I look around the chaos of my room, my car, my relationships, and
my life and I think, if I can’t write about this, then I’m just fucked up. I was
born, I was fucked up, and eventually, dead. Why can’t I get my shit together?
Why am I such a mess, inside and out? I look around at the stacks of paper,
piles of clothes, old half-drunk water bottles, and plastic bags, and I get
overwhelmed, so I do nothing. And I look inside, and I see my mind, filled with
anxiety, obsessions, compulsions, disorders, and depression, and I am
overwhelmed by that, too. How can I ever clean up my life? What if I don’t ever
get into grad school or become a writer? I don’t want to live and die having
done nothing but create a mess for others to clean up. If I died today, that’s
what would happen. I can’t sleep. I feel sad and angry and combative and lonely.
Writing is my only solace because when I write, it means I have a bit of hope
left, that maybe I will live to see the day that my life is put in print for all
to see, making meaning of it, analyzing it, critiquing it as if it were nothing
more than a literary work. I wouldn’t mind my life so much if someone benefitted
from it. Existing would seem more worthwhile.

_CREEP - RADIOHEAD

When you were here before
Couldn't look you in the eye
You're just like an angel
Your skin makes me cry
You float like a feather
In a beautiful world
I wish I was special
You're so fucking special

But I'm a creep
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here

I don't care if it hurts
I want to have control
I want a perfect body
I want a perfect soul
I want you to notice when I'm not around
You're so fucking special
I wish I was special

But I'm a creep
I'm a weirdo
What the hell I'm doing here?
I don't belong here

She's running out the door
She's running out
She runs runs runs

Whatever makes you happy
Whatever you want
You're so fucking special
I wish I was special

But I'm a creep
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here
I don't belong here

Well, I thought it would be a good time to post something new
since I have recently been falsely diagnosed with PTSD and bipolar disorder. It
really sent me into a fucking depression for a few days there. I was going to
sign up for disability and start collecting my checks. I felt like a fucking
crazy person. Not that people can’t function with those disorders, but damn, I
can barely function as it is, so that was like way too much for me to handle.
Plus, this so-called psychiatrist, who turns out to be nothing more than an
ARNP, prescribed me gabapentin, which made me fucking insane for a few weeks,
but then, after I complained about the gabapentin, she wanted to put me on
Lamectyl, one of the two main drugs for bipolar disorder! And I am NOT bipolar!
I might be a nut—I might pull out my hair, chew on my lips and fingers, and have
an immense capacity for self-loathing, but I assure you, I am not bipolar. I
should be so lucky as to enjoy manic episodes of overwhelming self-esteem and
delusions of grandeur. No, lucky me, I suffer from pure MD….Major Depression.
Yes, that’s right, it’s the depression part of bipolar without the fun part (the
part that keeps people from wanting to take their meds). Yeah, woohoo, yay, me!
I have regular-ass old depression. Old school, writer shit. Typical Jew shit. Go
figure, big fucking surprise. So I can’t get a real job, or a real life, I’m stuck here in my dad’s house, a thirty-one year-old chick, with a less than part-time job, and a desire to
become a “published author” one day, when I’m the only one (and occasionally my
therapist) who reads my blog. I drank nearly an entire bottle of wine and then
silently snuck into my dad’s bathroom and found a bottle of benzos from 1996.
Will they still work? I took four. We’ll see. I also binged on peanut butter and
various sugary substances for the first time in a long time. I’ve been doing
good, in fact, I weighed myself today and I was down to 115.6, the lowest weight
I have been in over a year. But I probably sabotaged that tonight since I ate
almost 3000 calories in one sitting just a little while ago. I am such an idiot
some times. Do I want to sabotage myself? I don’t know, maybe. My ex called me a
few days ago for the first time in months. I didn’t even know he had my phone
number. It pissed me off. I told him to never call me again and I hung up on
him. But still, it fucked me up. I told him, “Well, I hope YOU feel better,
because I don’t. You think you can just call me up and apologize and tell me
about your life and whatever, and I’m gonna be OK with that. Well, I’m not. I
was fine already and I planned to never talk to you again. So I hope YOU feel
better, because I don’t. I feel worse. I’m gonna go now. Don’t ever call me
again.” And then I hung up. It felt scary to officially and finally take my
power back, but it felt good, too. He knew I meant it. He didn’t call again.
That was it—he knew I was serious. He knew I meant it when I said “never call me
again.” And he knew I meant it because it’s the truth. I never for the rest of
my life have any need or desire to talk to that asshole ever again. He’s put me
and HAM and our relationship through hell and he has absolutely nothing to offer. I
don’t need him to write my memoir. All I need is MY story, MY memories—not his.
If he wants to write a memoir, then he can go right ahead, but this one is mine
and I know enough about him and the rest of the losers of my past to write my
story, I want to call is something like, “My Life Through You”, or “Chameleon:
  The Story of the Girl Who Changed for Him”, or “UFO: Unidentified Female Object”.
Maybe the last one is best. I’d like to keep my misery lighthearted. Seriously,
  though, if you can’t laugh at your own life, you have no business laughing at
  anyone else. And, sorry, but that just won’t work for me. I need to laugh at
  all of us—we’re all fools. Even the smart ones.

