Inching Towards Daylight

Hello, blogosphere.

Happy Thursday to y’all. I’m rather impressed with myself today – out of bed before one, showered before two, smoothie in my tummy for sustenance, a handful more resumes fired off to potential employers. I feel a fuckload more productive today than I did yesterday…which isn’t saying that much considering that yesterday was a complete and utter waste. Regardless, up before one. Baby steps. I can only hope that tonight I’ll actually get some damn sleep – last night was another exercise in futility and slumber. As I sat there, for hours on end watching Weeds and drinking endless cups  of chamomile tea, I kept asking myself one question:

Not sure why there’s a superfluous hashtag but that’s the resounding question in my head.

Anywhore. I’m currently holed up on the couch (yet again) talking to Dee (and Baby Dee, who is adorable as all hell and has learned to say “HAIIIIII ABTIE MEEDDD” (translation: “Hi Auntie Mia!”), which melts my wee heart into a pile of goo) and cuddling with Mister Visa. I feel both useless and perfect from where I sit  at the moment – useless, in that I’m not contributing to society or anything by being depressed and sitting on my ass and crying and whatever – and perfect, in that I feel like I’m feeding my soul by just allowing myself some quiet time to think and mull over my thoughts and heal and whatever. Maybe this isn’t the optimal way to heal one’s head an one’s heart – perhaps I should join the yoga-doing, hair-straightening, green-juice-drinking uber health nutty hipster bitches – but then, I’d have to swallow my hatred for that crowd (along with some nasty as fuck kale smoothie), and for some reason, I have the nagging feeling that the whole thing would prove counter-productive. So, for now, it’s pyjamas, old school hip hop, and randomly bursting into tears in the comfort of my own home.

…which is incredibly difficult to explain to the general public. “No, I’m not crying for no reason at all, I’m crying because I’m dealing with repressed memories, PTSD, and an unfair dismissal from my last job. Did I mention that it’s a month until Christmas, and all the forced cheer surrounding me makes me murderous with rage?” So, I’m electing to stay at home for now, at least.

Anyways. Dee had to go, so now I’ve got Kurt (Cobain, that is. Nirvana’s “Unplugged in New York” is still my ‘I feel like crap’ soundtrack) keeping me company, and the heater on. My toes are frozen. It’s still earlier than I’d thought it was, maybe I’ll dig out my list of freewriting prompts and get some work done on the book. This week, I got fuck all done towards writing my first draft. My bad. Next week, I’m dedicating to actually getting out of bed when Vega does, firing off resumes, and seriously  attacking the task ahead of me. I have so much to say that sometimes the sheer volume of things I have yet to put to paper freaks me out and shuts me down. Luckily for me, until I get a call back for a job, I have infinite amounts of time, the world’s most precious and fleeting commodity, at my very capable fingertips. I just have to make the time I spend writing my book productive. Hell, maybe I’ll bring my notebook with me when I go pick up my severance on Monday and go devote a few hours to the book. at HABIT. After I cash my cheque.

I so look forward to the day when I can type these two little words with definite finality.

I really don’t know what all else to say. Nothing’s changed, really, because I haven’t done anything to effect change this week (besides fire off resume after resume….pleeeeeease call me back?!). I’m cold and tired and fighting the unrelenting urge to sleep the rest of the day away. I want coffee but don’t want to bother with cleaning the pot we use both for making rice and boiling water. Hmm. One of the worst feelings in the world are cold drips of water off the end of ones braid and down ones back. I’m hungry but my tummy is still angry and I don’t want to chance it. Might be arsed to clean the damn water/rice pot. I want tea.

TEA TIME.

For now,

Wallace, out.

“I’m friends with the monster that’s under my bed; get along with the voices inside of my head…”

Hello, blogoverse!

How were your weeks? Mine was…interesting, but I’ll get into that in a moment. First thing is first – I wanted to say hello, thank you, and welcome to the 22 new followers EIB has gained this month. I appreciate it more than I can say – and thank to all of you, the metrics for this month have been just out of the proverbial blogosphere. I’m floored and excited and humbled and amazed. Thank you, from the bottom of my wee heart. I’m also just loving how much more y’all are conversing with me via comments and emails – that makes my day, every day. In the same vein, I know I’ve been a slacker with my posts, and I promise to lace up my boots and kick myself in the ass a bit in the upcoming weeks. More posts, more writing, more goodness and rambly rantings in traditional Mia style. Y’all have lit a fire under my backside!

More posts. I promise.

Anyways. This past week was just..intense. Hard. Exhausting. Work is draining me quicker than a dollar store battery in a vibrator. It was better, briefly, after I manned up and talked to my boss about my manager, but it seems that was a short lived luxury. She’s back on everyone’s case and driving me batshit insane. I’m seriously weighing my options and looking around for the next big thing in my life. Never thought I’d miss a 9-5 desk job so bad…aaaaand here I am. Ho hum, such is life and growing up sucks. I’m going to do my absolute best to stick it out until Vega and I get back from LA in January, but I tell ya, it’s a conscious effort not to either lobotomize myself or quit every single damned shift. One of my much younger coworkers was telling me to try to see it as a “humbling experience,” and it took a lot of self control to smile and nod instead of go ape and explain to her that following almost an decade of self-sufficiency and much shittier jobs that I have earned the right to be more than a little dissatisfied right now. That said, she’s almost 20 and just moved out for the first time, so as bitchy as this is, she has a whole bunch of hard lessons coming her way which will hopefully explain my frame of mind to her better than I ever could. In summation, I hate my job and I need a new one. Preferably a 9-5 desk job with business cards and the capacity to wear high heels to work. Anybody know of anything in the 250, email this girl. I’m serious. I’m starting to hate coffee and that’s a fate I will not accept.

Yup.

In addition to my work stress, the premature death of my friend last Tuesday is still weighing heavy on my mind. He was driving from Quesnel back to Edmonton to visit some family for the holidays and got blindsided by a semi truck on the highway. I don’t think I’ve fully accepted that he’s gone, and the truth is that I’m still hurting pretty hard over it. I actually ended up taking a couple of days off last week to cry and mourn and hurt in private rather than bawl into people’s lattes and such. His last post on Facebook will forever remind me how lucky I was to have known him, though. “99% of the time, the good you do in the world will be ignored. Do good anyways.” Well, my friend, thank you for the beautiful reminder of how fantastic a person you were, and I promise you, I’ll do my absolute damndest to make sure I hold myself to that modus operandi for the rest of my days. I miss you, B. I really, really do.
So, lots of stress. Lots of it. Lots of tears and lots of frustration on my part, lots of understanding and consoling and being fucking amazing on Vega’s. I’m not proud of myself for cracking under the weight of it all, but I suppose everyone has to fall down sometimes. I’m making a conscious effort to make the best of my days to the best of my abilities. Not only is this year almost over (WHERE THE FUCK HAS THE TIME BEEN GOING?!), but the passing of my friend has reminded me once again that life is finite. I’m trying, I really am, and Vega and I have lots of living left to do. So, live I shall – to the absolute fucking fullest extent.

Damn skippy, Effy. I’m not either.

It hasn’t all be stress and bullshit lately, though. I was just saving the best for last! I got my sleeve started yesterday and I have to say, my arm looks fucking spectacular. My tattoo artist is a spectacularly talented chick and she’s truly outdone herself on my piece. Actually, I think she’s rather excited to finish the sleeve herself – I gave her a lot of artistic license and we collaborated on a truly beautiful piece. I sat for four hours, and it really wasn’t too bad. The spot inside my elbow was less than awesome, but the rest of it was mildly uncomfortable at worst.

Watercolour and dandelions and pretty pretty not naked arm! ❤

The entire process was just a pleasant and necessary one for me. Obviously, I was pretty excited about the appointment (haha I only talked about it here for five and a half weeks…imagine poor Vega’s experience…), but the truth is, I didn’t have a fucking clue how truly wonderful it was going to feel being in that chair. There’s the obvious – I’m a masochist and I did enjoy the pain, quite a lot. There’s the even more obvious, being that I now have an absolutely stunning piece of art (roughly 1/3 of my full sleeve, still need to do the top half of my arm and then the backside of the piece). Then, there’s the deeply personal (and thus, intrinsically difficult to explain but I’ll try my hardest). First, the scars that shithead Sunshine put on my arm? Pretty much fully covered. Soon to be fully covered when I go in for my next sitting. TAKE THAT, ASSHOLE.

Gratuitous alternate angle shot of my ink ❤

The whole thing is pretty much my “fuck you” to the world – to everyone who told me that I, everyone who doubted me, who made me feel ugly or stupid or worthless. It’s a testament to how far I’ve come on my own terms, to the good things and the bad things and the ugly things that have made me who I am. It was truly cathartic sitting there (and I sat like a fucking champion, no bitching from this girl) feeling pain that (for once) led me to a beautiful result rather than more bullshit to slog through. I’m sure my mother is shitting a brick at the whole thing, but hell, she’s part of that list of proverbial fuck yous. I did this for ME and I am thrilled. It’s also the most “Mia” possible interpretation of what a sleeve should be – feminine but not girly, colorful but not obnoxious, packed full of meaning but very personally so. Basically, this girl is ready to make her teenage dreams of being covered in ink come true, and I’m glad that I waited as long as I did. From the artist to the execution to the timing of it all, this was serendipitous. I have a smile that can’t be contained on my face and I feel like a badass, more honest version of myself. Honest, because I love tattoos, and I love my tattoo. Vega called me a “very passionate person” the other day, and when I asked him what he thinks I’m the most passionate about, his reply was simply, “art.” He’s right, and down to the watercolor style brushstrokes of this piece, this fucking nailed everything I wanted on the head with a ten ton hammer.

Last one, for now. Isn’t it GORGEOUS???

