather curled here, as I am in the fetal position. Every night I curl here in the dark shaking, crying, or staring at the wall- sometimes all three. During the day I am safe, sunshine and people keep the troubles of the night from accosting me. The dim light from my laptop screen isn't enough to keep them at bay- not this late at night.

It is the same thing every night:
I sit there typing away, hoping if I ignore them they will go away. They refuse to be ignored, then I can feel them clawing, crawling at my ankles. This time the one named Doubt has managed to climb up onto the sofa, where it launches itself at me. I can feel Doubt's cruel claws digging into my back, whispering evil things in my ear.
"You think you love him, don't you?" He hisses sarcastically.
"You're fooling yourself, slut. You don't really love him at all- you know who your real love is and you stay, stay with the wrong man because he might provide a better future. You selfish, material bitch you! Using that innocent boys emotions as a tool, just to give you the stability you never had!"
"Shutup!" I scream, grabbing Doubt and throwing him off.
"I love John, Brad is nothing to me but a friend! He’s a goddamned drinking buddy! You think he matters to me?”
Doubt skulks off, injured by my attack. But Doubt has weakened me, and the others can sense it. Loathing slithers up my bare legs, his scaly skin rough and scratchy. Wrapped about my upper arm, Loathing stares me in the face. I feel his eyes burning into me, I know everything he will say.
"You're pathetic. You have no job, no money, you aren't even trying. You say you are, but like the rest of your life, its a lie! You use your friends for money, for rides. You use your so-called love for whatever you want. You give him sex and say its love, just so you can share his wallet." He hisses...
"Then, you just stand there as True Love looks on, his soul drying to dust. Scum! Cold, calculating, self-centered-bitch, you are not worth the meager love your parents gave you!" Loathing tightens its coils, refusing to be thrown off as easily as Doubt. I cry out in pain, tears sliding away from my bloodshot eyes. His forked tongue drips acid on my skin,
"You know it, you aren't worthy of the love either of them give you... you know it and you try to ignore it. You have convinced John that Brad is just a friend and Brad sits at home, lonely and dying inside because of you!You are disgusting. A sick, evil little whore!"
The tears flow freely as Loathing suffocates me with his coils. Satisfied for now, Loathing gives one last squeeze, uncoils, and slithers over to the corner where his red eyes glare with hatred back at me.
No longer patient, Despair follows me to bed, stalking me in the shadows of the hall. Climbing the ornate bedpost Despair crawls under the sheets with me. All night I feel its hot breath on my neck as he clings to every inch of me, wracking my body with pain. Silent, unlike the others, Despair stays with me even into my dreams. He chases me through my sleep and gnashes his teeth at me, biting and tearing me apart when he catches me. Sunrise chases him away, to hide with the others under my bed.

I do hope today isn't cloudy.

This whole week has been SOL week. For those of you who don't live in Virginia, it's a Standard Of Learning test (SOL). Basically, it's an end-of-the-year test to see what you've learned in your academic classes. The tests are always easier than the actual class and can be very irritating to take. The teachers, administrators, and the principal stress the importancy off the SOL's all year. They make the SOL's the most important part of being in school. I guess it's so they can keep their jobs and the school can remain fully acredited, I'm not sure.

During this whole week you go to 3 classes a day and spend 3 hours in your first and last class and about an hour or so in your 5th period class (we have 5th everyday). It's very boring especially when you have to stay 3 hours in elective classes like, Familay Relations, P.E., and Study Hall (which is my 5th!). And it's ot like you can skip the days when you have your electives because the administrators have made a rule where if you don't come to school on any day during SOL week, your absence will be unexcused, even if you don't have an SOL in any class. So, if you combine that rule with the 3 unexcused absences you fail the semester rule, and you skip those 3 elective classes, then you fail the semester.

I think they just want to find some evil teacher/admistrator/pricipal way to drive us to the edge of insanity.

Sitting here, working, I begin to notice it. There's the slight pinching feeling as I bend my neck to the right. There's something there, something raw, something sensitive, something that shouldn't be there. There's a bump on my neck, a raised little sore spot. Ah, yes, I know what you are. I've felt you before. Even though I've defeated you before, you've come back.