I was going to write something tonight, but the damn Adobe Flash Player was being a bitch and now it's time to pick up HAM from work. I am in my memoir writing class now. Also, applying for full time jobs and going on interviews, secretly hoping I don't get hired so I can go to grad school and eventually become a professor of Creative Writing after I become a successful author. I am also making this AMAZING vegan minestrone soup regularly, which is not only saving me money, but delicious and healthy too. I am loving the whole cooking thing lately. I'm good at it and I am slowly converting HAM to veganism through example (never through pressure because that is guaranteed to backfire). HAM is getting worse and worse at saying "I love you" lately. It's so hard for him, even though it's easy for him to show me he loves me in every other way. Why are those words so hard for him to say? I am wearing my hair in pigtails for him RIGHT NOW. I made him soup. I am picking him up from work so he doesn't have to spend money on a cab. I told him today, just like Bryan Adams said, "Everything I do, I do it for you." And it's true - I always want to make him happy and keep him loving me. But he's so weird about just saying those three fucking words, even when he knows how happy it makes me. I mean, I know what makes him happy - pigtails, homemade food, deep-throating, and back massages. I do all of that for him. Why can't he just say "I love you" a few times a day? Why is that such a problem? But whatever, that's besides the point. The real point is I want to go to grad school, I want to be a professor. Becoming a "professional" will only deter me from that path and that sucks hairy balls. So anyway, thanks, Adobe, for making this post so short and wishy-washy. What I really wanted to say was something eloquent and poetic, with deep social underpinnings. But instead, this is it. Damn you, Adobe!

Well, I'm feeling much better today. Steve Jobs died today, and that's not why I'm feeling better, but Steve Jobs has had an influence on me today. I had never heard his Commencement Speech at Stanford until today, because the news has been playing clips of it on repeat. This part really hit home for me: 

    "When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: "If you live  each day as if it was your last, someday you'll most certainly be  right." It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33  years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: "If  today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about  to do today?" And whenever the answer has been "No" for too many days  in a row, I know I need to change something. Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've  ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because  almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of  embarrassment or failure - these things just fall away in the face of  death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are  going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you  have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not  to follow your heart."

It's true. I am not a lawyer. I suck at standardized tests and I hate competition at school. I come from a creative writing curriculum, where everyone sits around a room and "workshops" eachother's manuscripts. It's commeraderie, not competition. (Although getting published is highly competitive, we support eachother in class.) And I like that. I want to stay in school forever - I prefer it to the real world most of the time. I am happiest in a creative writing workshop. That's where my heart is, so that's where I belong. I don't want to look back on my life, and say, "Wow, I really did what I thought I should do," I want to look back and say, "Wow, I did everything I wanted to do." Rest in Peace, Jobs.