Lots of catharsis lately, which is a good thing seeing that it’s leading me to more positive frames of mind and allowing me to ditch my mental dead weight. I’ve been drawing a fuckton, too. I feel like I’m finding myself again after a bit of a dry spell. Finished the writing project I’d been working on with Spinnaker’s help (can’t WAIT to see what you have to say, Spinny. Thanks again for being my editor/confidante/friend with a heart of gold), and I’m finally to a point where I feel ready to start seriously writing my book. Seriously as in make time to write every single day, structured thoughts and plot lines and time frames and all. A year almost since Sunshine enacted his rage upon me. Mine and Vega’s anniversary is coming up in January, Los Angeles a few weeks after that, a year  of us being engaged a moth after that! Time has been flying and for once, I’m at the tail end of a year feeling like I really lived this one right. Most years go by and I end up feeling morose at this juncture (y’know, when people start blaring Christmas carols way too early and wishing you politically correct happy holiday seasons); however, this year has been different. Vega and I talk a lot about momentum, and I feel like we’re gaining a lot of it in our lives both as a couple and as individuals. It’s a great feeling to be grappling with – I don’t remember the last  time that I was this overwhelmed positively. I don’t believe in God, but I certainly have a lot of blessings to count. I’m grateful – even for the bullshit – because despite and in spite of it all, I am taking a cue from Thoreau and going confidently in the direction of my dreams; living the life that I have imagined. In fact, this is better than my dreams. This life we’re building together, Vega and I, is something magical and beautiful and awe-inspiring.

The soliloquy that Lester gives at the end of “American Beauty” pretty much sums it up. “And then, I remember to relax, and let it flow through me like rain. And I can’t help but feel grateful for every moment of my stupid little life.”

As for today, I woke up around 10:30, took the dressing off my ink, stared at it for like ten minutes, got dressed and ready, went to Superstore with Mama Vega, loaded up on staples (okay, on everything. Vega and I had not done groceries in a long while), came home, had lunch with Vega, did the laundry, did the dishes, and parked on the couch with some good tunes to type this entry. As far as tunes go, I’ve been rocking a bizarre mix of old school hip hop, radiohead, red hot chili peppers, and that “Royals” song by Lorde or whatever her name is. I’m downloading an old favorite movie of mine for Vega and I to watch tonight (Love, Actually), and I’m gonna bake some cookies after I finish up here. Low key way to spend my “sunday” before a sandwich shift tomorrow morning (I HATE YOU SO MUCH, 5AM). The perk here being that I am finished my shift at 11:30, have a closing shift on Wednesday, and then 2 days off. I think I can handle that without lobotomizing myself or eviscerating anyone else. Just as long as there are no tuna-pocalypse moments when I’m sandwiching tomorrow. Cross them fingers, would y’all? Also, please be kind to baristas this holiday season. If it isn’t Starbucks, don’t order a “Venti,” because I will give you a large. Know your drink order. And for the love of bacon, remember that I am not a goddamn slave, okay? Please?

Don’t piss off the people that make your extra hot extra dry no foam skinny soy sugarfree vanilla pumpkin latte with a drizzle of caramel on top. Just don’t.

On that note, I think it’s about time that I bake some cookies and wrap up this post. I didn’t intend to write this much today but oh well, at least it’s not all swirling around in my head. Have fantastic weeks, readers. I’ll be back with another post lickety split.

Until then,

Gratuitous cute:

b’awwwzzz.

 

For now,

Wallace, out.

 

WAY Overdue Update

Happy Sunday, Blogosphere!

It’s actually my Thursday, but whateverrrrrr.

To answer the fan email (!!!) that I received yesterday – NO, I’m not dead! I do apologize for my extended hiatus…between work and the cold from Hell, I’ve been playing it pretty aggressively low-key since our triumphant return from Europe. To answer the second part of said fan email (seriously, y’all have no idea how much it makes my heart smile when I get correspondence from my loyal readers!), YES, there is a pictorial adventure post in the works; however, uploading & editing 1000+ photos is taking me longer than I’d anticipated – I’ll do the Eurotrip post soon. Soon, but not tonight.

LOLz. But seriously, I’ll get to the Euro-post soon.

Second on the docket for this evening is a long overdue blog-stat-update. Can we take a minute to revel at 9,114 unique visitors, 256 comments, and 112 followers?! YOU GUYS ARE AMAZING. I CANNOT THANK YOU ENOUGH. And yes, all-caps italics are the only way I could think of to come even marginally close to expressing how truly, genuinely, deeply grateful I am to every last person who has helped EIB become a bigger success in less than one year than I anticipated it being…well, ever. If numbers don’t lie and I continue doing my part and keeping y’all wanting more (seriously, fan emails. Ego, deflate!); then, we should be right on track for 10,000+ views by the EIB anniversary! And if that happens, there’s going to be a big ol’ giveaway. Mutual win for all!
9000+ views. I seriously can’t get over that.

You’re all amazing.

Anyways, lots has happened since my (apparently much anticipated hehehe) return. I FINALLY bit the bullet and booked in for my first sitting on my left arm sleeve (that’s tattoo speak for those not the know) and I am dying of excitement – this is something I’ve been putting off for the better part of a decade and as of November 17th, it’s going to be a reality. I got in with the artist I’ve been drooling over, I made some revisions to the original placement ideas I’d had, and when all is said and done, a BADASS watercolor tattoo will cover the majority of one of my limbs. If I had a way to fast forward to the 17th, I would. I’ve not been this stoked about something since the trip (which I suppose really isn’t that long); however, this is extra exciting and impatience inducing seeing that my 16 year old self was sure that by now, I’d be covered in tats. That didn’t pan out (well, not yet), but this is a welcome start. Vega put it best – the carrot dangling in front of me right now – my raison d’etre (work wise). Truth from a wise man (who is also unduly excited about the appointment, and who will be present to hold my other hand while this goes down). Actually, to be perfectly honest, I’m looking forward to the pain. Y’all know by now that I’m a masochist, and the fact of the matter is that I need to feel pain sometimes in order to truly relieve my damned stress. My head’s been a hot mess of too much brain stew (aside: I’m trying really hard to actually get started on my damned book – working with my dear friend Spinnaker on a writing exercise that’s hopefully going to be a start of sorts, which is where a lot of the brain soup comes from. Reliving and re-examining my past always seems to throw me into a bit of a tizzy) as of late, and as such, I’m craving release that no amount of liquor, drugs, or sleep can provide. A decade ago I’d have marked up my arms with a blade. Now? Pain at the hands of a professional who’s going to leave my arms more beautiful, not more marred than they already are.

Basically how I feel knowing that this is soon to come to fruition.

Anywhore.

Work’s been interesting lately… I don’t want to get into it too much right now, but the jist is as such:
Powertrip = the rest of us are stressed = workplace goes from a relaxing place to be to a major stressor.
Hopefully, I’ll have it all sorted tomorrow (well…off my chest, at least); however, my ears are to the ground. I LOVE what I do – I mean, playing with coffee all day? Yes, please! That said, I am craving…more. I need more. I’m antsy and frustrated and…well. I think that about sums it up.

…yup.

Other than that?
I’m STILL fighting a cold I picked up on the plane ride back to Vic (booooo!), I start my “weekend” tomorrow at 12:30 (woooooo!), and I’m debating the merits of henna-ing my hair versus buying the combat boots I’ve been ogling. Yeah yeah yeah, I’m tacky as shit in my plaid button downs and combat boots, but to that I say PSHAW! The 90’s are making a comeback anyways…shit, does that make me vintage? hmm. As of right now, I’m sitting at the kitchen table playing DJ (this evening I’m feeling the alt-rock-y stuff (Matt Good, Black Keys, Everlast, Ko…), which seems to work better for Vega than my usual rotation of hip hop!) writing this post while my lovely love whips together a delish smelling curry that’ll simmer simmer simmer for a while for tasty eats this week. I’m considering smoking a bowl before we make dinner (pita pizzas…mmmmmm!!!!), and I have a feeling that we’ll keep it low key with some Nip/Tuck on the couch.I have to be up stupidly early for an opening shift tomorrow, so my game plan is to get baked enough to pass out by midnight at the very latest. You hear that, Insomnia? NOT TONIGHT, OKAY?! Please?

so so so true. And I can’t deal with it tonight. C’mon, Universe, do me a solid and give me sweet sweet zzz’s tonight…

On that note, I’ve realized that I am effectively out of shit to talk about for the time being, and I’mma leave it there.

More when there is more to be said, and knowing me, that’ll be sooner than later.

Gratuitous cute:

D’aweeeezzzz.

For now,
Wallace, out.

Much Awaited (and long overdue) Catch-Up On The Mia-verse! (or, “Sorry I’ve Been Terrible At Blogging Lately!”)

Hello dear readers!
Have you missed me yet? I’ve missed y’all! The blog stats are through the goddamn roof this month so far (as of 8:25pm PST, we’re looking at 6,554 unique visitors, 240 comments, and a whole schwack of shares on Reddit, Pinterest and Twitter), and I’d like to take a minute to say a huge THANK YOUto every single one of you who take the time out of your day to read my ramblings. It truly means the world to me, and I’m so excited that if the metrics stay where they lie now, we should hit 10,000 visitors by the first EIB-anniversary! You guys rock my fuckin’ world, seriously.

Seriously, y’all. Thank you so much. ❤

Alrighty, so. Update on my life. So much has happened lately that I barely know where to start! I suppose where I left off would be a good place, no? Freelancing, that’s where I was at. I was ghostwriting a bunch of (rather uninteresting) articles while I was hunting for a job, and that was good practice for a professional writer, let me tell you. It also kept my sanity (somewhat) intact while I underwent the seemingly fruitless and hugely frustrating task of hunting for a job for the first time in a year in a new city. Whoever said that looking for a job is a fulltime job in and of itself was painfully correct. Anywhore, it was a semi-frustrating, semi-badass couple of days writing for 12 hours straight about automotive insurance and pallet racking systems…can’t say that I wrote anything I’m spectacularly proud of; however, I can now officially say that I’ve been paid to write. One step closer to the dream, right? One day. One day I will be an author. At this point, I don’t even care how long it takes; but, that’s a tangent for another day.

This is basically how it feels to have 10,000 words to write within an eight hour window, encapsulated nicely in a hilarious gif for your enjoyment.

