Where The Wild Things Were

Yesterday I brought you to a familiar place.


I put you in a bear onsie because it was cold outside and I liked the idea of a tiny human masquerading as a fierce beast. You crawled all over; boy of the great outdoors you've always been. Ready to spring forth and sharpen your claws on the world. Endlessly fascinated with everything around you. You are an explorer.

It gets harder for me to look back these days. To try and focus in on moments gone, memories that seem like houses in a dream that I just can't let myself back into, too afraid of what I'll find if I unlock the door.

We played in the leaves like we did before, you laughed like you did before. And, oddly enough, I didn't feel that usual ache of nostalgia. I think I've finally let go of it all, realized that it's better here, now. Living in the moment instead of trying to sneak peeks back into windows with the curtains drawn. It is easier to live this way, to seek out new adventures and make new memories. To be explorers.

We are beasts masquerading as tiny humans.

Sometimes blogging is a cheaper therapy

I've been a bit absent on this blog. It seems like all I can muster is Music Monday posts since music seems to be the only thing that inspires me.

The last month or two have brought a lot of change. There's obviously the divorce, the holidays and then the starting of a new job. Sometimes I feel like I can barely keep up with anything anymore.

I'm tired.
I'm running on borrowed energy and the good will of a few very amazing people that have kept me going through this all.
I'm a bit depressed these days.

I'm also incredibly bitter underneath it all. Something that I've realized fully today after a phone call with my mother that left me unloading a bit of the past resentment on Colleen, who I luckily have to hear me out in my fits of frustration. I didn't realize it until afterward, when I went into my room and let out a sigh and a "I'm so angry". And I am.

When I was married, Greg's family pretty much adopted me as their own and I felt, for the first time, stable in a family. Thankful to be around such wonderful people and even though I felt like the stray, mangy dog they took in out of the kindness of their hearts, I had a place to call home. A home, something that was broken and problem fueled in my life before them.

And now I'm right back there. I feel alone and resentful that my own family doesn't quite get it. That little "cheer ups" or "it'll be okays", seem to suffice after YEARS of not really being there. I feel a bit sad that I feel closer and happier around people who aren't blood, who I'm not related to than people that have known me since I was born. I am thankful for those people, but when you think of your family and the first thought you conjure up is "I'd rather not get into it...", you can't help but feel like something is wrong.


And it is. Everything lately just feels wrong. There are good moments of course, but I feel adrift.

In the meantime I work, I try and be all that I can be for Jack, and I hope, with all my might, that this too shall pass.

Dear Jack

I feel like it's been awhile since I've written one of these. It's not that I've forgotten but mostly it's a lack of words that match what's going on in my head. The dots do not connect, the lines are colored outside of- this seems to be the theme of things lately. We recently celebrated our first Halloween, just you and me. You were Ang from Avatar, which seems to be your favorite show as of late (I miss the Yo Gabba Gabba days. Can we go back to the Yo Gabba Gabba days?). I didn't dress up. It seemed like a challenge to take on another persona when it feels like I have so many to juggle lately. I only wanted to be one thing for the evening anyway- your mother. I've only ever wanted to be your mother, even when I didn't know it.
Things are crazy right now little prince. They are hard and more than anything I want to say "I'm sorry" for all of this. For the split times and different houses. It must all seem weird and I feel it too. I want to give you more and when I'm working with half of more it's difficult to not feel like I made a mistake somewhere. Gambled too hard, leaped before looking. Some would say I've done this before and I have.

And then there was you, and now I gamble in a different way.

I will continue to put it all on the line, fall from heights unknown- for you. And right now even though this all seems like a pain in the ass, fruitless; one day I will be able to look at you and know I did the right thing.

I wish the world was as it was explained to us when I was your age. A tender fairytale where all dragons are slayed and a happily ever after is promised for all. I will be the first to tell you that this is not how it works. It is much more complex, more nuanced, harder to swallow. But in the end real life is better-




Because this is real. And this is worth fighting for, even if the battle is of my own doing.

Eventually little prince, this will all make sense. Eventually you'll know what living true to oneself feels like and I hope you'll understand where I'm coming from.

I love you more than you can fathom.

-Mom



(This song is actually a little piece of why I named you Jack).

Because typing it all out feels like a handful of sand...

Greg and I will be divorcing.




It was a decision we both made for the better (odd to say something so bad is for the better, but it is, for us). I was going to write about it all but it's hard to put out there properly.

