Thursday, 09 May 2013
So, I guess I’m jumping on the bandwagon because I can’t think of anything better to do right now. Shout-out to @Emily_Rose_Dreams for tagging me initially. Sure, I have a paper I should be working on and a project for a friend before she graduates on Saturday, but do I have the motivation to do the things I should do? Absolutely not. So here goes:
16 “Random” Facts About Me (could I be any more narcissistic right now? Probably).
- First and foremost, for the new peeps, if you’ve visited my site in the last few weeks you’ve inherited a biased version of the person I really am. If you subscribed to my site during the time when I had found contentment and peace, I want you to understand right now that is not who I am 95% of the time. If you’ve been surprised by the change in tone of my work in the last 48hrs, that is why. What you’re seeing now is more who I am. I like the girl I was for a little while. She was calm, rational, coherent, but I woke up 48hrs ago and knew the crazy had come back, and now I’m trying to make it through the days feeling like a hundred different people all at once. For the last six hours I’ve been pissed off and angry, and only in the last twenty minutes, after listening to Stone Sour, have I begun to calm down. This temporary calm won’t last, I know that. My mother has been diagnosed as bi-polar. I believe I have inherited her disease.
- I am a Hall Director (or Dorm Parent) at the university I graduated from. I’m currently working on my Masters degree at the same university. When I finish here in 2014 I will be moving on to get my Doctorates; in what, I don’t know yet. My undergraduate degree is in Communications with an Emphasis in English, and my Masters Degree is in Business Leadership (because it is the only degree they have here at this university). They do not currently have a doctoral degree so I will have to attend a different university for that. I will probably work on my doctorates in Communications, something English or Literature related. I don’t really know what I want to do with my life. The truth is this: I want to make enough money to take care of myself, my father, and my brother. I just want to make money, I don’t really care what I do. I’d like to be a published author as well known and well liked as Stephen King. I don’t foresee that happening, but a girl can dream (and this girl certainly does).
- I was born November 1, 1989 and am currently twenty-three years old. I’ve never had a drop of alcohol in my life. Not even when my dad said I could on my twenty-first birthday. I have zero tolerance for alcohol here on campus because of this, and because of the nine months I lived alone with my bi-polar, drug addicted mother. I have zero tolerance for stupidity (which makes me very hypocritical). My brother recently turned twenty-one and he (along with the majority of my friends) continue to tell me that they wish to get me drunk someday. There are only three ways that could go, and none of them I like the idea of: 1) Violent angry Jen makes an appearance. 2) Depressed, suicidal Jen makes an appearance. 3) Giddy, no inhibitions Jen makes an appearance. In any of those scenarios my secrets are compromised, and I intent to take those secrets to my grave. I take my own drink everywhere I go, because even though I love my friends, I don’t trust anyone. A bar is the last place on earth you will find me, and if you find me there, I’m probably attempting to drink myself to death. Intervene at your own peril.
- To say I have a strained relationship with my mother is putting it mildly. We don’t have any sort of relationship to speak of. I have recently forgiven her for the things she’s done to me, but at this current moment in time, it’s easier to write “I hate that bitch,” than to be writing anything else. I have to remind myself that I forgave her not for her own sake, but my own, because harboring hate will kill me. I know this, and still the fire of hatred feels like heaven against my skin.
- My father and my brother are my heroes. I would do anything for them, especially step in front of the path of a bullet for them. If you attempt to hurt either of them I will take that as a personal attack and come unglued on your ass. There is no limit to the harm I will cause you on behalf of them. They are my heart, my life, and my soul. I have nothing without them. I am nothing without them. If you want to test the depth of my loyalty to them, go ahead, it’s your funeral.