Where was I again? my brain is just everywhere today. OH YEAH – job hunting. So, can’t lie, this whole finding employment after not having had to have done so for a year was intimidating, frustrating, and pretty much awful. That said, I did find a job – a mighty sweet job – completely by fluke. I’d stopped into a coffee shop in Chinatown on one of my (many, many, many) “let’s hand out 50 resumes today and see where we get” adventures, and offhandedly left one with the barista after downing my quad short Americano. Lo and behold, the very day I had decided to just give the fuck up, they called me in for an interview! I got the job (woo!), have now passed my probation (WOO!), am learning to use the espresso machine (Woohoo!), and have received my first raise (WOOHOO!). It’s a great little joint in a super eclectic and interesting part of the city, my coworkers are radballs, and I’m officially worth something (monetary, anyways) once again! Such a relief! It’s also 2/3 of the reason why I’ve been failing to update here – it’s been busy. But, I’m working on it, and slowly (but surely) my schedule is once again falling into place. Life is (once again) falling into place. And my habit of using superfluous parentheses is still intact.

Basically how I feel about things right meow.

Also exciting, my passport finally arrived! I am so unbelievably fucking stoked about this I can’t even. Literally everything about the acquisition of said documentation was stressful as all hell – from getting my documents back from my parents, to the fact that I waited until the trip was 8 weeks away, to the seemingly endless waiting game…BUT – it all worked out, I am passport-clad until 2023, and I must say that my photo is rather spectacular (I  look skinny, my hair is rad, and I don’t have my convict face rockin’). I feel so free having this in my hands it is insane! As somebody who used to mean the world to me used to say, “if you do what you’re supposed to be doing, things will fall into place.” She was wrong about a lot of things, but that one was on point. Its these things that make life feel right somehow in a way that very little else can – I mean, the day to day of being with Vega, of being in the 250, that much is easy to see. The bigger things take proof these days for me to accept, and I got a big dose of reassurance that I’m on the right path today. Seriously, I’m just fucking thrilled. And I’m all of an hour from Seattle…I see many a roadtrip in mine and Vega’s futures!

While we’re on the subject of Victoria and all that jazz, I thought I’d take a minute to express my utter glee at being an official resident of the 250. It is spectacular living here, and I draw that distinction because although I made many a trek down here during my club days (that’s a story for another day but whatever), I never got to experience the city for all it’s worth. In the past few weeks, Vega and I have:
-gone for a hike to a gorgeous lake with his coworker on a Friday afternoon (where we said hello to Mary Jane and went for a swim)
-seen a floating symphony orchestra perform during sunset on the harbour, which was a magical and beautiful and wonderfully romantic date night
-discovered the most wonderful path to get to the local grocery store, which takes us through a gorgeous forest (and also, multiple blackberry bushes and plum trees)
-seen a metal show at Lucky’s bar (Torrefy, Vesperia, Crimson Shadows, and Unleash the Archers)
-fallen in love with the vibrant, eccentric, lively, and ever-shifting landscape (both the people and the nature)
Basically, we love it here (I shouldn’t speak for Vega but I’m taking the liberty to do so anyways..haha love yoooou!), and I foresee many a happy day spent here for years to come. There’s something to be said for coastal life!

It certainly is more relaxed a pace than that of Oil Rig Town

Hmm, what else to divulge… OH YEAH. So Vega and I are into our third week of a Whole30, and I’m pleased to announce that I’ve definitely lost a couple inches! I miss beer, but that’s okay – I’ll be able to imbibe a little on the 31st for the UFC fights. I’m thinking that watching the fights at the 4-mile might be a good usage of my time and calories for the day haha 🙂 All the same, it’s been a good few weeks of eating right and moving more. That’s the key folks. A calorie’s a calorie, no matter how small. Healthy mentality + healthy food + move more than you consume = weight dropped. I promise I’m not getting all freaky deaky again; however, I also made a pact with myself to be comfortable in my bathing suit by the time we go vacationing in September. Attainable goal, check. Insert minor freakout induced by pending vacation excitement—>here.

Me right now

 

Also in the “things that Mia is way too excited about” category is this upcoming Saturday. Why, you ask? Welp, it turns out that Mddchild is playing at the Victoria Tattoo Expo (tangent: “Lawnmower Man.” Download it. Right the fuck now. SO GOOD!!). And I’m not working. And I’m going to spend the day ogling tattoos, AND SEEING MY FAVORITE FUCKING CANADIAN ARTIST EVER. I have also become privy to the knowledge that the deposit on my tatt with the artist I want will be max $100.00, so we can all safely assume that come November, my sleeve will be done. We can all also safely assume that I am entirely too excited about the coalescence of these two magical and happy-inducing things. Insert overexcitement—>here.

Basically. My first rap concert ever? Swollen Members, 2001. I think I actually love them more now that I’m older. Always been there for my earholes, they have been!

Besides all of that, I believe that’s a fair 1300-odd word summation of where I’m at and where I’ve been lately. Life’s legitimately good, and that’s still super weird. Slowly though, the fog is lifting–the scars of my past (both mental and physical) are beginning to fade, and things are starting to make sense again. I find myself lost in this strange sense of peace – something that my dear friend MJ described in Endure perfectly – “…peace, like I’d never felt before. I understood what the word meant academically, but I’d never felt it like this.” Truer words, never spoken. I used to find solace in the insanity, and I’m learning with every passing day here on the island with my Vega that it is an entirely possible and attainable thing to find the same solace in sanity. Perhaps this is the cusp of the BHAG finally taking hold over the bullshit. To quote Bukowski, “what matters most is how well you walk through the fire,” and I believe I have made my way through Hell relatively unscathed. If 13 year old me could see how 23 year old me turned out, I think she’d be a little bit more than proud.

 

Gratuitous cute:

D’AWWW!!

For now,

Wallace, out.

 

 

 

“And any man who knows a thing, knows he knows not a goddamn thing at all”

“Nothin’ is perfect man/
That’s what the world is/
 All I know is/
I’m enjoyin’ today/
You know/
‘Cause it ain’t every day that you get to give/”
(from “Take a Minute” – K’Naan)
_______________________________________________

Hello again, blogoverse.

I may or may not still be in a state of shock still, so consider this both my forewarning and advance apology for what may very well be a disjointed and nonsensical post.

my forte.

Despite falling the holy fuck apart following my last post, I still managed to pull myself together enough to lace up my Nikes and hit the pavement. The first two miles were comprised entirely of me bawling my eyes out (aside: faith in humanity was marginally restored during this escapade, as three separate complete strangers took the time to stop me and ask if I was okay) and completely getting lost in my monkey brain – seriously, there are so many thoughts in my head at once sometimes that it’s hard to hear myself over all of the commotion. Halfway through, at the bottom of the big scary hill that I have some personal beef with (note: this hill is massive and steep and neverfuckingending..my Waterloo, if you will), the tears stopped, and were replaced with a quiet calm. It even started to drizzle ever so slightly – I love it when the weather coincides with my mood like that. Long story short, I conquered, nay, SLAYED that hill today, and then continued on (mostly downhill from there, luckily) home.

Wise words in regards to hills.

I finished my 4 miles today in just under 40 minutes; maintained an average pace of 12:27/mile, and got home exhausted, sore, and peaceful. I realized that the tears were just as necessary as the Zen-like trance I felt running along Shaganappi today. Don’t get me wrong; there is a lot of mourning and sadness and disbelief swirling around in my head and my heart this evening, however, what better way to honour the memory of someone who lived such a vibrant and passionate life, than to go and live my life to the fullest possible extent? I had to and will have to continue to feel this – which is why I am 100% alright with making an ass of myself and running while crying my little eyes out. When the brain commotion was happening, I kept getting stuck on this one particular thought:

“Why is it that the shittiest people I know are still here, and a good number of the best ones I’ve known aren’t?”

It is NOT fair. Trust me, I am neither judge, jury, nor executioner; however, I can easily list off a dozen people whom the world would benefit from not having around today. The friend I lost today? NOT FUCKING ONE OF THEM. I ran close to three and a half kilometres stuck on this thought, this vitriol, this unwavering and unadulterated rage at the Universe, at God, at whateverthefuck people believe in. It isn’t funny, it isn’t right, and it isn’t fair. This anger got me to the foot of the hill from Hell – a suitable metaphor, if ever there was one. It isn’t fair. Life, love, hill running… It hurts, it takes so much out of you, makes you question your own capacity to arise and overcome the obstacles inherent in day to day life. It also leaves you with a rather important choice, which is of course whether you’re going to attack the hill with everything you’ve got, or turn right the fuck around and cry about it all the way home.

from “Oh, The Places You’ll Go” – Seuss. Forever a favorite.

Somewhere at the foot of the hill lies all of the rage and confusion and hatred for the treachery that is having to say goodbye to a good friend. I stood there for a minute, wholeheartedly considering turning around, cutting my losses, and calling 3.5 miles as good as 4. Then, the wind started to blow, the rain started to fall ever so lightly, and I realized that the hill is synonymous to all of the other things in my life that I don’t want to face, or think that I shouldn’t have to deal with, or want to sweep under the rug and forget about forever. If I’ve learned anything in life, it’s that the things I face head on – regardless of the pace I keep or the hardships involved – invariably make me a stronger, better person. As soon as I got moving again – steadily forwards and up the damn incline – that thought, that unanswerable question disappeared. There was a moment of revelation and calm in realizing that the hill (as any other difficult thing one may face) truly only wins if I let it. Maybe it was just adrenaline from the news I’d received pre-run, maybe I’m legitimately getting stronger, or maybe it was some straggling energy left behind from my friend in the air, but I outran myself today, in all senses of the expression.

I love this – exactly how I felt when I got home.