We will remain friends. We will still raise Jack together. I'll probably still laugh at him when he records movie ideas into his Droid and I still ask for his opinion sometimes because I respect the hell out of the man, the father of my child.

I wanted to post about it here because it will be a massive change and I'm sure getting used to my life as a single mother will be odd, but that's just it...it is life. Life will move forward; change shapes, ideas, plans, people. And as always, I'll continue to write about it. It's the only way I know.

Jack and the Beanstalk

My son is growing marigolds...


Sometimes he overpours, flooding the tiny seedlings; creating a pool of drifting dirt, streaking the clay pot with water.

"Careful," I warn "you don't want to over-water them."
"Yeah," he says both concerned and yet unflappable. He knows what he's doing. Even if he doesn't, I must let him figure it out on his own. Let him color outside the lines. Let him spill and fall and piss and yell. Sometimes I have to hold my tongue, watch the dirt float to the top. Try again next time.

My son is growing.


It wasn't so long ago that I was growing a seedling of my own.

I wonder if he bites his tongue for me sometimes. Ignores the fact that I cry so easily, curse a little too much, let my head drift a little too far into the atmosphere because sometimes it's afraid of the cold, hard ground.

"Be careful" he says.

We keep each others dirt tended, cared for. And out of our eyes marigolds grow.

Dear Jack,

You are now three. You have been three for three months and three weeks. You like "Cars" and "Kung Fu Panda" and singing. You sing loudly for the world to hear. You sing from your heart and I admire it because I never have. I'm too afraid to sing out loud, to release my voice to the judgement of the world. I hum instead. It's safer.
You ride your tricycle... I'M SORRY! I mean "motorcycle"! You ride your "motorcycle" as fast as you can. Pushing your body forward and stopping just before you slam into something.

"Stop!" I yell. And you look over your shoulder and smile.
"Gotcha, " your eyes laugh.

I drive the speed limit (most of the time) and buckle my seat belt (most of the time). I make car appointments to make sure the brakes are okay and the AC is cool enough to keep your hair from sticking to your head after a long day at preschool. I worry about the brakes and impatient drivers. I worry now.

You want to open doors and help us cook. You like stickers and place them all over the house, taunting the perfectionist in me that would normally pull them off.
"Those are an eyesore!"

But I leave them be. Because you put them there. I don't care what Apartment Therapy says about it. Those tiny fingers picked those stickers off the paper and placed them there. And that's worth more too me.
Things have changed, dearest friend. You are bigger and faster and more bold than before. You are challenging us everyday. We are all growing, us three. Three. You are three...

I'm not sure what I expected out of motherhood. I suppose I expected to be afraid. Some days I am. But most days I'm not. You have made me fearless. A warrior. I know what I want now. I want the world and the stars. I want to give you a place to miss one day. A place to look back on and think "those were the days".

But these are the days. Right now. I'm trying to scrape them together and tuck them safely away because the world moves to fast and I feel like it doesn't understand the delicateness of these moments. I don't think the world understands what this means to me, these hand prints on paper, these marker filled pictures...

By next summer you will be four and I'll be thinking "those were the days." When you loved "Cars" and "Kung Fu Panda". When you liked to open doors and help us cook. When you sang from your soul and your daredevil eyes taunted my caution. When the hand prints on the paper were smaller.

And you were more mine than the worlds.

It's all happening sweet prince. You are growing up so fast. So fast. It's all happening so fast...



"Those were the days..."

The Unbearable Heaviness Of Growing

"Mommy! Mommy! Mommmmmy!"
"OK, fine, you can come in here for a little bit. Five minutes and then it's bed time okay?"
"OK."

I listened to his approaching footsteps, his blanket dragging along, and I KNEW he'd have Panda lovingly head-locked in his arms. Jack curled up between us in the ditch we make from different sleeping patterns—the so-called Equator of Restlessness—as he made it his own. For whatever reason, he laid down by our legs, head hitting my hip, unlike the usual curly hairs tickling my nose, seizing its territory across my pillow.
I stared out the window, watching car lights hit the panes and travel across the walls. We all laid still, silent, calm. As I closed my eyes, a tiny hand reached up and tucked itself in my palm.

Never has this happened before. Jack is very catlike, doling out affection where he sees fit, pushing it away when it comes on too strong. Usually, I wait, watching for holes in his armor, sneaking kisses and cuddles through those holes when I can.

An even deeper silence fell over the room. There, our hands held each other for a mere minute, and then...