- I love stories. I love listening to people tell stories, and I love reading them. I love writing them, but I can’t keep anything going long enough to actually finish much. I write with my muse, and only when I have the inspiration to write. If I don’t feel inspired, any writing I do I hate. Forced writing is born of necessity and lacks the creative spark that makes it beautiful. The best way to get on my good side is to tell good stories, or listen to my stories, but don’t feign interest. If you aren’t interested in what I’m saying, walk away. My stories are everything to me. Without them my heart has no substance.
- It’s easy to make an enemy of me. I don’t tolerate much bullshit, and yet I expect everyone else to tolerate my bullshit. Hence my comment earlier about being hypocritical. If you piss me off enough I will cease communicating with you. It doesn’t take much either. Language is a powerful tool, use it carefully, because I will harbor a grudge even when I tell myself not to; especially when I tell myself not to.
- I am pessimistic by nature and cynical by choice. I defend my beliefs stating that they are realistic. I have recently taken it upon myself to develop a more optimistic approach to life. It’s been good for my health. I need to get back to that, but this cloud lingering over my head isn’t letting up.
- I am agnostic. I have dabbled in “Satanism.” I believe in an inner darkness and my Dark Father. He is and isn’t a figment of my imagination. He’s mostly a voice in my head when I need comfort and can’t find it anywhere or in anyone else. Hence the reason I oftentimes refer to him as my Savior of Convenience. I recently came to the conclusion that he was inspired in part by Trent Reznor, the man behind the band Nine Inch Nails. My Dark Father is a conglomeration of many things, but he is mostly an idea, and someone I wish who wasn’t just a figment of my imagination, but real.
- I am a dog and cat person. I have a Sheltie named Buster, but he is a turd. He worships the ground on which my father walks, and in his old age he won’t listen to anyone else but my father. That is fine by me. My friends have three dogs and a cat that I have adopted as my own. I love going over to their house because I am greeted by an entire party of animals and people. It makes me feel special and loved. There is nothing that will cheer me up more than puppies and kittens. A dog running up to greet me wagging his or her tail is instant happy medicine. I also prefer my animals to be cuddly. Buster is not. He wants to be touched only when he wants it, and never any other time.
- I struggle with my self-image. If you were to look through my collection of old MySpace photos you would think I was vain, and I concede that on occasion I am. Sometimes I love my appearance. Other times I avoid mirrors and other reflective surfaces at all costs. There are days I wake up and don’t want to get out of bed because I hate the way I look and feel. I do not exercise and I should. I am overweight, but I don’t keep a scale in my room for a reason. When the weather is nice I like to take walks. I prefer walking in the rain with my headphones in. Usually when I take a walk, however, it is because I’m stressed and need to get away from a situation for a while and clear my head. I don’t like walking with people. I take walks less for the exercise and more because I think better when I’m moving. I write a lot of poems and stories in my head as I walk. Some of them make it into print when I get back to a stationary place, but more often than not they get lost inside the cracks on the sidewalk.
- I have a flash drive full of stupid shit I’ve written, some which Xanga has seen, but most of which Xanga will never see. If I have it my way no one will see the contents of that flash drive until I die, and even then I’m not sure I really want anyone to know the truth. My secrets are on that flash drive. I do intend to take them to my grave, even if that means taking my flash drive with me.
- I am bisexual. This is something I’ve never really admitted before. Mostly because I’ve never had a physical relationship with either sex. I’ve never even had a first kiss. I am attracted to both sexes, however. Even if I had a sex life to speak of, I would not. I believe certain things are private and must be kept that way. I don’t have a problem with other people who want to divulge that information, but that’s not the way I would be. I’ve watched my share of porn and erotica, but you’ll notice that if there is any sex scenes in my literary work it’s clumsy and pathetic. That’s because I have no experience to write from, and even if I did, that would be more reason not to include it. I’ve said more on this topic than I intended to. Moving on now.