In memory of someone who lifted me up when I was at the lowest point of my life, who saw the good and the great and the powerful in me when I couldn’t see it for myself, I proved to myself today that everything they taught me is very much the truth. I can’t control the Universe, but I can control my interaction with it. I choose to be strong and tenacious and true to my word, not only for myself, but for those who aren’t with me any longer and who can’t be strong and tenacious and true to their word in my life anymore. They’re gone – and I can’t change that. I don’t believe in God or angels or Heaven or Hell, but I do believe that the impression somebody makes on you through their lifetime keeps them very much alive for the rest of time – granted that the people that they touch throughout their lifetimes are smart enough to enact the lessons and utilize the knowledge left behind. It’s hard not to give up on the world sometimes – losing seven close personal friends (all too young) within the last two years has definitely showed me the extent to which it is a trying feat at very least – but it’s much easier to deal with when you remember not to give up on yourself. I am not just the sum of all of my parts; rather, I am the sum total of the fragments of others who both enrich and detract from my life. The person who I so proudly am today is a culmination of lessons hard learned, wisdom given freely, and the ability to accept both with dignity, grace, and understanding. That, in and of itself, keeps the ones I’ve lost alive – at least, in my life (and in particular, my times of self-doubt).

Much like this Seurat painting, I am but the sum of thousands and thousands of “points,” lessons learned through love, loss, friendship, grief, wisdom, kindness, and the innumerable other experiences life has (and has yet to) thrown my way.

Following this evening’s workout and a cup of coffee, Vega treated me to a lovely impromptu date night (burger Monday at the local pub), where we sat and talked about life over a Strongbow. I don’t take our relationship for granted; however, following this afternoon, I was extra-grateful for the love of my life this evening. When we got home, I took a long, way-too-hot shower and have since resided to my post on the couch, Vega to my left watching “The Tudors,” poochie fantastico sprawled out beneath the coffee table, and cuppa magical tea in hand. I’m still shaken and shaking – this is truly the perfect place for my head and my heart to be right now. Safe, loved, and peaceful. Sadness is inevitable today (and will be for the next few, I do suspect), but it isn’t going to take control of my life anymore. Hell, there’s no guarantee I’ll wake up tomorrow, so I’ll be making the best of the rest of the time I’ve got on this Earth.

Seize that damn day, folks.

The other thing weighing heavy on my head? Seeing my parents tomorrow. I’ve got confirmation from my Mother in regard to time – but there’s always a niggling little feeling in the back of my head that she’s somehow planning to make this whole endeavour impossible. I just want my damn identification. Some of my books would be an added bonus. I have a modicum of hope that perhaps she’s going to make it simple and as not-unpleasant as she can…but, then I’d be delusional. That just isn’t her style. All I can say is, for the sake of my mental health, I really motherfucking hope that those two pieces of paper are in my hands by 6pm tomorrow evening. One more bullshit excuse about not having time to go to the bank to get them or one more bullshit ultimatum (my mother is the master of this – “you want (insert personal property of your choice that she has no legal right to)? Well, you can have it after you bend over backwards and make yourself sick and miserable and so on”), and I am guaranteed going to go ballistic. It’s the last nicety I need from her (and really, it isn’t but a nicety, it’s my personal identification), and I really, really just want it over and done with so I can turn the page on that part of my life. It’s so over – I reiterate; my forgiveness is hers for the taking, but that is followed solely with apathy. I don’t hate her. I really don’t. Hatred is waaaaaay too much energy to expend on that issue. I really just do not give two shits (well..I won’t, once I have my ID back).

Basically.

Regardless, there were a few good things that went down today – we sold another dresser, a ratchet set, and have a great offer on Vega’s car – and tomorrow I get to see Dee and Baby Dee for a little while, which I’m wholeheartedly looking forwards to. It’s all good and positive energy that way – seventeen days left to tie up loose ends, and certainly, there is a lot of that happening. In fact, saying goodbye to my parents tomorrow is going to be akin to cauterizing a long bloody wound (and I’m pretty sure that would have led to some proverbial gangrene had I let it go too much longer). Seeing the car and the furniture and the odds and ends getting sold is solidifying the realities of both Vega and I truly getting a clean break and a fresh start. This is the home stretch – and it’s so unbelievably welcome in both of our lives right now that whatever bullshit we may (or, knock on wood, may not) have to deal with for the next 2 and a half weeks is just a drop in the ocean at this point.

this is guaranteed to be my reaction if you try to piss me off in the next 17 days.

On that note, I have to be up relatively early tomorrow and need to do some winding down (aka ice packs, meet calves; brain, meet xojane.com) before I even attempt to get some zzz’s.

Gratuitous cute:

Okay, okay, gratuitous ferocity.

More when there is more – and there always seems to be.

Wallace, out.

Sundays Are For Sleeping In, Selling Shit and SCIENCE! (Or, “How I’ve Spent My Weekend”)

Happy Lazy Sunday, blogoverse!

Bingo.

Today has been wonderfully sloth-laden. Vega and I didn’t get out of bed until 4:30 in the afternoon, then we sat and watched some Disney WWII propaganda cartoons (seriously) over our coffee and brekky (note: is it wrong to wake up excited about eggs, sweet potatoes, and bacon? Because if it is, I don’t want to be right), then lazed around for another hour or so reading BuzzFeed articles and enjoying doing nothing at fucking all. Sold another two Kijiji items, set up sales for tomorrow, and got Vega’s 2nd guitar listed. That’s about the extent of my productivity today – Vega fared better than I in this regard, as he got through a little more packing and organizing of things, and is currently preparing a roast for us to nomnomnom on in T-2 hours. I’m definitely a spoiled girl. A spoiled girl who just got a surprise strip of crispy bacon. Vega, I love you. You and your surprise bacon ways.

Granted, this lil’ guy is cuter than me, but this was pretty much my reaction.

Adding to the awesome that is my right now, I have “Two Princes” playing (don’t even try to convince me that Spin Doctors have aged anything less than gracefully), and just finished an episode of Bill Nye. Basically, today has been the epitome of a perfect Sunday – snoozed late, coffee, bacon & eggs & yams, trippy cartoons, made some cash without really doing anything, internet, coffee, coffee, SCIENCE!, bacon. Yeah, yeah – sloth is one of them deadly sins that I’m always hearing about, but isn’t it also written that Sundays are supposed to be spent doing fuck-all (obviously, I am paraphrasing a touch)? Whatever, day well spent.

Gratuitous sloth. Too literal?

Yesterday was unexpectedly awesome – Vega and I ended up waking up slightly earlier than we did today, ate brekky, and watched “Bullshit!” for a few hours. Then, we went out for vegetarian Indian all-you-can-eat-buffet dinner (um, how the hell did I not know that this existed?!) with Mouth, Chef, and Veggie. A veritable feast of naan bread, assorted curried noms and unidentifiable desserts was had, and we left happy and very, very full. Following dinner, we went and saw some stand-up comedy (note: I forgot how much fun this is) at the Laugh Shop (Shack? Can’t remember) – Debra DiGiovanni was headlining (remember her? MTV Video on Trial?), and it was a great time, full of self-deprecating humor and lots of raunchy sex jokes. A beer later, Mouth dropped us all off, and Vega and I partook in some mead and some Tudors. We had been planning on doing fuckall and being hermits for the evening, but I’m glad we didn’t – turned out to be a fanfuckingtastic evening with the love of my life and some of the world’s best people (seriously going to miss them all when we’re gone).

Remember her? Remember this show? REMEMBER WHEN MTV ACTUALLY USED TO PLAY GODDAMN MUSIC? …ahem. Regardless, she was pretty funny.

Anyways. Tomorrow is going to be comprised of a 4-mile maintenance run, hopefully selling Vega’s car and a few other Kijiji-land items, and hopefully reading some “Game of Thrones” when all is said and done. Tuesday, coffee with Dee and Baby Dee, then (DUN DUN DUN) I have to go to my Mother’s place in the evening to pick up my papers and some old clothes and books. Downside: prolonged contact with parental units, possible spontaneous combustion, smiling and nodding. Upside: I will have my paperwork, I might find a few old clothing scores, I can finally get my old piano books back. Like I said prior, as long as we can get in and out of there quickly and relatively unscathed, I will consider this a success. While there is no contingency to my forgiveness of my mother, there are definite limits to my patience. Hopefully, she will be adult, respectful, and mildly pleasant. I have very little left in me in regards to how much bullshit I can feasibly tolerate without going insane.

Seeing how the above isn’t likely to be the case (truth? coherence? hahaha), I should be alright. Unrelated note: “Daria” was the shit.

Anywhore, that’s about all I’ve got in terms of life-updating and the sardonic commentary I have on it. I have a feeling this is going to be one of those weeks where I end up having a whole shitload to say (if nothing else, my Mother always does give me plenty to talk about), and I’m actually quite content for today just to sit back and enjoy the proverbial calm before the storm.

For now, I leave you with gratuitous cute:

baaaaaaaahhhhh so cuuuuute.

And I am going to drink mead and watch more SCIENCE!

 

Wallace, out.

Vega and I Are Apparently Nocturnal (or, How We Learned to Subvert Human Contact)

Hello again blogosphere!I am warning you in advance that this is going to be a long and rambly post, best read with plenty of caffeine and some patience. You’ve been warned. Anyways, when I left off with the last post, Vega and I had executed a foolproof plan to fix our retarded sleeping habits with the assistance of a very long, caffeine fueled day. We got through it, sold a whole shitload of things off of Kijiji, and by five o’clock, we were both ready to hit the hay for some much needed comatose like sleep. Basically, my eyes were closed well before my wee head hit the pillow.

Basically, this.

Foolproof plan was foolproof…until my subconscious decided to rebel and I had the weirdest, worst nightmare I have had in bloody years. Woke up with a start, then looked at the clock–6:24pm. There may or may not have been about five minutes of cursing at the clock and at myself–I mean, C’MON PSYCHE. ONE HOUR AND TWENTY-FOUR MINUTES OF SLEEP? AFTER A FULL DAY AWAKE? Tossed and turned for another half hour, then gave up and shuffled out of the bedroom so that I could read XOJane articles and let Mr. Vega continue to rest.

I felt pretty much exactly like Patrick at 7:00pm last night.