"I'm going to go to bed now."
"OK buddy, goodnight."
"Goodnight."

I watched Jack’s head disappear into his room and released the grip that held my chest together, exhaling the fumes of reality through my nose.

My baby is gone.

My baby is now but a mere memory, stored away as jpegs on my hard drive and old clothing folded in the back of the closet.

In less than a week Jack will be three, though I haven't fully accepted this fact. How could I? It seems like only yesterday that I locked him into his car seat for the first time, laying my head against his tiny armrest, gazing at him the entire way home. Both our eyes wet, adjusting to a new world, trying to see things in focus. I cried when a certain song came on. It was too much.

"This is too much. This is so big."

Last night, as his hand left mine, a tiny death occurred inside me. One neither of mourning nor regret, though I knew that moment would be one of the last of its kind. A young child looking for reassurance from his mother, reaching up to make sure she's still there. Reaching up...

He's chasing the world down, ready for more. My place has been reduced from motherly hovercraft and guardian angel to sideline sitter; now merely watching, pushing him on. He won’t need me to hold his hand much longer.

But I'll keep it within reach.

The thing about being happy...

Last Saturday after taking in the Sean Lennon concert, after the band left the stage, after the vodka cranberries had evaporated from the glass and into my bloodstream, I started walking towards 4th Avenue in search of more. More music, more alcohol OR sobriety. There is no in between with me. I must either find my head on a friends couch or in my car, free of the poison under my skin, making my way back home.

There is no in between.

I tucked my hands into the pockets of my black pea coat and listened to my boot heels click and echo on the pavement of an underpass I had passed under countless times in my life. By now comfortable enough in it among the vagabond street bands and the faces that blur past. I recognized one that night. He went to high school with me. A friend of a friend and then a friend of mine. We had made jokes occasionally, shared music and small talk. Our eyes met and the recognition took place awkwardly. We continued walking a few paces until the air of familiarity pulled our shoulders around and made us feel it was okay to make conversation.

"Oh my god! Hey!!"
"Hey! I thought that was you but you looked too happy to be Amanda."
"(giggling) You two are drunk aren't you?"
"Yeah, we live right up the street so why not? What are you up to?"
"Just heading to Che's. Sean Lennon just got done playing Congress. His band is out mingling on the patio right now, you should go catch 'em before they leave."
"Yeah, maybe we will! Have fun!"
"You too!"

And we continued on our paths. Only this time his words hung around my head.

"....you looked too happy to be Amanda."

At first I smiled to myself thinking "god, I must have really been a sad sack in high school". But he's been a friend of mine on Facebook for a couple years now. He'd seen me since high school, even on the superficial level of social networking.

Was I happy? I hadn't really asked myself that before. I just assumed I was when I was and I wasn't when I wasn't. I hadn't thought of it as an entity that could envelope ones disposition enough to be able to call it out in the dark of the night.

There is no in between.

The last six or seven years of my life have been, for lack of a better analogy, a roller coaster. Parent's divorce (after 15 years of constant fighting), recovering cutter (I had poor coping skills when it came to depression), end of a significant relationship, graduating high school, new job, new relationship, unplanned pregnancy...adulthood before 20. I hadn't thought about happiness as a thing that possessed me. I rolled on with life, hopping from one stone to the next, trying to keep my balance, avoiding the fall. I never thought twice about what my face conveyed. Whether my anger pushed people away, whether my hurt drew them in, whether my smile played an active role in my life.

The thing about being in your own world, trying to navigate it as best you can, is that sometimes you forget about the ones floating around you and what they see.

I handed my i.d. to the doorman at Che's and settled into a booth in the back. I ordered a Pepsi, there was no need for anymore alcohol. There was no need to fake it. I smiled and embraced my friends words instead of trying to understand them, analyze them.

It's nice when somebody compliments your outfit, your haircut, your family. But when somebody points out something you didn't think you were carrying with you, that's something different. Invigorating. Validating even. Free of ego and twice as rewarding.


Since last week I've carried those words with me. I found them when I was laying in the bath a day or two ago. When I rolled around the ground with Jack at the park, blowing bubbles in his hair. When I cooked. When I laughed or had something to share.

"...you looked too happy to be Amanda."

I guess I've changed. For once I'm happy about that.

What kind of mother are you?!

I wonder this all the time.

"What kind of mother am I?"

I have been pregnant and I've had a baby. I've raised that baby into toddlerhood and yet...

I feel like I'm not REALLY a mother. Like somebody is going to come in with a degree, a job, a mortgage and take Jack to a land of responsible parenting.