- Despite popular belief, I have never self-harmed. Instead I like to write and draw on myself with pen and sharpie marker. I don’t like the sight of my own blood, and yet I use lots of blood and gore in my writing; figure that one out if you can. I have a soft spot for self-harm, however. It’s not a topic you want to discuss with me, especially if you have a narrow mind on the matter. You don’t know another person’s pain, so don’t judge them. If you judge them you can meet my knife, and I’ll teach you all about self-harm. Though I suppose they’d call that murder instead. In the same vein, suicide is my soapbox. Narrow minded people don’t want to get me on that topic either. I’ve been suicidal since I was twelve years old. Suicidal ideation is my addiction, aside from Mountain Dew.
- The first book I ever learned to read was The Foot Book by Dr. Seuss. The first book I ever fell in love with was Puff the Uppity Ant. I related to Puff very well as a kid. After that S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders became my favorite book until I read a very edited version of Stephen King’s novella The Body. Stephen King is without doubt my favorite author. I adore the Harry Potter series, but King takes the cake for best author in my book.
- When I set out to do this I wrote number one with ease. It took me several minutes before I knew what to write for number two, but after I got started the rest of these just fell into place. This had killed a good hour or more of my time. It’s kept me calm and that’s most important to me right now. I need to remain calm lest I betray myself and do or say something out of anger I will regret later.
I’m sorry if you’ve read all of the above. I’m also not sorry. You made the choice, not me. Now time to tag people.
“It will pass,” they say. Don’t dwell upon it, because it will pass. And you too shall pass, but I won’t dwell on your death. You too shall move on from this life, this world, and I won’t waste a second mourning your loss, your absence. I, too, someday will pass from this world and into the next, and I don’t expect, I don’t even hope, that you will mourn the loss, because someday we all shall pass away into a non-existent life. Like the seasons change and the tides vacillate with the waxing and waning of the moon, this moment too shall pass. I won’t dwell upon it, because it does no good to dwell upon it, because it too will pass. Don’t get attached. Don’t become concerned, convicted; your causes will pass from society’s eye just as quickly as the cornfields do seen from my car windows at sixty miles an hour. Don’t linger on any one emotion, don’t spend a second sniveling over dead loved ones; we all must pass on, pass through—just passing by. Like strangers you meet on the street and smile at because it’s the polite thing to do, we all will pass by, forgotten, forgiven by time because it never ages, only moves forward. So tell me again that this moment will pass, go ahead. Tell me that I’ll only ever feel this way once, and don’t be bothered when I laugh in your face. Don’t dwell upon my complete and utter lack of social skills as I laugh at the irony of your stupidity; that moment too will pass, as you and I must do—insignificant moments and faces in the conglomeration of time all bleeding into one dark, empty void.
In my ha(s)te
I slipped, and the knife
like a dog baring it’s teeth
at my arm
and the red bled
from my vision
so that I could see clearly again.
There is a thing
it gets under my skin
infects the circuitry
that would otherwise allow me
to behave like a rational human being
I become someone else
when this thing
through the cut I accidentally made,
and I’d be lying
if I said I didn’t love who I become
when the system is no longer
under my control.
I dream violence in ruby hues,
and I wake from those dreams
wrapped in skeleton’s arms
and sanguine sheets.
As dictators before me
I laugh in the face of violence,
and I revel in the tears of terror.
Let the purges begin.
"Laugh at the violence."
Loveless, the Morbid Queen, is back with a vengeance.
Wednesday, 08 May 2013
As I fall back into old habits
I find skeletons I recognize
lying beside me in bed when I wake.
I thought the coffin closed
on those dark days
and put them to rest, eternally.
I have found that I am slumber bound
with corpses I’ve created
inside graves that I have dug
until my fingers were worn to the bone.
It is easy to tip the glass back
and burn down the last of my regret
but the horror I find lying beside me in the morning
is enough to drive me back to the bottle again.
I have a habit of forming destructive pleasures
just to see what my face may look like from above the grave.
