He who sees, but is not seen

My dad’s gone again. This delights me. I was doing so good for myself, and when he came home, it was like some kind of Pavlovian response. I collapsed like a house with no cross-beams, and of course I was a wreck (I apologise, so much, for that. A rewind button would be great, but we have to learn to fix what goes wrong).

My father was gone less than 14 hours when I really started to feel the effects. I was… happier. I was upbeat. I was optimistic. The shit that would have bothered me yesterday barely made a ripple.

No, it’s not that it didn’t make a ripple. It’s how I chose to deal with it that made it seem so less. It’s the attitude I’m taking into this fight that’s making everything seem so different.

Again, no. Not different. The same. The same as it was before this shit started happening.

I don’t know. I mean, not just with the situation, but with everything. Life doesn’t seem as bleak.

Does my father really effect me that much? I’m a little upset that he does, that I let him and his shit get to me the way it does.

I wish I was stronger.

I need a sign.

I’m hesitant to even write it here, but I’m fairly certain you don’t read my blog much at all anymore, so here it goes.

I see this opportunity as just that; an opportunity. A chance to see you more often, a chance to prove to you that all is not lost.

I’m pretty sure you still have feelings for me. Strong feelings, that you don’t want to admit to for whatever reason. Perhaps you don’t want to get my hopes up. I don’t know… I don’t know.

It’s an offchance. It’s nothing more than an offchance… but what kind of hopeless romantic would I be if I let my hopes and dreams fade?

You wanted to know my second Christmas wish? It came true; another day where I could feel it; another day where your feelings showed.

I know it’s there… and I will wait. Always know, though, I’m always here. I’m your companion cube.

I can feel them. The thoughts, the dark thoughts, the obsessive-compulsion, the depression, the cynicism and self-defeatism. Like an army of demons, circling around in my mind. Pushing at the walls I’ve built.

They’re trying really hard to bring me down. I won’t let them. I refuse to let them. My mind will stay strong and I will keep pushing forward.

I can do this… I know I can. I have before, I can do it again…

no one should ever have to give up the one thing that makes them happy.

Damn you music and your fucking poignancy like all the time.

There is a term I learned recently, pareidolia. It’s a pyschological phenomenon in which people often place unneccessary significance into random stimulus (most commonly, faces in everyday objects [you try and tell me that electrical outlet doesn't look snarky]).

While not technically the same thing, I think it applies to me in this case; tagging significance to unrelated events (namely, song lyrics.)

Any person reading a normal list of symptoms will feel they fit them all.

In the movie Magnolia, a rain of frogs near the end is often debated in cinematic circles; a metaphor, perhaps? An allegory? No, but it fits in nicely with the theme of the movie.

Not everything is connected. There are such things as coincidences. Some things just happen without there being a deeper meaning.

I’m not entirely sure where I’m going with this. It started with my perceived poignancy of the lyrics to Weezer’s El Scorcho, and ended with me discussing perceived poignancy.

How do we know when a horse is just a horse?

I don’t really understand why you felt the need to message me saying ‘o hai we reads ur blogz’. What I write is not intended to incite reaction in any particular person.

The things I say here are the product of sleepless nights and lonely thoughts. What I write is exactly that; for me. I couldn’t give any less of a flying fuck what you thought of it, or me.

The fact that you felt it neccessary to make a juvenile, immature, insepid, one-dimensional, empty-headed comment towards it just goes to prove every point I’ve been trying to make recently.

Jill:
Hey, we’re over, get it? Everything that happened with you and I, that’s in the past and I, like a normal, decent human being, have moved on. Why are you incapable of doing that? Is it not good enough to let by-gones be by-gones? Is there still some shred of something there that prompts you to go through my things, i.e. my blog? I’ve moved on; so can you.

Martha:
I’ve expected more from you. You’re a great kid, you have a lot of potential despite the hand you’ve been given to play with. If this is how you spend your time, doing things like this with people like Jill, that just disappoints me. You’re going down that road, Martha, the one I never expected you, of all people, to go down. You’re turning into everyone else, kid.

Both of you?

Fuck off and die.

I don’t get you. I can’t forget what you’ve forgotten all along.

I’m not entirely sure what I want to write. I mean, yeah, there’s a bunch of stuff in my head that I want to say, that I want to put out and have people know… but it goes completely against everything if I do.

What is there to say? If I don’t say that, then updating really has no point.

I guess I’m getting more comfortable and relaxed… better at letting things go. Better at not letting things that bother me really show. Better at stopping myself from saying things that shouldn’t be said.