I wonder if I'm fucked up for liking sex and music and clothing. For enjoying wine and staying up late (sometimes). For cursing and wondering too much. Being unsatisfied with routine, finding it to be a shackle instead of something that children need. I heard that somewhere.

When I was pregnant I would have episodes where I'd cry for hours thinking I was going to damage the life that was thriving inside me. I thought that because I wasn't done growing up that my growing pains would effect him, make him hate me for bringing him into a world I'm still trying to figure out how to navigate in and sometimes fight with.

Sometimes I still think this. When I turn on Yo Gabba Gabba to finish a paragraph. When I lose my cool. When I tuck him into bed and kiss him goodnight before slipping my feet into shoes not meant for motherhood and disappearing into the night to meet old friends in old places.

I am torn between being a MOTHER and being myself and combining the two in a decent balance. I feel like I'm getting there...reaching for the surface...finding clarity through the ripples.

I feel alone a lot. But I know that's a joke. I know that the mothers at the playground must all be grappling with the same thing. I have to think that because it will drive me crazy if I don't.

The thing is, in thinking I forgot to read the manual I also forget that there is none. Some days I have the answers and some days I don't. Some days I feel motherly and invincible while other days I wonder who these people are why they're calling me "mom" and "wife".


My name is Amanda. And I'm both.

The Kids Might Be Alright

Today my youngest brother and his first real girlfriend broke up. Secretly my jaded old soul was kind of relieved. "They're teenagers," I said with the gruff tone of somebody who thinks she knows better. "They have so much life to live."

I seem to have lost touch with my heart for a moment. Forgotten or shellacked over holes in my plastic armor. I forgot what it feels like to hang up the phone, indefinitely.

It was the first time I felt like a big sister. There are seven years dividing the two of us. I was always doing my own thing as my brothers sort of grew up together in their own world of boyhood. A world more concerned with asserting their own prepubescent testosterone through the jumping off of roofs, the scraping of elbows and jokes that earned punishments instead of laughter. They knew nothing of my birth control or hidden life of secret parental deceiving . My perpetually locked door kept out any inquiries as to what it was like to be a seventeen-year old girl. My turned up speakers leaking out hormonal disenchantment and a heart too blue to be true from under the door acted as a translator for the alien tongues us boys vs. girls spoke. We had nothing in common but the name and blood we shared and the love that punctuated boughts of sibling torture. And before they evolved out of their baby fat I had already moved out.

When he posted heartsick status updates on Facebook tonight I felt a twinge of pain in so many different ways. I felt bad for him sure but I also felt guilty. I felt guilty for not being there enough. For not counseling him more through our parent's divorce because I was too busy running away from them and finding myself.

"But I was alone for everything," I try to justify.

But it isn't about enduring the pain alone that defines oneself is it? It's about what we do for others in THEIR pain, in their time of need.

And so, I ignored the part of myself that plays the wiser when I know I'm not. I'm just another human being. And I commiserated and listened. And I remembered the day I thought I'd never be happy again and all the songs and angry, hurt lashing out that followed. I spoke honestly and I hoped it helped.

I think kids of divorce perceive love differently. For my brother it was tragedy to see something fall apart because he wanted to be different than my parents, wanted to keep believing in love and holding on to it. For me, well, I'm still trying to work on not seeing every relationship as impending heartache, a broken home; restart at thirty-nine with little to nothing but mouths to feed and hearts to mend.

Cynic or believer, we had both had a broken heart. And now we had something in common.

I sent him a text before bed and I reminded him that life goes on. That experiences that he won't even be able to perceive yet will happen. That people are good. That yes, yes, you'll probably be depressed for awhile but one day you won't and things will be different. And that I loved him.

Even if he didn't love anybody, or feel loved, tonight.

Oh, the places you don't know you'll go

This weekend was a doozy. Saturday snowballed into a gigantic clusterfuck. We got all our Christmas shopping done in about 3 hours (most of that time spent commuting to and from downtown) so I thought we were on a roll. Until night came and with it a spousal spat so unnerving I decided to pick up some milk we needed right then and there so I could diffuse. We needed some time apart to recompose and come back to more level headedness and indoor voices. On my way there I got a phone call from a friend which led me to sit in my car in the parking lot of Fry's for half an hour pretty much bawling. I became a snot filled mess. I was having "a moment", if you will. I just couldn't freaking stop.