Just wondering, do I look fat or ugly? Because HAM hardly ever wants to fuck me anymore. I have to put my hair in pigtails and do my makeup perfect and dress up in slutty clothes and get him drunk before he wants to fuck me. That's too much work. Why can't he just think I'm cute because he loves me? Why do I have to do so much shit just to get some? It's not that I don't like doing all that - it's fun most of the time, but I don't like feeling like I have to do those things to get his attention. Every night, before I even try, he's like, "Damn, I am so tired. I just wanna pass out." So, I can't even try to fuck him at that point. I really don't want to be one of those girls who ends up chasing some poor, undesiring man around the house. I don't wanna be Peg Bundy. And I don't wanna me single forever. I want to get married. And I may or may not want to have a baby. Not that I'm into the idea of child-rearing, but I am into the idea of having someone to take care of me when I'm old. I'm tired of having a really great friend that I sleep next to and spend all my time with - I mean, I like those things, I'm not tired of it, I just want to be desired, and I feel like I'm not and I can't talk to him about it and it sucks. I miss us fucking every night. Now I'm lucky if I get it twice a week, or once a week, and then he has to have a few beers first. It seems like every time we've fucked in the last couple months, it has been after some drinks. It's really stupid. It hurts my feelings and makes me feel like there's something wrong with me. It makes me want to cry. And I have been doing so well on this diet, too! I eat salad every day at lunch, and vegetables and lentils for dinner. I don't eat sugar or anything bad for me. Not even any gluten. My carb intake is way down. I am looking pretty good these days. But I am too poor to get my hair done and nails done, and I guess he needs all that shit, plus lingerie, to have any desire for me. That's what's lame about dating a young guy. He's so superficial. I've rarely had this much trouble getting sex out of my own boyfriend. I feel totally unattractive. The last time I had this much trouble getting sex out of my own boyfriend was when I was in a relationship with a gay guy. I know HAM's not gay, so that means he just doesn't want to fuck me. And like I said, that hurts my feelings a lot. At least I have shit to focus on now, like this memoir writing class and studying for the LSAT. Yeah, I said the LSAT. BG's latest plan is to be an animal rights lawyer. Let's see how long this plan lasts. If I could bet myself, I'd bet until my next period, so about three weeks. I am so tired of giving up on shit, it gets really exhausting. I just want to stick with something. And FUCK I want to move out of my dad's house. And it seems like I will be stuck here forever. I have no money, my hours are getting cut at work, there are no job prospects out there, and everything just sucks my imaginary balls. Oh, and I have folliculitis, so I have to take long-term antibiotics and I can't shave, can't even trim, you know where. Just one more thing to turn HAM off. Great. His birthday is in two days and I'm giving him a $200 gift certificate from me to redeem for tattoo work. I am such an awesome girlfriend and yet I feel neglected sexually. He is still present in other ways, and still sweet, but he just doesn't want to fuck me. I hate it. I think I really need that to feel attractive and loved. I feel like he doesn't really want to be with me if he doesn't want to fuck me. Sorry for saying fuck so much, but we don't make love - we only did that when we were both high on opiates. It turns out that what people say when they are on opiates is all bullshit. So all the "I want to be with you forever" shit is just that - shit. It's meaningless and I didn't realize that until I read "Scar Tissue", Anthony Keidis' memoir. He was a total junkie and he mentioned all the bullshit love talk people spout when they're high on opiates. I am such a fool sometimes. I actually believed everything he said. But it's obviously bullshit because he NEVER says it now. Who knows if he even wants to marry me one day. If one day, then why not at least make plans now? Why not ask me now and then it will happen "one day". But he won't do that, NO, because he doesn't even want to marry me. He doesn't know what he wants. Maybe he wants a place to stay, a ride, I don't know. Maybe he loves me. But I don't think he has any intention of being with me forever. It was just something he said when he was high. 