About an hour and a half later, Mr. Vega woke up and came out for a smoke and a hug, and much to my chagrin, I was nowhere near as tired as I wanted to be. Post-couch snugglies, Vega wandered back to bed and I continued with my (super important) internet readings and (not-so) patiently awaited the Sandman while snuggling with Visa on the couch. Another hour later (and still no closer to sleeping), Vega re-emerged from the bedroom and we decided that it was time for coffee (for us), food (for the dog), and the continuation of our Restaurant:Impossible marathon viewing (thank Jeebus for YouTube). Three cups of coffee later, we’d decided that sleep was for the weak.

Word to yo’ mama.

So, we did the responsible thing and ordered a pizza. After devouring the pizza, we decided that it was as good a night as any to nerd out and watch a superhero movie (note: “Thor” was absolutely fucking fantastic. So. Much. Nerdgasm). Post-“Thor,” (aka 4:30 am) neither one of us was anywhere near sleepy, so we accepted our fate and watched a favorite of mine that Vega hadn’t seen yet (note: “Paul” is AWESOME) over a bag of SunChips and a glass (or five) of mead. I absolutely live for geek nights with my love – it’s such an amazing privilege to have the capacity to be able to talk to the man you love for hours on end about all things sci-fi  and space and aliens and such without feeling like a total loser.

question of the night: if you were the lucky first person who was to greet an alien having landed on Earth, what would be the first question you’d ask them?

After “Paul,” we were up for another hour or so discussing “Dune” and other such wonderful things (by the way, another round of kudos to Herbert for continuing to be an important fixture of mine and Vega’s relationship – from our first date to the present, “Dune” has brought us together) while finally feeling the sleepy-fairies working their magic. Neve rmind the fact that it was 7:00 in the morning (who really cares when you don’t care for the general public? Not really missing anything), it was time to finally give in and enjoy a much needed and well-deserved sleep. Naught but fifteen minutes later, me and my pillow were getting some serious face-time.

SCREW DAYTIME – today was a holiday anyways, I have zero regrets about my obviously wise and well thought out scheduling of sleep.

I am happy to report that thirteen and a half hours later, I awoke from a comatose sleep feeling refreshed and with no weird as fuck nightmares to note. We’ll count that as a life win. Vega woke up before I had, and upon my return to the land of the living, there was a hot cup of coffee awaiting me. That, Mr. Vega, is also a victory. Points to you for being both handsome and perfect. We ascertained that the pet food store was closed, so Visa had some rice noms for dinner, and as I type this, my wonderful and handsome love is in the kitchen making some seriously amazing smelling brekky food for the two of us. I bagged a serious keeper – not quite sure how the hell I got so lucky, but I am sure as fuck not about to complain.

Coffee and brekky AND couch snuggles? Hell yes, I was a-smilin’.

In fact, following a delicious brekky (eggs and hashbrowns, cooked with lots of love), I was on the receiving end of an unexpected foot rub (not sure what I did to deserve that…once again, Vega scores top of his class and has made a very happy and spoiled woman out of me), and he’s going to do the dishes. Seriously. I love Vega heart and soul already, and just when I think he’s done everything and more possible to spoil the living hell out of me, he finds ways to spoil me even further. Lucky, lucky, lucky woman. The mind-blowingly amazing part of all of this is that we have years and years ahead of us to spend with each other–I need to figure out how the hell to ramp up my game, as I have been pampered entirely too much by my lovely love. Vega, you are amazing, and I am the luckiest woman in the universe.

And I love you with everything I’ve got ❤

As of right now, we are enjoying some old school Iron Chef (gotta love voiceovers), poochie fantastico is snoozing between us on the couch, and we have managed to find potential buyers for more Kijiji treasures. In fact, tomorrow should make us another $130.00 in furniture that’s slated to be picked up, and there’s the potential for another $150.00 if the replies I just replied to pan out as I’m hoping that they will. Sell dressers, get money (much nicer a modus operandi than disregarding females and acquiring currency–either way, I’m still an OG..and a goofball). This evening (morning in my case but whatthefuckever) is going to be spent relaxing and enjoying some time with my love (case in point: Food Network marathon and couch time – we enjoy the finer things in life, which are the simple things, natch) and blogging (obviously). Since we didn’t rise until 8:00pm, Vega will be able to attack his work day at a normal time, and I’ll be able to facilitate selling shit – should be a productive day (actual normal person time day), which will hopefully end at a normal person time, with two tired monkeys (me and Vega) by 8:00 tomorrow evening. Slowly but surely, we’ll conquer this sleep pattern thing. Until then, I think we’re both doing a pretty awesome job at making the best of things as they are. This is going to be a huge and wonderful positive for us both when we make it to Vic – Vega’s going  to be in an office during normal office hours, and I’ll be finding a job that takes place during normal people hours. This interim is just that, a pause from the normal, and as long as we keep plugging away at the necessities that come along with the process of moving, some fucked up behaviors (i.e. becoming intermittently nocturnal) aren’t anything to be hung up on.

As far as everything else goes, I had been feeling guilty for like 3 minutes about not being my usual work out 6 days a week kind of self recently, and then, upon realizing that I am still stuffed up and fighting the seemingly endless cold from hell (seriously, I am still nowhere near 100%, my energy levels are still low, and I would basically give an appendage to be able to breathe without snuffling), that going for a run or trying to attack a cray cray HIIT circuit with how I’m feeling now would be straight up futile. I’d end up with a shitty pace, hack up a lung, and come home feeling discouraged and probably end up being meaner to myself than I ever really deserve. I also start my “job” with that theatre group on Wednesday, and that’s going to require me being able to talk and laugh and be energetic. Burning myself out before I even have a chance to get better would be stupid. SO – I have a game plan. I’m still going to get my plank-off challenge done, along with my wall-sit challenge, but I’m giving myself the right to a day off. Guilt free. That’s right – Mia Wallace, taking GUILT FREE time away from workouts. This is new for me. Even last week I’d been trying to eke in some (what ended up being half assed) workouts at home, and at the end of it? Still sick, still don’t fit into my size 0 jeans (disordered thinking at its best – as IF a week, let alone a month, let alone a lifetime of workouts and actually eating food again is going to allow me to magically become emaciated. Duh.), and last week I was straight up being a bitch to myself.

Take this, loop it in your brain on infinite, and you’ve got me last week. Sad state of affairs.

Changing tact – a few days to rest up, making sure I continue to eat (I fucking loathe my broken food relationship. Luckily, I have amazing support systems in the form of Vega and Visa (seriously, Visa’s love of kibbles makes me feel guilty about wanting to not enjoy eating), and I’ve not relapsed since Oromocto), and going into the next week with the promise to myself of stopping this being mean to myself and expecting it to work somehow paradigm. News flash, Mia: it didn’t work then, and  it won’t work now. What WILL (and is) work is patience, with myself and with the process. And quite frankly, I deserve to enjoy the freedom that is being with someone who loves me exactly as I am. It’s  a hard pill to swallow sometimes…but it’s got magical healing powers. Truth is that Vega absolutely adores me. All of me. Even the squidgy bits I’m trying to (in a healthy way, now) get rid of. And the other truth is, I’m really quite far from being fat. In fact, when I was a teenager, I’d have killed to look as I do now. Mirrors and scales and disordered eating kind of skewed the way I see myself (edit: MAJORLY skewed the way I see myself), so good part of the BHAG that I’m only now learning to give importance to has been learning not to trust myself in a lot of respects; and instead, to listen to the outside voices (in my case, Vega) that see me as I truly am. Of course, this isn’t to say that I’m perfect, because I’m not. I have plenty of toning and leaning out and gaining muscle to do–but that isn’t really anything I have to be stressing myself sick over. I’m going into this new week and the next few days of guilt free resting up anticipating there to be stumbling blocks, but I shall persevere. I deserve to be healthy and well-fed and well-rested and happy; and Vega deserves to be with someone who is capable of all of those things, without the bullshit baggage that EDNOS, Ana and Mia have left behind in my head. Recovery process. Baby steps. Endless verbose paragraphs on the matter (like this one).

Just gotta keep plodding away, and this remains the truth.

Whatever it takes (even if its another damn paragraph on the matter), I’m committed. Why the fuck is this part (the eating noms and enjoying noms and being healthy and enjoying being healthy) so much goddamned harder than its emaciated counterpart of my past (which was starving myself, exercising until I literally couldn’t move the next day, looking like a corpse and eventually getting checked in to the recovery ward)?! Logic dictates that this part should be both easier and more fun. Recovery nurses told me it would eventually become that way. I am trying so so so very hard to focus on the positives, but the sick and sad truth is that sometimes, I just want to revert to my old days when I could literally list a week of food  on one hand (cup of rice, apple, coffee, banana, cocaine). When I really think about it though, those are the days I want to revisit the least. Literally the only thing I was in any way in control over at that point was my food intake, and by not eating, I was basically giving my power away, back to the people who wanted to exert power over me in the first place. How, you ask? Simple–Sunshine wanted a “hotter” girlfriend (as I lost weight, I gained looks from other men..), my mom and dad always wanted me to look “better” (aka thinner), Sunshine’s mom was always on my case about not having food in the fridge (so I solved that by not eating)…basically, the one thing I exerted control over eventually took control of me. I get judged about this all the goddamn time – I’ve heard it all, from “well you don’t look like you’ve had an eating disorder,” to, “eating disorders don’t exist,” to, “eating disorders aren’t a disease, you can choose to start eating again whenever you wish”. I don’t want to go backwards in my life, to hand my power off to idiots, to not take charge of the things I am in control of. I know I’m kind of going off on the topic tonight, but it’s been weighing heavy (pun not intended, but welcome) on my mind lately. Maybe I don’t “look like” I used to be emaciated (and trust me, I am grateful for that fact, despite the difficulties that come along with it). Maybe you’ve never had a tube shoved down your throat in the name of re-feeding you. Maybe you just don’t understand, and that’s fine..but if I’ve lived my life and can stop judging myself, who the fuck are you to judge my life?

