Dear Jade, Heather, Julie, Erin, The Retard That Says "Chii" All The Time, anyone who's slept with Aaron and ALL of my good old pals down in podunk Auburn:

YOU HAVE BAD TASTE IN MUSIC.

Now go fuck yourselves.

Oh, beautiful days.

My flesh has melted along with my brain, and I started a little story that I'm handling akwardly, but handling nonetheless.

she runs

Anyone care to trade breasts?

I'm also drawing.

I did a nice number of Josiah, but mostly little chibi things that are completely inconsequential. Damn the lack of models. And strange of all strange, no response to my crappy little thing of Lael that they both discovered. No. Response. At all.

doushite daremo inai kono heya de?

My magical gift of drawing that sprang from the ground not how many months ago when all was well in Fairy Tale Land and the girl sat naked painting grapes while honey sugar was working away, salivating over the fact that she was rubbing her body against his sheets and stroking his keyboard with her little girl fingers and then, getting hard, touching himself under his desk and stiffening.

At least a year, right? And some of my best things are months behind me, how sick. Alas, more results of the disease I had/have.

And my hair's blue now, too. And my lips are pink and pierced and my tongue is soft. My curves prominent, damn the calories to hell. Not fat, oh no. Strong. Muscle forms when you walk constantly. A formidable opponent.

Throw this all to the floor, the wind, whatever trite thing you all say nowadays. I'm hungry, children. Brush your teeth, say your prays, hop into bed. Bon soir.

i can't be bothered

It seems so silly sometimes when I remember that he was crying too. Why should he be crying, I wonder, because I was never the one that got angry or short-tempered or impatient or indifferent. I was his pillar, and pillars aren't supposed to buckle. They're built to be strong. So now it's confusing. Here I am cracking and leaning under his weight, crumbling at times and letting him fall. It seems so wrong that I don't know how to treat those moments. I can't begin to fathom what's wrong with me, but I know that I can start and stop whenever I want and all it takes is control.

I completely let myself go when he showed up. Nothing mattered, there was one focal point and damned the person was who got in the way. Most of you remember.

Everything, even this intervention/exposé/whatever this was supposed to be fell apart.

Nothing can hold itself down anymore.

I need to go back to school.

how i miss your ranting
do you miss my all-time lows?

well you can all just kiss off into the air
behind my back i can see that stare
they'll hurt me bad, but i won't mind
they'll hurt me bad, they do it all the time

Man, I keep forgetting to do all of these things when I'm not at work. Buy oil, call Cornelius, find out if Sliding Waters still exists or not..

This morning was FUCKED. UP.

Him: You didn't get my jacket out of your car.
Me: I forgot, sorry.
Him: That was the most insensitive thing you could've said.

WHAT THE FUCK.

It's not even in my car, which is why I "forgot". I remember now, looking and not seeing it.

Whatever, these are YOUR neuroses, don't pass them off on me like they're legitimate.

Took the COMPASS again, and as follows:
Math - 53
Reading - 99
Writing - 99

So I qualify for Calculus (hooray for skipping two classes) and whatever English classes I want to take, LOOOOOOLLL. I love college.

Anyway. I won't be around because Moustafa forgot to cut the Honolulu job, which now equals at least one solid day of nothing but cutting these things into strips. >200 yards of vinyl. HOORAY FOR HUGE MISTAKES THAT YOU HAVE TO TAKE PART OF THE FALL FOR EVEN THOUGH IT WASN'T YOUR JOB! I hate work.

School plz. <3

Josiah and I went to Oasis for our boba fix yesterday. His tummy wasn't feeling good, but I was hungry, so we walked around looking for a place with noodles. I spotted a Chinese restaurant across the street, and we went over there to look. We had to pass by a mission to get there, and as we passed, three women standing outside and smoking were deathly silent, until one spoke up.

"We like your hair. You look just like a doll."

I smiled outwardly and glowed inwardly. The other two joined in with their own comments and Josiah thanked them for me. We all know how speechless I get when anyone ever does anything nice.

(For those of you who don't talk to me regularly, I've dyed my hair a pretty shade of blueberry. I'll have a picture up when I find my webcam.)

I don't get many compliments.

Dear Blogger,
 
You still haven't gotten back to me beyond the automated response letting me know you got my message. Considering you're owned by Google, I'm going to assume that you actually WILL get back to me, since the kids over at Google are so nice and prompt. This new WYSIMWYG of yours is retarded. I know it "streamlines the posting process" (though only through clicking a button for three characters of code than just typing them in), but all of those extra unnecessary lines of code on every single blog are going to bog down the loading times, not to mention are extremely ugly to look at. Once again, I beseech you to make the older, simpler box a third option, and not force me into using your equally worthless Blog This! application.
 