You're persistent, you big red neck pimple.

All day you bother me, deliver me that little subtle, dull pain when I move my neck a certain way. You know I can't get to you. Even if I try in a mirror to squeeze the life out of you, you're back far enough to where I cannot see you.

I can only feel you.

I will get you, oh yes I will get you. One way or another. Sure, you can torture me now while I'm at work, where I lack the tools and help I need to vanquish you, but wait until I get home. Yes, that's right, the one person you most fear will assist me: my second pair of eyes, my pimple-smiter.

I can feel you shaking now.

There, how do you like it now? Sure, it hurts; the sharp, spidering pain feels like somebody is trying to rip a chunk of my neck out, but I will endure it to be rid of you. Oh y---- what's this? You will not pop? You will not rear your ugly head? All this painful squeezing is for naught? Fine. I'll get a needle. Yes, a needle will smite you.

Oh, damn, you are a tough one. All right, I gain a little respect for you. You will not be lanced. Three stabs and all you have given up is some oil and blood. You laughed in face of certain death. You mock me, hurt even worse now. You are inflamed, but still you persist. You will be there tomorrow.

Yes, you are still there. You are a little smaller, but you still torture me. The dull pain is still there when I move my neck. When I touch you, you sting me. But you will go down, I promise you. It is only a matter of time.

I will pop you. Oh yes, I will pop you.

This is VERY important

I am NOT, I repeat, NOT, going to snuff out my existence. There is no way, shape or form that I would come to such an end. I know the fear is there based on that which rocked this community in other times. I will not put this community through that again. I will NOT.

I am sad. I am grieving. I have suffered a great loss. It's OK. I'm SUPPOSED to be sad. I am NOT going to get over it with a snap of the fingers. I'm going to seem OK for a while and then, just like that, something will send me rebounding back into the sadness. It is NOT depression. I do NOT need a happy pill to make it all go away. I do NOT need "professional" help. I am NOT crazy. There are those who are well meaning, but suggestions such as this are not helping me. My exhusband was hell bent on proving to anyone who would listen including myself that I was about to go off the deep end and required serious intervention. He was setting me up for a major fall. Mostly what I feel when I hear the well meaning tell me to see a doctor for meds is anger and betrayal. To me, it is like you are taking his side. I am NOT in a depression. I have been there before, I know the symptoms. I am not in denial.

I am going through a very NATURAL process in my own time. This is important. I am going to be sad. I am going to send ridiculously funny pictures to friends out of the blue. I am going to be angry. I am going to appear fine. I am going to be upset again. I am going to be OK. I am going to clench my fists and scream at the stars. I am going to hum with the rising sun. I do not know which way is up. I do not recognize myself. I am in a state of constant confusion. I am restructuring. I build up and then I tear down and build up again. Eventually I'm going to hit on something that FEELS comfortable about my shoulders. I am SUPPOSED to feel this way. It's part of the healing process.

So PLEASE, do not think I will off myself. I am very anti suicide. Hugely so. I am also very anti medication unless absolutely necessary. I am going to be fine eventually, not today. Not tomorrow, and not even the next day. I was with this man for almost twenty years. He pushed me through hell and I am clawing my way back ON MY OWN TERMS. I have never been on my own. I don't know who I am anymore. It is not going to be a quick adjustment. It will probably be another two years on top of the two I have just been through. I would love to say "Don't worry", but I know that won't help. So I will ask that you don't worry so much. HUG ME occasionally. It's OK that I am grieving. It's OK that I am sad. Let me be sad. OK?

I bought Grant Morrison's The Filth, and read it through today. Barely understood what was going on at all. It has not been noded yet, so perhaps if I figure out what it's all about, I can be the first on my block to node it. It has all the workings of a masterpiece, but it deserves more scrutiny than just a once-over reading.

Recurring characters, sexual undertones (and overtones), dirt, smut, filth. I'm trying to wrap my head around this. Also, a cat named Tony, and a horrible identity crisis. Are we what we choose to be, or what others make us? I think The Filth may have that answer, within its tightly woven tapestry.