Be aware of my thoughts. That's what I'm supposed to do. What we hear when we're children is absorbed like water into a sponge. As a child, I heard I was fat, and I knew that no one liked me, so my brain equated being thin with being loved. And even though I am currently aware of this and realize that it is illogical, it's been so deeply engrained in me that I have to retrain my brain to believe something different. So the psychiatrist says, "Be aware of your thoughts" and try to stop them. She says I have a bit of body dysmorphic disorder. She says I look great. I showed her the big roll of fat on my stomach but she ignored it. I told her that I can't have dysmorphia if the fat is actually there, but regardless of the fat being there, I want to stop obsessing about it. She says "be aware of your thoughts". I would prefer a quicker fix than hours of therapy and being aware of my thoughts. What about hypnosis? Isn't there something I can do that won't take a long time? I'm tired of this shit. I am so tired of making everyone's life miserable with my constant, "I'm fat" ramblings. No one cares, no one agrees with me, and people resent feeling like they have to tell me I look good when they know I'll just keep saying I'm fat. I don't want people to be annoyed or resentful of me. I don't want people to dislike being around me. I guess I'm more likeable as a fat person with good self-esteem than I fat person with low self-esteem. Surprise! So I just have to accept the giant roll of fat on my stomach and not let it bother me. That just seems impossible. I guess I can at least start with not saying anything out loud. Maybe if I internalize the self-hatred, people won't resent me. God, this is just such bullshit. If only I could just lose the fat, then I wouldn't even have to worry about any of this, because when I'm thin, I know it, and when I know I'm thin, I don't complain about being fat. Therapists assume that it's something I complain about and see in myself no matter how much I weigh or how I look in the mirror, but the reality is that when I am thin, I know it, and I feel better about myself. I don't complain about being fat when I'm not fat. I guess the problem is that my standards for myself are higher than other people's. For me, I need to be in between a size 0 and 2 to feel like I'm thin. For other people, they think I am thin now. However, I am a size 4 now, and this is too big for me. I am a small person, only five foot two and three quarters. I have small bones and a small frame, and I don't need to be 123 pounds. It's too much for me. I should be 115 at maximum. I would prefer to be 110. I think this is reasonable. I'm not trying to be a skeleton, I've been anorexic and don't want to go back there. I like food. I don't want to look like a teenager. I just want to be height/weight proportionate...on the lower end of height/weight proportionate.If you look at the height/weight chart for someone who is five foot two with a small frame, they should weigh in between 108 and 121 pounds. So, I technically am two pounds over weight. And all I want is to be on the lower end of that chart. I don't want to be underweight. And you can ask anyone who knows me - when I'm at my ideal weight, I don't complain about being fat. Does my life get any better when I'm thinner? No, not really. Do I expect it to? No, not really. But it's certainly nice to be able to take my mind off my gut and start focusing on other things, so I guess there is a slight upswing in my quality of life when I am thin. However, there is the burden of trying to maintain that weight, and the fear that one taste of sugar will send me into the downward spiral of cheesecake-induced insanity. But you have to understand, I've spent most of my life as a cute girl, one who gets a lot of attention and double-takes from boys, and, while it may not be as epic as winning a Nobel Peace Prize, it still feels good. It feels great, actually, to be desired, to be "hot". And as I get older, I know that will continue to fade away and I will have to rely on my charm and quick wit to woo others, it's still painfully difficult to let go and let the younger girls have their moment in the spotlight. Like EP (aka Hot Girl), there's this one photograph of us together, and she just looks so radiant and shiny, full of life, almost glowing. And there was me, next to her, pale (literally) in comparison. I look okay, not terrible or anything, but certainly not glowing or shiny. I look dull, lifeless, like limp hair. That's age. EP doesn't tan, doesn't get her hair done, doesn't get her nails done, doesn't do any of the maintenance that I do to stay looking cute, yet she looks amazing next to me. So, shit, I've gotta stay on top of my game. Gotta get that tummy tight, gotta whiten those teeth and bleach that hair. I'm not ready to give up yet. And yet, no matter how thin and pretty I am, I still have no friends. I have one guy who loves me, and I love him, too, but I always wonder why he loves me and when he's going to leave. Sometimes I look at him and think, fuck...this guy is so gorgeous, in such good shape, he looks like a damn Abercrombie & Fitch model. He gets checked out by gay guys everywhere we go (so you know he's hot, because whether a man is gay or straight, you can count on him being superficial and attracted to beautiful things), so what does he see in me? I guess I'm pretty funny. And smart. An airhead, but smart, nonetheless. And he thinks I'm cute. Beautiful, sometimes. So I need to just accept that he loves me, believe that he wants to be with me and that he's not going anywhere (like he says). But I know he doesn't want a fat girl. He hates fat, especially on girls. He wouldn't be able to get a hard-on for a fat girl. So I have to at least stay thin for HAM. If not for the rest of the world, then at least for HAM. So anyway, I'm rambling, it must be time to stop, but the real point of all of this is that I need to be aware of my thoughts and stop them when they are negative because I am pretty awesome, and would be more awesome if I would shut the fuck up about my weight.