Em’s got it right.

I promise I’m done ranting now, at least over the ED stuff. I’ve noticed that I really don’t write about it anywhere near as often as I think about it, and in terms of the BHAG, that is just wrong. I suppose that good part of the reason I’ve been holding back on things in the blog is a certain reader who up to this point has remained hidden. NO more – mother, you’ve been exposed. Truth be told, I cared a little bit about what it was I was writing in here for a little while after I found out that she was still actively seeking out information on my life (mainly via sourcing the URL for this here blog of mine), and in turn, she was getting in the way of my BHAG. She took away the sanctity and the safety that this blog provides to me in my life, and in keeping with the aforementioned reclaiming of my power in life, I’m done with the filters. Mom, I hope that it hurts you to read a whole fucking lot of what I write in here, because the harsh reality is that you’ve caused me to undergo a whole fucking shitload of unwarranted pain in my life. Deny, deny, deny will likely be your reaction (as it always has), but I’m denying myself the right to write no longer, about any and every thing that comes to my mind and weighs on my soul. Keep reading, or don’t – I could give half a flying fuck these days. I’ve cared for almost 23 years, and I can afford that in my life no longer.

Bye-bye, closet skeletons.

Man it feels fucking amazing to just talk sometimes. I do a lot of talking in this blog – not often that I’m quite THIS stream of consciousness. Granted, it’s tough to be truly stream of consciousness when you’re as all over the place as I tend to be, but hey. Learning curves abound! While I indulge my blogging bone here, Mr. Vega is currently cheffing up some sushi for the two of us to nomnomnom on (reason #3276 why I don’t miss my eating disorder: my fiancé cooks delicious noms which I fully enjoy eating), the house smells amazing, and I’ve got the Beatles playing in the background of it all. Totally self-indulgent use of my time. Totally spoiled by the world’s most wonderful man, who also happens to be mine. Totally tickled all shades of pink by the fact that Vega is tickled pink to see me once again blogging my heart out after my wee hiatus.

I was actually just thinking to myself that I don’t remember the last time that I felt this happy and this whole living my life (literally every aspect of it is better than I could ever ask for, including the stumbling blocks), and it also just dawned on me now that the reason I can’t remember is because this is the first time in my life I’ve ever felt this happy and whole. Kind of a sad revelation, really–but it’s giving leeway to the most unbelievable new lease on life for this here blogmistress. I realize that to you, dear readers, this is all variations on a theme (the theme being me realizing that my life from now on is not at all going to be what it was before the love story of Vega and Wallace began to take shape); however, it’s a whole new world for me and I make sense of things by rambling and reveling–and after years of convincing myself that I’d never land in a place as idyllic as this, I’m taking the liberty of stepping back and analyzing the situation.

…worth the wait. Trust me.

Part of the BHAG that you’ll recall from four and a half months ago is starting the seemingly gargantuan task of writing my book – the story of my life. That’s also in part where this rambly never ending post is coming from – it is in part me stepping back and trying to ascertain where in the fuck I’m going to jump in and start writing this book from. I wish I could tell you that this exercise has cleared things up for me; however, as I sit here and ponder the thought, I feel more lost than ever. It feels like everything up to meeting Vega is the tale of another person’s lifetime. Funny how your whole life can change so many times within a lifetime (if you let it). These days, I feel like happy dancing everywhere I go, all the damn time. It kind of frightens me, trying to imagine the depths of awesome awaiting Vega and I on the coast. I really and truly could not be more excited to be alive these days – and I have a whole fucking lifetime of it ahead with the love of my life. Seriously, how did I end up getting this lucky?!

If there’s a short brunette chick doing this in the streets, it’s probably me. There is a limit to how much I can suppress my urges to happy dance in public.

I suppose the whole point of my rambling this evening is twofold – first, I’m a creature of habit. When I’m overwhelmed in life, I deal with it by writing. Lots. Usually in my journal, never to be seen by the eyes of the general public (or in this case, typed out to be read by the blogosphere). Normally; however, this happens when my life is falling apart. I have a sneaking suspicion that from now on, that isn’t something I have to fear. Second point in the rambles? The more I write to myself (and the blogosphere) about the positive things in my existence, the more the negativity of my past seems to fade away. I am hoping that eventually, through writing it out and through living in this new paradigm, I can free myself from the nightmares and the uncertainties and the disordered thought patterns I’ve built up and lived with for so damned long. The future I’m building with Vega takes my breath away sometimes, in the best way. I’ve got to stop holding on to my past.

Complete tangent here – Brother W graduates in a week. I can’t believe that my little kid brother is about to make his foray into the big bad world. Expect a post regarding this in a few days time. Until then, I have to work on deciding what the fuck I’m going to wear to his commencement ceremony. Being a girl is so tough sometimes…

…like seriously, so many clothes and NOTHING to wear. Sigh.

But that’s a post in and of itself.

Anywhore, Vega’s got sushi ready, I’ve pretty much exhausted what I wanted to say, and I’m going to leave you with some gratuitous cute and call this a post.

nom nom nom

Wallace, out.

 

“Every day is a new box, boys.”

“It’s hard not to hate. People, things, institutions; when they break your spirit and take pleasure in watching you bleed, hate is the only feeling that makes sense.  I know what hate does to a man. It tears him apart, turns him into something he’s not, something he promised himself thait’s t he’d never become. That’s what I need to tell you to let you know how hard I am trying not to cave under the weight of all the awful things I feel in my heart.
Sometimes my life feels like a deadly balancing act, when I feel slamming up against what I should do, impulsive reactions racing to solutions miles ahead of my brain. When I look at my day, I realize that most of it was spend cleaning up the damage of the day before. In that life I don’t have a future, all I have is distraction and remorse. I buried my best friend three days ago. As cliché is this sounds, I left part of me in that box. A part I barely knew, a part I’ll never see again. Every day is a new box boys, you open it and take a look at what’s inside. You’re the one who determine if it’s a gift or a coffin.”

(Charlie Hunnam as Jax Teller, from Sons of Anarchy season 5, episode 5, “Orca Shrugged”)
____________________________________________________________

Hello blogosphere, happy hump day to you! Before I dive into the thoughts I’ve got rolling about in my cranium, first thing’s first – it’s time for some gratuitous cute:

D’awwwww! Fuzzy and snuggly and AWW INDUCING.

Now that you’ve got a smile on your face, I’ll get right to it. It, of course, being a massive brain dump. Ever have one of those days where you wake up and suddenly feel like you’ve got ten thousand things you want to say? That’s Mia most days, it just seems amplified today to a ridiculous degree. Anyways. I’d like to harken back to the quote with which I opened this blog entry; which is, of course from my favorite episode of the last season of Sons (aside: I am still very impatiently awaiting September and season 6 – I really can’t even try to explain how much I want it to just be on the air NOW). That monologue has stuck with me from the very first time I heard it, and I woke up with it ringing in my ears.

Hate. Admit it or not, it’s something that we all grapple with–we’re taught from early on that we shouldn’t hate, that we should be accepting of people and situations and to see the good side of things rather than to dwell in our frustrations and allow that to fester into a negative state of being. I believe in this, and I believe in it wholeheartedly, but the truth of the matter is that to this very day I find myself struggling with allowing myself to let go of the hatred I feel towards certain people; after all, vindication would be sweet in pretty well all of these instances…I’ll get back to that train of thought in a bit, though.

When I look back upon my life, especially the last year of it, I realize that for too much of it I didn’t allow myself to even feel the hatred I’d welled up within myself. As far back as I can remember into my childhood, I remember a feeling of fear. I remember feeling terrified of not doing well enough (in school, sports, et cetera), of not being good enough (physically, mentally, et cetera), and generally, of disappointing my (impossible to please) parents and of not being a good enough big sister to the baby brother whom I love so very much. Over time, the fear turned to panic–which led me to leave–and then, the panic turned to depression–which caused me to carry more guilt on my shoulders than anyone every should. It took me until about a year ago to realize the truth behind these emotions, their honest causation. Truth is that my mother is largely narcissistic–and growing up under that paradigm caused me to undertake large part of her personal burdens and shortcomings. I don’t think that she fully intended to stick me with her own bullshit, but she did. And upon realizing that, I began to wholeheartedly hate her. I hated her existence, I hated the fact that she’d been so selfish as to have a child (me) that I don’t think she ever really wanted, I hated her for who she was and moreso, for who she wasn’t. I hated the fact that no matter what I did or didn’t do, who I did or didn’t become, I’d never be enough for her. Same goes for my dad–I hated so much about him, so many things he’d said to me over the years that hurt more than any physical pain I’ve ever endured, that I was drowning in my own vitriol towards them. It took me close to 21 years of my life to figure  out what the hell it was that I was truly feeling towards them, and only in the last three months or so have I finally managed to lay the hatred to rest (for the most part) and accept that I can’t change them–I don’t have the energy to expend on hating them anymore–and rather than being a “coffin,” every day that passes without them now is instead a gift–one that I give to myself, and one that I enjoy unwrapping.

Jax gets it–as far as they’re concerned, all I have is apathy.