For the love of all that is aesthetic in the world,
Sawa

Dear Blogger,
 
I absolutely HATE what you've done to the layout, but more importantly, I'd like to know why I'm typing in a huge serif font in this post box, and it REALLY gets posted as my good old Arial at a size unoffending to the eyes. I'm pissed. Fix it.
 
Sawa

My dear sweet Christ, I've done it.

Did any of you READ that opening post?

I'm God damn magnificent.

I can't wait for the next rush to come, some outpouring of thick, sweet words. All over and around and off my tounge, fingers, palms, heart, soul, mind, existence all gushing out like some cork ripped out of a bottle of fizzing, fuzzy bubbling me. It feels like I can BREATHE again, and all is right in the world, with this keyboard underneath my small, thin fingers or my pens and sketchbook gripped tightly in hands that will never let you go, I promise you, paper and screen and internent and universe, oh, she'll never leave you again!

A baffling thing, how this all happened, but if you look closely into the posts leading up to when I left, you can see it. The voices started leaving, those representing past and present and futures that never came to fruition, they were disappearing in light of all the outside activity. Even my brain is not so strong that I can juggle with ease all the demands of growing out and going on to the next stage. All of my energies put into breaking my chrysalis and not letting the colors on my wings form. It was necessary, wasn't it? Something, someone tell me it wasn't for nothing and that I haven't lost eight god forsaken months because I couldn't take myself out of one thing and into another! Lord, Senioritis takes very strange embodiments.

Look at me, I can't even form modestly-sized sentences. Then again, I was never modest.

My days are reduced to filling out forms and making all the logos and things you see on trucks, vans, windows, signs and banners, ad nauseum. Full-time for the month of June, August is a gaping black hole and all I can think about is the moment that will come when I don't HAVE to work anymore, and I can return to schoolwork and glorious College Algebra and Creative Writing and how everything falls into place when I'm packing myself full of information, growing smarter, stronger, picking myself back up, and taking arms against all the seas of troubles and people that have ever and do hold me back. I'll come for you, you trollops, you identity thieves, you out-and-out SCOUNDRELS. BODY SNATCHERS. I'LL COME FOR YOU AND YOU WILL FEEL THE PAIN OF YOUR ACTIONS, AS EVERY GOD MAN HAS CREATED IS MY WITNESS, EVERY NERVE IN YOUR BODY WILL SHRED, QUIVER AND DIE BY MY WRATH.

Where once I was empty, now I am full. What once appeared lost is now found. The chained run free, the towers reform, take new shapes and new heights, and everything is once again good and right in my world.

And who knows.

Maybe she's already writing a story or two.

Would anyone care for a G-mail invite? I have four; e-mail me if you're interested.

Cat?

I'm a kitty cat.

And I dance dance dance.

And I dance dance dance.

I was thinking of starting this off with something like, "So here I sit, wearing nothing but boxers, a swimsuit top and Jade's yellow Victoria's Secret panties riding proudly atop my head," but now the first two aren't even true thanks to a certain someone getting a peek of my naughty bits and demanded I go to bed this instant, young lady.

(And if you were wondering about your panties, Jade... If my webcam weren't still packed I'd have a nice picture of them on my head for you.)

God damn you, work. You suck me dry of the things I think to write about. For now, I'm going to fry myself up some udon and watch my new kitten (Clover) play with our slightly older kitten (Pockets).

This awful book is reading to me my life as I flip the pages, pulling out all these tricks and pains and hideousnesses. I threw it against the wall, hating it and loving it as Arturo hates and loves Camilla, as I hate and love you, but you didn't move, didn't say a word, and even though the door was shut I could see you through it, in front of that game with the synthetic sounds of coded dying monsters and cyber metal clashing. I clutched my fists, thinking about how sticky I am and how I would take these pants off if I knew where my underwear was, and then I thought to myself, I could leave right now and go somewhere alone, somewhere that's not here with you oblivious in that other room that we shouldn't have, god damn it all I loved that studio for the closeness and it was just a step out the door to beautiful concrete that I could decorate day after day and how painful it is to live in this nest perched on a short, crowded limb with all the other nests. I told you that we didn't own a piece of concrete anymore. I don't think you grasped how much that fact hurts me.