As Dane Cook (who isn't even my favorite comedian) would say-


When I cry my nose runs non-stop, my eyes swell like I've come down with a shellfish allergy and my lips puff up into this pathetic Angelina Jolie imitation. So it was safe to say I walked into Fry's Food and Drug looking a little off to the staff. Something about my sudden presence in the wine section looking like a defeated boxer made all adjacent shoppers look at me with this pity that was palpable. The conveyor belt pushed my sadfuck treats (ice cream sandwiches and pinot grigio, and our milk/excuse to leave an arguement) closer to the cashier and the bagger double bagged my milk (something NOBODY ever does, but it really comes in handy when you live on the second story set of apartments) and smiled at me and I swear I wanted to open mouth kiss this kid. It was the kindest thing I had encountered all day and I wanted to cry more because of it.

When I got home the fight had diffused. We talked and I drank two glasses of wine and watched Breaking Bad.

Sunday my mom called me and said my uncle isn't doing too well. He had a stroke over the last couple years that left him in a wheelchair and stole the wind from his sails. This man was one of my favorite people in the world. He was endlessly funny and when I was depressed I'd read these old letters he wrote my mom when he moved out of their parent's house and I'd find myself laughing until it hurt. Even my friends at school were soon throwing "Uncle Mike-isms" into our jokes and conversations. He still made me laugh after the stroke but something was off. Something in him was taken away and that killed me and a lot of my family. I haven't seen him since I got married May of '09 and before that I hadn't seen him in years. And now, there's the prospect of me not seeing him ever again. A little bit of laughter gone from my life, my family, permanently.

Sunday night my aunt-in-law and grandmother-in-law had us over for dinner and it felt normal and I even enjoyed it, but inside I knew my heart was all over the place. Upset, hurt, trying to find the positive and failing.

Sometimes change happens too fast, sometimes too painful. But I hope that it's for the best, I hope that I can find the open doors after the others close. I'll leave the light on.

Play date prejudiced

Maybe it's bitchy of me but I hate the idea of play dates. This is a timely subject for me as the husband has taken a large interest in Jack's social development, because if left up to me there would be absolutely no play dates scheduled, you know, because of the aforementioned play date loathing. And here's why-

1. I hate play dates because of the inorganic way they're brought about. Back in the day, back when I was a kid (wow, I really just used that sentence) we went outside and made friends the old fashioned way- by accidentally hitting them in the head with a ball or saying you liked their Keds. WE made our own play dates. We got into a little innocent trouble, we made our own myths and sought out legends in the park. We built cities before the street lights came on without the assistance of parental units.

2. To me play dates usually only lead to two things- hour long minutes of judging other peoples parenting styles and inane conversation. And I'm usually too sarcastic or perverse for both of those activities.

"Is he potty trained yet?"
"About as much as a drunk uncle."

"Is he reading by himself?"
"Reading?! The damn child is a genius! He's writing his thesis on biomedical engineering* this spring."

"What is he into?"
"Masochism."

And the thing is, if I DON'T answer things this way, I want to blow my brains out due to boredom. Because what I'm really thinking is "are you REALLY thinking this conversation is interesting?"
And if it isn't about your kid, it's your husband, your job, your car, your food, all topics with an undercurrent of judgement. And since I'm pretty open, since I'll openly say what is going on in my life without any shame, I'm usually an easy target. My "bravery" (if you'd even call it that) quickly becomes my weakness.


We'll see I suppose. Greg has scheduled a play date for Jack with a girl he works with and her son on Saturday. And I'll try and not fidget, say "fuck" out loud and such.

The only child in this play date will likely be me.


The things I do for this face...


* You never know, his dad did after all. I married a damn smart cookie. He's the brains and I'm...the ruckus starter of the family.

Everybody wants to rule the world...

Everyone it seems, is having babies. Its like once you have one, after they pull the kid out, they implant a homing device that makes you pick up the newly 'with child' within a statewide radius. Everybody excited and scared. I see them and though I am super stoked for their impending child, all the love that they'll suddenly face in a short nine months, love they've never fathomed, I get this weird feeling.

Some, I suppose, would call it melancholy, or a 'longing for days past'. I personally wouldn't call it either since I'm not quite sure what it is. I certainly don't wan't to 'go back'. I'm more content with who I am than I ever was, I have all these amazing people around me, I'm feeling fine.


But.


BUT.

There are times when I look at someone I knew in high school and read the expectant look on their face, and instead of wanting to extend my hand and pat their belly, feel their future, suddenly I think of being in high school again.