Same thing goes (kinda) for the ghosts of my relationships past. When you don’t know that you’re worth more than what you grew up with (aside: this is where I once again beg and plead with all the parents out there–remember that what’s minor to you can be major to your kids! Accept them, love them, challenge them, but don’t try to change them into who they’re not. The crisis of self you’re making them grow up with (with no basis of understanding that life doesn’t have to be that way) is cruel and totally unjust), you tend to settle for so much less than you’re worth that it’s actually depressing (looking back, that is. When you’re in the midst of it, it all seems perfectly normal and justifiable). I’m living proof of this, over and over in my life the men (ahem..boys…) I’ve been involved with have, up until Vega, all been users, abusers, and losers. I settled for the Englishman who was “too good” to be with an “ethnic” girl (yet, who lived in my apartment and ate my food and smoked my pot); for the “big shot” who introduced me to the club life (then got pissed when I moved up higher than he ever will), who only thought I was “kinda cute” (and who enabled my eating disorder), and who physically and mentally abused me (“for my own good), then ended up begging for me back after I left his sorry ass; for the “Good Guy,” who still lived at home (and I am willing to bet will never leave his mama’s side), had a job (and yet, only ever worked for three months), was free and clear from the club (although had a diehard obsession with being a “gangstah”), and who was supposed to be gentle and kind (however is the cause for the burns all over me and for my falling the deepest I ever did into my anorexia). Not a single man I was with before Vega actually gave two shits about me. I was there to pay the bills, to look good on their arms when we’d go out (and to pretend not to mind when I caught them wandering off with other women), and to be the receiving end of their physical and mental abuses. Given that was basically the paradigm I grew up with at home (less the paying the bills part), how was I truly supposed to recognize this as wrong? Well. Thanks to Sunshine crossing a major line in a major way, and thanks to the aforementioned realization that the hatred I felt towards my parents was justified, I found the strength to leave. And after I left, I found the solace in hatred; the comfort in allowing myself to feel the rage and the angst and the disgust towards not only Sunshine, but the KFP and all the others before them.

This nicely summates how I felt about them all after I left Sunshine.

When I was living with Dee, I’d pretty much sworn off men for that reason (besides the ones I have as friends, because friendship has always been easier with guys for me; and, of course, the occasional fuck buddy). She’s actually the one who convinced me to go meet Vega the first time, and I credit her for taking me out of my hate filled coffin and pushing me back into the realm of being open to meeting new people. So I met my now fiancé, and I made it clear that I’d been burned (literally and physically), and I realized that there are amazing men in the universe–I just had to give myself enough credit, and I had to stop allowing losers to be what I settled for. Truth be told, I was petrified the night I met Vega. I was even more afraid when I realized that I really, really liked him (for fear that he was out of my league), and I was more than a little bit relieved when I realized that he was everything I’d ever wanted and a whole shitload more. Relationships used to be a coffin (hell, had I stayed with a few of my past exes, I’d probably be in one right now), but the one I’m in now is a gift. I wake up excited every single day for the simple fact that it’s another day I get to spend in the company of my best friend (who just so happens to be the love of my goddamn life). The hate I felt towards the idiots of my past has morphed into something more subtle these days, rather than wanting to kill all the things, I instead feel sorry for them–they didn’t see my worth (and I doubt that any of them will ever come down off their high horses enough to see the worth of anybody except the highly inflated versions of themselves that they seem to want people to worship), and now, every single one of them is (terminally) single. Not. My. Loss.

Nelson’s got it right.

 

So, to go back to the idea of vindication and how freakin’ sweet it would be to have the chance to get mine (in most cases), I think that at the end of the day, it’s somewhat a moot point when it comes to the people that fuel(ed) the fires of hate in me, when that hatred is responsible for the best possible outcomes of my existence finally coming to fruition. For a long time, I (like Jax) spent every day of my life cleaning up the messes left behind from the day before. The fact of the matter is that in allowing the negativity to build in my life was my choice–though the vast majority of the bullshit was the bullshit that others piled upon me, I still ended up being the one spiraling–and when it was all said and done, I ended up close to self destructing (case in point: the recovery ward). I used to be of the opinion that it would be the ultimate redemption to make all of the people who hurt me in my past hurt like they’d made me, cry as much as they’d made me, doubt themselves as much as they made me. I used to have visions of grandiose retribution, and before Vega was a part of my existence, it did make me feel marginally better to allow myself to daydream of being the one on the powerful end of the stick.

I know that feel, Dexter.

Anyways, you’re all well versed in the story of how Vega swept me off of my feet, and the further I allowed myself to fall and the more I allowed my guard to drop, the less important the need for retribution became. In fact, the apathy I feel towards my parents is magnified by a billion when it comes to my exes–they not only have to live with themselves, they have to live with themselves without ever moving forwards, and I get to sit back and enjoy the rest of my life with someone who not only wants to be a part of my life, but accepts me for me, and makes me a better person. My vindication comes from knowing that my hatred fueled a fire under my ass–to be a better person, to choose better people to share my life with, and to live a happier life. In fact, I’m convinced that if I hadn’t at one time felt that amount of hate, felt like I was being buried alive, that I would not be able to appreciate the choice to make every day a positive one rather than a chore. That, my friends, is the ultimate form of revenge. It’s beyond anything I ever could have imagined, and literally all I have to do is live my life.

I guess it’s somewhat redundant of me to type out another 2000-odd words on this very revelation I’ve had, but at the same time, I am continuously blowing my own mind with the realization that my life is what I make of it, and I’ve made it through and past the shittiest parts of it relatively unscathed. I don’t really know how to justify in my own head as of yet that this isn’t all just a dream and that this isn’t someone else’s life that I’m looking at with longing. The facts are simple–I’m happy, healthy, loved and whole–and that is simply amazing to me. As I near the end of my time in my hometown and prepare to move on to a new city to have new adventures with the love of my life and poochie fantastico, it seems that every loose end I tie up leaves me more and more certain that happiness is equal parts chance and choice. The chance side of it comes from the cards you’re dealt–and the choice is how you end up playing them. If you’re one of the lucky ones who ends up with a full house off the bat, you have the choice to bet huge and make the best of it; and if you’re dealt a shit hand, it’s your choice to bluff through it with a smile and still have a shot at winning the game.

The choice is ultimately yours. Today, tomorrow, and the rest of forever is but a new (proverbial) box. The question is, will you choose for it to be a coffin, or a gift?

On that note, I am off to kill the 15th day of the May plank-off challenge (2 1/2 minutes, let’s doooo thisssss), take Visa for a walk (it is an absolutely gorgeous day), and see what the rest of my Hump Day holds.

More when there is more, and there’s always more.

Wallace, out.

Room To Breathe (and some long overdue Blogometrics)

Hello Blogosphere! Happy Tuesday to you all. Hopefully Monday was kind and greeted y’all with plenty of java and good vibes. If not, here’s a smile inducing puppy to start your day off with some gratuitous happiness:

Seriously. He has a monocle. And a moustache. AND A TOPHAT. 😀

Right. Now that’s out of the way, there are two big pieces of Earth-shatteringly awesome news with which I must impart to you. First of all, some (week belated) blogospherical updates. We’re into month numero four of the blog’s life and I am more than excited to announce that as of 11:05 am MST, EIB is sitting happily at 3,946 unique visitors, 205 comments, and has garnered readers from Canada, USA, the UK, Australia, Singapore, Brazil, France, India, Germany, Ireland, Panama, Sweden, Pakistan, Norway, Italy, Greece, the UAE, Finland, The Netherlands, Indonesia, Switzerland, Ukraine, Peru, Russia, Turkey, Portugal, Korea, South Africa, and Belgium.  Firstly–HOLY FREAKIN`WOW!!!–and secondly (and much more importantly), THANK YOU. From the bottom of my heart. I am astounded and humbled and totally taken aback by these metrics and the recent boom I’ve been seeing in daily page views. You all rock my freakin’ world, and give me even more reason to keep on keepin’ on with writing about the minutia of my daily life, my BHAG, and my culinary adventures. Coffee, kinkery, laughter and food. Apparently I’m pretty well versed in the above!

Okay. Second piece of Earth-shatteringly badass news. Brace yourselves. Put down the coffee/tea you’re holding (wouldn’t want you to hurt yourselves). Ready? Can I get a drumroll, please?

There we go.

Beta has officially moved out. Cue angelic choirs and clouds parting and happy dances the likes of which would make Snoopy himself jealous.

It happened without any warning, really. I mean, she knew that we were all to be out of here soon (our current home sweet home is set to be demolished to make room for a new development this summer after we leave for the 250), but she’d not made any mention of it until Thursday, when I woke up with a start from a bad nightmare and the sinking fear of *dun dun dun* dishes in the sink. Luckily for me, Vega was there to ease me out of the realm of the sleeping with a steaming hot cup of coffee (with coconut milk. Ohmygeez if you haven’t tried this yet, do. Full fat coconut milk. Coffee. Heavenly. Also, Vega wins man of the decade for a) being there ASAFP after he heard me waking up with a start and b) hot caffeine fix ASAFP in the..well, afternoon) and the promise of both good and bad news, to be regaled over a walk with Visa post-aforementioned java. We sipped our lifeblood, then had a smoke, then set off with the pooch to enjoy the sunshine and chat about things.

It turns out that the bad news was that Beta had broken up with her manfriend. This would ordinarily be a DEFCON 1 situation, seeing as she was pretty well living there and this would normally mean that she’d have reverted back to living here full time (and we all know how well her presence made the energy in this household suffer)…BUT, she decided on (what seems to me to be a 19 year old whim) to hop on a Greyhound with her shit and head back East to her hometown. I do believe that Vega could probably see the metaphorical weight being lifted off of my shoulders–there was much rejoicing to be had. I wish her all the best, and I mean that with no ill will or sarcasm. She’s a lost little girl for sure and I hope that this move finds her in good health and brings her the peace she so desperately needs in her life. I’ve been there too, but I managed to pull my head out of my ass. I can truly only hope that she manages to do the same–believe me, Vega was more than kind, generous and understanding with her. The world on the whole is a big scary place, much unlike what she got used to living here.

But, I digress. The dishes (actually, as of right now, the lack thereof) in the sink are no longer mysterious crypts full of mummified spaghetti which appeared at random overnight, the guest bedroom is being turned into storage space for the boxes of things to be moved, the floors have been vacuumed, and I can hear myself think. Hell, I even managed to do yoga and actually get somewhere with my meditation with the lack of continuous worry over “will she be coming home soon?” ringing in the back of my wee brain. I missed the sounds of silence. It’s also rather wonderful being able to play house with Mr. Vega–sans misguided teenager. Neither one of us ever did want kids… hehehe. Misuka says it best:

“booyah.”