I cried then, clenching and unclenching, the whispers of crying I used to do when I was so utterly hopeless and faithless. The crying that dies shortly after, only with you here I can't leave them on my cheeks, where they belong, to dry, or I get your insidious, neverending inquiries and begging and angry words and eventual frantic emotion that I'd do anything not to have to face right now. I cried hard and short. You couldn't hear me do that either, through the shut door or the thin walls.

I discovered that I stopped catching the moments I felt needed to be wrote, and that I would start catching them now, writing in my head what I would say to the screen with my aching fingers. A moment ago I was sitting, thinking about writing about writing about how I couldn't figure out what kept me from writing, but I just have to keep trying different solutions and hope for the sake of my existence that one of them works.

I know that this is all jumbly and dense, and awful to look at, painfully ugly to the eyes, and that I've gone and broken one of my own rules by starting three paragraphs with the same word, but read on and hear my plight.

I decided that even though I no longer talk to anyone I know (intentional or not), they might think it nice to hear about how I am, whether they take solace in the fact that I'm still alive, or delight in the retellings of my stupidity to every person who will listen (read: Jade). To the latter, indeed, I'm not dead, and quite the opposite; to the latter, I'll eventually kill you all, so it's no consequence to me what you decide to do with your remaining days.

Update indeed.

Moving on.

I'm practically pissing myself in the delight of Uwajimaya being within walking distance. I shop there once or twice a week. They've restocked my Koiwai coffee with more frequency, to the joy of my foggy bed-head each workday, and on top of this started stocking that wonderful peach juice I discovered and Alana promtly stole and spread among the slavering population of Green River Community College like she did with Gackt and Excel Saga. I won't begin to tell you I'm not bitter.

In other news, the base of each week hasn't changed a bit, and never will, save for my writing magically coming back into place (another story for another paragraph) and my being slung into abrupt fame. I still wake up at an ungodly hour to spend a good chunk of my day in a room I loathe to be in. Those of you who don't have the immminent pleasure just yet, live each waking day as if it were your last, for that's not quite far from the truth.

For fuck's sake, why do writers put off pissing until they can't bear to type another word? It's like I've never been older than six, and squirming around is far better than stopping.

I'm not sure if that made me feel better or more self-conscious.

Anyway.

It's a strange thing, living with someone who's neither parent nor sibling, nor any other part of a family. In doing so, the situation becomes a perverse inversion of every relationship you've ever been outward witness to. They become as close as family, but you're fucking them, which makes it incest, but without them, your living quarters, location, job, and very life would be entirely different, which now makes it religious incest. In shorthand, you're fucking, bitching at and peeing in front of Jesus. It's all very weird in a way I've just proved I'm bad at explaining. You all either already know or will know what I'm talking about.

Now, onto more important things, like my writing. You see, after NaNoWriMo 2003, my literary penis was severed. At the very least, a major nerve has been damaged and it now hangs limp from my crotch, small and sleeping. (Oh, the new wonders of penile euphemism. A plus to living with a guy that sits around naked all weekend.) This coma of thought has been absolutely detrimental to everything that holds the form with my name on it. It's like your tongue and fingers have been cut off and throw to the dogs. I have no way of communicating, no way to express myself, just gutteral grunts and wiggling of arms, and with working full time, I've had no energy to do even that.

I'm just going to let this all go and stop fencing it in.

Oh, for fuck's sake, RUN, CHILDREN. RUN FROM IT ALL, YOU'RE ILL PREPARED FOR THE THROES OF BILL-PAYING AND WAGESLAVERY. The clipped wings of obedience in return for financial security is so soft and sacred from my new perch upon the mountain of bodies of all the children dying 'round me. We're all DYING and not a thing can be done. Life ends at 18, and we're all dropping like flies out here. Stay in your homes, nobody wants you alive out here, children! THEY'RE LEECHES AND THEY NEVER LET GO!

I'm suspect that those of you older, 25 perhaps, have changed not at all, and all that's happened is the passing of years without much change of mind or manner. There's an insatiable ache for energy that you no longer have.

It's gotten so bad. You don't understand until you're out here.

So my penis hangs between pale thighs, hopelessly tired. Each raging urge to put letters in sequences tires it out even more, the strength and power it once held vanished. My physical nausea from unknown sources has drawn the whole of me into an equally dreary weariness, and I'm afraid that this has to end for now, but I'll be back, damn it all, and next time with everything in better order.

Degradation is an ugly thing.