Over the last several days, there are many many things I’ve almost said that at the time was something I thought should be said. But I’ve gotten good at saying ‘nope, stop, nope this isn’t something that needs to be said.’

I don’t know. Whatever.

I remember about a month ago I posted a blog about how things were going to get hard for a bit. And they did. And I think I’m coming out of that now, back to where I was when I started at H-Vid. And I think people are seeing that. I think… I’m doing better. I made it through that depression Hell and I’m fine. Not unscathed, but I’m alive. The things that would have crushed my mood for days on end now just glide over me (not unnoticed, they still bug me, but I’m good at letting these things go now).

I’m playing with the hand I have. For a while, I wanted more. I thought I needed more to prove myself, needed more time, needed to see people more for them to see. But no, I have a certain amount of time, and that’s the time I’m going to use. If I focus on wanting more, I squander the time I have. And I’m good at that. I’ve learned all my mistakes and finished the correction process. Analysis? I’ve seen what I did wrong, and I’ve corrected it. And I think I’m not the only one who sees it. This is a good thing. It’s a great thing. Things might start going my way if I can keep this up. Which I can; just have to not let myself get sucked back into that Hell.

What a roundabout way of saying all the things I wasn’t gonna. At least I was vague XD

I have a nickel with a hole in it. As to why, that answer escapes me. One night, at three in the morning, a little inebriated and lonely, I saw a nickel on my desk and thought to myself ‘that would benefit from a hole in it’. And so I took it into the garage, and drilled a hole in it. I carefully shaped it with a handheld dremel, polished it with compound and a polisher, sanded it by hand.

I don’t know why. It has no intended purpose. It merely is, to exist as a nickel with a hole in it. It has no purpose whatsoever.

Is it bizarre that I feel a strange kindredship to it? I clutch it wherever I go now, keep it in my wallet. Rub it when I’m stressed. I feel more connected to this nickel with a hole in it than with anyone who calls themselves my friend.

It is there when it is called upon. It is comforting. It is reassuring. It does what it can for me and expects nothing in return.

An allegory? A metaphor? I don’t know.

Am I just a nickel with a hole in it?

Sick and fucking disgusting

Tl;dr: In Queensland, Australia, a 10 year old girl was gang-raped by 6 men, one of whom was 26 years old (and already a convicted sex offender for having done this before). The judge overturned all prosecution because her idea was that “the girl probably agreed” to the sex.

I am sick and tired of people. I am sick and tired of all of this bullshit worldly affairs, all these fucking wars, sexism, bigotry, racism. I renounce the world. I am no longer a part of it. I am on this world, but not of it.

Fuck you all.

I hate fucking trying and failing.

Why can’t anything ever just go my way? Why do I just have to fucking lose everything?

Why can’t I ever just be happy? It’s like I’m given this opportunity to take it, to be truly fucking happy. And then it gets taken away.

Why can’t I get what I want once?

Fuck, I can’t even really say how I feel without you asses thinking I’m just being emo.

I am crushed. I am devastated. Everything I’ve worked for has come tumbling down around my feet. I had something. I <i>had</i> it. It was amazing. It was great. We were happy. And now it’s gone. It’s fucking gone and I’ll never fucking get it back.

My heart hurts. My heart literally hurts. I can feel it, beating stolidly in my chest, in weak protest. My lungs feel smaller… I can’t breathe right.

Everything is less colorful. Food has no taste. Every song that’s ever meant anything to me is some sick perversion of itself. Nothing has purpose or point.

Yeah, whatever, I know exactly what you’re going to think. ‘Quit being an emo pussy, you’ll get over it. You shouldn’t let someone like me do this to you.’I don’t fucking care. You know how much I care for you… I think it’s fair that I get some bereavement time.

I’m so… just fucking bitter. And angry. And completely crushed.

I hate whiskey. It makes me want to vomit. But it’s strong and it’s all I’ve got anymore.

I’ve fought back tears all day. Because you’ve become just another.

You were so different from everyone else. You were so… amazing. You were everything I ever wanted. Still want.

But now you’re just another in a line of heartbreaks. I’m shaking. I’ve been shaking. I don’t care about much anymore. I retreat into the upturned end of a bottle because I have no where else to fucking go because the only person I can fucking go to with something like this is you.

And now you’re gone.

I hurt everywhere. Physically, emotionally… I just want to fall asleep until I forget everything. I want to flip a switch in my head that shuts off my feeling so as I’m doing this, I can get over you. I can get over you.

I can’t. I can’t get over you.

Kill me.

who would’ve thought the best advice I could ever get not only comes from a girl across the country, but also from a movie I’ve seen three times already.

<i>just relax…