I think of what I wore, the feeling and textures of it all (lots of black and the texture of the canvas from the Converse on my feet), the weather and friends and the fair-weather friends. The smells and sounds (chips and the Pixies). The secrets and the thoughts (that could be a cool c.d. title). All these things I wish I had collected and put in a scrapbook to look at when the feeling struck. Just to laugh. Just to feel again.

I'd keep notes in the creases.

Sam,

So should we jump this bitch and go downtown?

Love,
Me

I'd keep the flowers we plucked when we explored washes after the inhilation of perfectly rolled joints.

I'd keep the pictures of our faces huddled together, smiling, thinking 'forever'.

Because forever, when you're young, is always possible.

Because you don't fight over finances with your high school boyfriend or sleep together every night. And you certainly don't have babies and in-laws with them (or maybe you do).

But you have the young love. The stealing of their boxers to wear when they can't be around. The songs serenaded or put on a mix. "This reminds me of you". Phone calls and waiting for buses together.

Ephereal.

I'd put the poems I wrote. Just to laugh.

I'd spray the pages with my perfume I wore daily (actually a mens cologne called 'Jack'....concidence?).

I'd put a picture of my family all together for the last time.

When you grow up everything changes. You forget when you take on new responsibilities. New roles in life. Divorce happens and babies happen. Debt happens and marriage happens. You get angry for real reasons. You cry and fight and sometimes you curse the day you entered the real world.

But its all beautiful. Everything.

Even when the sheets are stolen from under you in your sleep and you wake up with cold feet.

I love my life right now, as it is. With my boy and my man. Our dynamic trio. My family (the more you say it the less scary it sounds). But sometimes I can't help but hear a song or smell that smell and then that feeling in my stomach explodes all over again and I smile or laugh or think.

I don't live in the past, but sometimes it certainly finds a way to come back, cover your eyes when your not looking and say "guess who?!"

I feel this every time my son pulls my ponytail and laughs.

Everything In Its Right Place...

or not.

I have come to realize that I must accept all people. Accept them of their flaws, embrace them for their better attributes. But its not easy. Good lawdy it's not easy.
I'm not much of a 'people person' as it is. I'm more of a misanthrope than an optimist of the evolved ape. I expect the worst, hope to be delightfully surprised, and usually end up crying in my zinfindale. Like last night for instance. I was once again disappointed by the ways and reasons of people. Angry and shaken I took up chain smoking and wine in a cup for the night (it was no time for finer stemware so a glass cup was more fitting).
And I thought.
Perhaps it's because I was forced to grow up fast. By my senior year of high school I had a divorce, death, break-up and a new full time job all within the same month. I worked and saved up for my own car and bought it in full by myself. I helped my jobless at the time father raise my two little brothers after my mother moved out to go live with her old high school boyfriend. And five months after my 19th birthday I found out I would become a parent, and so I was, one week after my 20th birthday. I have moved about six times in less than a year, and watched my childhood home be foreclosed. Yes, the last two years have been tiresome, relentless and at times enlightening.
I'm not saying enduring any of this makes me better than anyone else. People have certainly endured worse. But it has altered me. Built character and perseverance.
Yet when I look around at my generation, I can't help but feel lost in a sea of people who constantly search for the easy way out, feel entitled to everything, and complain when it isn't to their standards. They refuse to see the bigger picture. They close their eyes and talk, get sucked up in petty college/high school/work/life politics, read the fear in the newspapers and watch it on the news, and at the end of the day after all the bombardment of social garbage they absorb, they feel like shit and want nothing more than to spew it onto the next person. Infect them so they're not alone. If you get trapped into it, the vicious circle continues.
Last night I let anger and pettiness writhe its way in my body and destroy my outlook on people once again. Silently thinking of terrible things I could say or write or do. Talking to myself and saying "you knew it all along didn't ya?! People ARE really seedy little fucktards! HA!" As my brain raged my heart sank and a little voice in it (perhaps my conscience or soul) told me not to give up.
Not again. Not now. Let it go. Let it go. Let it go.
I'm still trying to let it go. To be kind without feeling like a doormat. To be assertive without being a bitch. To do things for others without expecting even the slightest gratitude, and when that happens, killing the urge to completely write them off. I'm still trying to accept. I'm still trying to hope.I'm not making much progress with it just yet, but I feel I will one day.
And when I do something will finally feel sacred.





"One day I am gonna grow wings/ A chemical reaction/hysterical and useless."