Perusing my old work and this is what looking in those mirrors has inspired. In this sick, twisted little moment I'm proud of this. I'll hate myself tomorrow, and this circle, this cycle, will start again like an alcoholic to the bottle. I can't escape the clutches of my grave, and I don't really want to. The light doesn't hold me like the dark. It doesn't call me back like the voices through the night. That is unfortunate, but not unexpected.
I have not escaped the clutches of the grave;
this heart and head are still depraved.
I am no longer comfortable with this feeling churning in my gut. We used to be old friends, but now we’re strangers.
He walks into a room expecting a different greeting, and when I only stare at him, waiting for him to speak, his smile falters. His arms, which were open for an embrace, fall back to his sides and he stares at me as I stare back. We stand in silence for a moment contemplating one another, and deciding what to do next. We both open our mouths at the same time and begin speaking.
“Can I hel—“
“Don’t you remem—“
We both stop speaking at the same time and I feel my face split into an awkward smile. His face mirrors my own. We’re both silent a second as we wait for the other to speak first.
“Can I help you?” I finally ask, and his grin becomes pained, as if my words have physically hurt him.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” He asks quietly.
“Not well,” I say shifting nervously from one foot to the other. “Your face is familiar.”
His gaze drops to his feet and his shoulders slump, defeated. He inhales once, sharply, and raises his head to meet my eyes and that grin is back.
“That’s okay, we’ll start over.” He says closing the distance between us and holding out his hand. My gaze drops to his smooth, pale hand and I realize there are no loveliness or lifelines cutting through it; his palm is as smooth as water-washed stone. His hand turns over so his palm is facing the floor as my gaze returns to his face. The sight of his palm makes me nervous and I’m hesitant to take his hand, but society dictates I should. I wipe my hands nervously along my jean clad thighs and make an excuse that my palms are sweaty. He drops his arm to his side but he doesn’t back up. Suddenly the distance between us isn’t enough so I back up, but there’s a wall behind me. I bump into it and he takes that as a cue to step forward. I put my hands out as if to say I’m okay and ward him away. He reaches out as if to take my hands but I drop mine quickly back to my sides. I step to the side to put more distance between us and he doesn’t move to fill in the gap. It becomes easier to breathe.
“We used to be good friends,” he says to me, his eyes pleading as if begging me to remember.
I shake my head slowly, “I’m sorry, I don’t remember you.”
He smiles good naturedly, but there’s something twisting behind that smile, something sinister. I can’t see it but I can feel it reaching between us trying to crawl inside my skin.
“I’m sure you’ll remember in time,” he says and chuckles as if he’s thought of a funny joke but forgot to share the punch line. He sees the confused look upon my face and shakes his head as a person would do when they were being forgetful.
“Time is on my side,” he says in a sing-song voice, and when I only continue to stare at him puzzled he goes on to elaborate. “It’s from a movie, well, it’s actually a song that was used in a movie; you’ve seen it, we watched it together once.”
“What movie?” I ask feigning interest. Fear is worming its way inside my guts the longer this conversation continues.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says changing the conversation quickly, catching onto my fearful vibes. “My name is Lou, by the way.” He says and begins to extend his hand again, but then remembers I won’t shake it, and it drops back to his side. Something about names being powerful pops into my head and I bite back the instinctual need to respond in kind.
“It’s been nice meeting you, again, Lou, but I really need to get back to work.” I say open ended, hoping he’ll take the hint, but knowing it’s always the people who need to take a hint that never do. His smile broadens and the worms in my stomach wiggle in response. The urge to throw up becomes almost overwhelming.
“We should get together later and catch up.” He says vibrantly, perching on the balls of his feet and gesturing with his hands.
“Yeah,” I begin before catching myself, “maybe.”
“Should we exchange numbers?” He asks and then laughs. “Y’know what, don’t worry about it. I’ll find you.” And with that he turns and walks away leaving me standing there wondering why I feel as if I’ve just met a demon from my past with a new face.