Since her departure, Vega and I have successfully slept late into yesterday afternoon, taken Visa for a long walk (and us for a long overdue talk and de-stress), accomplished the acquisition of grocery staples, eaten chicken wings, Vega got a crapton of work done, I got the house clean top to bottom + did a lower body bodyweight circuit + did yoga + made pulled pork in the meantime, we ate the pork on a delish salad, watched the season  6 finale of Dexter, and are now in the final hours of an all-nighter. All in peace and quiet and cleanliness. once again:

I’ll leave the sentiment in Daryl’s capable hands this time..

 

Life is freakin’ grand right about meow. We’re slowly but surely selling off what needs sold off on Kijiji (helloooooo cashiola for the move..also, anybody want to buy a set of tires with a free Chevy Cavalier? Kidding..kinda), packing up the loose ends in the 403 (both stuff-wise and otherwise), and getting a little wee bit more than excited about all the momentum we have going on in our lives right now. We’re even having luck on the torrent front today–Dexter, season 7–going to be ready to watch in a little bit, which gives Vega a little longer to work and me a little longer to blog before we watch the opener (probably whilst nomming more pork) before we hit the hay (in the early afternoon. ‘Cause that’s just how we roll).

I even had a(nother) Mia-revelation on Sunday (that’s Mother’s Day to those of you who celebrate the existence of your maternal units). I was kinda down about the whole thing. It sucks a shit ton not being able to be excited to celebrate the birth giver–especially when she’s alive and kicking. The sad truth is, mine just doesn’t deserve it. Never did. I remember back in high school, my mom left my brother in my capable hands while her and the Dad went on a trip to Vegas. They arrived at home on Mother’s Day, and I’d spent my last $20 on a Lush giftset full of bath goodies, cleaned the house, and made dinner. I had expected that she’s have been at least kind of tickled, but she ended up pissed. Like MAD. She even had the gall to tell me that my gift sucked. It hurt back then (and truth be told, that memory still hurts now), but at the end of the day, I’m happy that I no longer feel the need to put forth any effort on her Hallmark Holiday knowing that as far as a narcissist is concerned, it isn’t the thought that counts. I have so many other women to be grateful for in terms of having raised me up, having helped me down the road of turning into who I am, that she is but a drop in the proverbial ocean. To my mother, I say:

But thank you for saving me time and money and a massive headache over stressing about what the fuck to get you that “won’t suck.” Nothing works. You can’t say that nothing sucks.

And to the non-blood female family members I’ve got who kick ass and deserve my (belated) Happy Mother’s Day love, I say:

..”And now I know for sure, I just added two more guys to my wolf pack. Four of us wolves, running around the desert together in Las Vegas, looking for strippers and cocaine.” …Seriously though, thank you. All of you. For everything. Hookers and blow included.

Anyways, pardon the pseudo-rant. Does it count as a rant if it’s the (sad and bitter) truth? Whatever.  I need more coffee and a cigarette and I’m getting pretty loopy from the lack of both, so I’m gonna wrap this here post up, acquire both of the aforementioned sustenance necessities, and go find out what the fuck Deb’s going to do about the DDK situation and being in love with Dex and being lieutenant…serious cliffhanger, that torrent better finish up right the hell quickly here or my head may explode and I’ll need my own blood spatter analysis.

49%?! That leaves me with 51% left to wait on?! BAAHHHHH CLIFFHANGERS MAKE ME CRAZYYYY.

 

For now,

Wallace, out.

Nightly Observations From the Proverbial Rocking Chair

Needed some more gratuitous cute today. This guy fit the bill.

 

 

Hello again, blogosphere.

Hopefully you’re all having lovely evenings (actually, hopefully most of you are in bed at this point; can’t expect y’all to be night owls like Vega and I), and if nothing else, hopefully mister puffin above made ya smile. I think it’s probably becoming obvious over time when I’m in a Mia-funk–the sheer number of superfluous cute things I post pictures of increases exponentially. I’m hoping I can blog this out–grab a beer (Vega and I are sipping on Wild Rose Brewery Brown Ale this evening. Deeeelish), and brace yourselves for nonsense.

I’m frustrating myself this evening with a seeming inability to string together a coherent paragraph (or sentence, at this very moment). I’ve written and deleted probably 1700 words at this point. Stream of consciousness is apparently going to be the name of the game tonight.

Post-workout endorphin high was awesome and much necessary–got my sweat on hard today, although I must say that it is more difficult than I remember to get into “the zone” at the gym. I’ve become entirely too accustomed to making an ass of myself by myself with my living room HIIT and boxing routines, and it’s hard not to go correct the seriously brutal form I see people taking when running on treadmills. Regardless, it felt awesome to burn off some steam in the most productive way I know how.

Definitely still in a “mood,” of sorts–and I’m fighting it tooth and fucking nail. According to Vega I’m doing well (that is to say that I haven’t hurled my netbook across the room in a fit of Hulk-style rage yet), but I suppose we are truly our own worst critics, as I am shaking my head at myself in shame.

(Minor win: finally getting a .gif to work in the ol’ blog. Also, “Up” must be watched again, and soon. I feel ya, Doug.)

Anyways. I hate prattling on about these funks and moods and the inevitable downs that come with all of life’s ups. The amalgamation of my own self-doubt, the bullshit from my past that’s been on my head, and the various other things I deem annoying or unnecessary usually pales in comparison to my undying (and probably superbly annoying to most) optimism and general excitement about life; which is where I find myself in the cone of shame. That said, out of respect to my BHAG, the pretenses under which I began this blog, and my mental health, I’m going to try to just get some of it out.

Where to begin is always where I end up frustrated. Tonight is (of course) no different. I suppose I’ll start with this sentiment:

To She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named (and at whom a pointedly furious post was posted about a month ago): whether or not you still read this log is of absolutely zero import to me; however, I resent you with the fire of the depths of Hell for the simple fact that I now edit myself more than I ever did before in my blog. A massive and supererogatory fuck you. That one’s on the house.

While we’re on the subject of fucks I don’t give, I’m kind of done with forced emotion. Case in point: emails/texts/assorted correspondence sent with the underlying agenda of attempting to get me to reply with forced emotion of my own. Once you’ve disowned (or otherwise pushed me out of your life) me, I feel absolutely zero need to pretend that I have any feeling towards you (except some residual frustration, and in some cases disappointment, that you sure as hell have zero license to my expression of–to you, anyways). Seriously, it seems that these folks who made a point of shoving me out of their lives (never kindly, either) have a penchant for this these days, and they are coming out of the woodwork. From the parental units to Sunshine to the KFP to Spruce–they all seem to want the same thing from me; that is, a modicum of my false and unwarranted kindness. Where the fuck does one get the notion that this is by any means acceptable, let alone to be taken with anything except annoyance from my end? Is it some foul and false attempt to vindicate themselves through portraying themselves (to themselves) as the “good guy” in the situation, knowing that it will only be matched by my trademark cynicism and silence? Are they all delusional, actually to believe that a) time heals all wounds, b) that enough time has gone by in any of their cases for that to be the situation, and c) that I actually give a good goddamn? Am I maybe just a massive bitch? I really don’t know (nor do I really care to know), but I tells ya, it is a gigantic exercise in patience (which we all know by now I am sorely lacking in, particularly when it comes to the majority of the human race). In any case, I think I need to find myself a “Picard Face-Palm” t-shirt for which to grant me strength in my dealings with the plebeians of my life. Seriously, clean breaks–when did they become so hard to come by? If I were drinking mead, I’d weep for humanity (haha).

I was actually toying with the notion earlier that good part of my frustration with Beta and her 19-year-old ways comes in good part from what I was just discussing. Perhaps my inability to process her effervescence comes from the fact that I did in fact grow up too young. When I was a little kid, my bubbliness was overshadowed by the constant pressures to do better, be better, do more, and do more better. I had very little reprieve, and that which I had was always served with a healthy side-dish of guilt (cases in point: piano, theater, swimming, were all less important than straight A’s and a career path). Flash forward to post-moving-out; where I was in a sense more free, and in a larger sense more trapped. The club involvements allowed me a lot of freedom in a world where I was by definition silenced and under constant scrutiny (of another sort, natch; however, there was hell to pay legally and under club rule for going against what was acceptable), and over time, the things that granted me freedom became the very chain which bound me. The relationships I was in prior to meeting Vega were all power games, and I spent a lot of time in fear, and a such, suppressing the bubbly happy person that I (now) know myself to be. Perhaps it isn’t so much that I can’t stand the 19 year old fizziness I see in Beta–perhaps it’s really just my own misplaced jealousy for the childhood (and youth) I missed out on, by necessity and by choice. Don’t get me wrong–I wouldn’t change a thing about a single thing I did (in fact, I look back and I’m legitimately proud of myself for having had the fortitude of self necessary at the age I did to change my situation), but seeing such vastly different implications of being a teenager in front of me almost makes me mourn the times I didn’t have. </endwallowinginselfpity>

Perspective is such a strange and bitter pill sometimes. Seeing my brother brings it out, too. I’m so far beyond excited that I get to see him perform tomorrow; and at the same time, so very ashamed of myself for resenting him being the one onstage. There is such a vast and insurmountable distance between us in terms of experience that it makes me want to scream sometimes; however, it also lets me sleep better at night, knowing that even if he’ll never fully see it, that some of the things I fought so bitterly for (and lost) ended up being positives for him in so many ways. As he grows older, it gets both more and less difficult to express. Less so, because he is growing to understand and appreciate some of what I went through. More so, because I’m never really sure how much of it I can impart without putting our relationship at stake. More so because I worry about him more as he approaches his shot at taking on the world on his own. Less so because he has a very different safety net than I did at his age. Bizarre and ever-shifting perspectives; perplexing and overwhelming dichotomies.

Like I said, it gets loud in this head of mine from time to time. All the same, it feels damned good having gotten at least a little of it off of my chest. Whether or not any of it makes sense is of little importance to me at this point. My world makes a little more sense 1500 words later, and for tonight, that’s all that matters.

For the time being, here’s one more gratuitous instance of aww-inducing cuteness:

nom nom nom

I’m off to have another brew in the company of my amazing fiance and revel in the deep breaths I’m apparently now able to take.

Wallace, out.