I haven't written much in a while. I was on vacation and then of course when I returned to work this week, there was a shit ton of shit to catch up on. HAM is still out of school, so he and I have been spending a lot of time together in the evenings, and, well, the writing gets the back burner I guess. But I haven't forgotten about it and have no intention of giving up. I guess I just took a vacation from everything for a while. Our road trip was eye-opening. We've decided that America is too stupid, too fat, and too meth-addicted to live here. We officially have a plan to move to France. We don't have a plan, actually, but we officially have plans to make a plan. One thing on the agenda is learning French. HAM can use his electives to take French at BC and I can take the classes with him (although I will have to pay full tuition). I want to assimilate into French culture. I don't want to be an American anymore. I am OK with giving up my citizenship here - this place is fucked. The way we treat our animals, our environment, our sick and our poor, the way we treat the world - we are fucked. Any entity that goes on for as long as this one treating the rest of the planet like garbage can't last. Rome fell, America will fall, too. I don't trust this place, I don't trust the government, I don't respect the government, and I'm tired of being in debt because I can't pay my coinsurance. Having insurance is probably the most expensive mistake I've ever made, because it gives you the illusion that you can afford healthcare, when in reality, you get raped in the ass at every turn with lab fees, coinsurance, deductibles, and monthly fees. I can't take it anymore. I'd rather be slowly, gently fucked over time with super high taxes than walk around thinking I'm safe and all of a sudden get raped in the ass with a $400 medical bill that I wasn't expecting. And Obama probably won't get reelected, not that it really matters anyway. Although, it could be worse. I've seen it. We could still be in the Bush years. I miss Clinton. Maybe he was a little dirty, and he did sign NAFTA into effect, which helped degredate the environment and force already suffering third-world countries into even more destitute conditions, but damn, at least we had jobs then. At least we had Al Gore. Now we have no one looking out for the environment, or education, or the future of this country. America is slippin' hard and I don't have any more good reasons to stay. I want to live where animals are treated with dignity and respect, where people are given healthcare as a right and not as privelage, where people are laid back about nudity and sex, where it's okay to enjoy wine and bread, yet not overindulge to the point of addiction and obesity, where being cultured and intelligent is still a good thing, and god damn, I want some of that mediterranean sun.

Well, of course, I overreacted about the wood. After going to Home Depot and Lowe's and not having any luck, I decided to just email my dad a confession. He assured me it was not that big a deal, that he had plenty more wood and stain for the wood, and that it could probably just be sanded out anyway. And I could breath again. Ahhhh.

Today I got my hair bleached lighter. I am seriously blonde now. I have this thing online called Mint that uploads all of my financial accounts and separated my spending, etc. into categories. It turns out I spend more money on my hair than I spend on food. Jesus! I guess my hair is to me like shoes are to most girls. Even when you're feeling fat and there aren't any clothes that fit, buy a new pair of shoes and all is well. For me, I really don't care for shoe shopping. I would go barefoot if I could. But my hair - I would go to the salon every week if I could afford it. I love how it looks when I leave the salon, so smooth and healthy, no dark roots, every strand in place, shiny, pretty, perfect. I do a pretty decent job with my hair, but nothing beats the work of a professional. In the past, before I could afford the salon, I dyed my hair every possible color. Every time something terrible happened, I would dye my hair. Every time I broke up with a guy, or if I had really awful PMS, I would dye my hair. After I left E and was living in the domestic violence shelter, I cut off my dreadlocks. Then I went on a platinum blonde crusade, stealing bleach and developer from beauty supply stores once a week in an attempt to get my hair to look like Marilyn Monroe's. It probably started when my Mom bleached my hair for the first time when I was 12. I don't remember if any tragic incident occurred before she did it, but I wouldn't be surprised, as the year 12 was a rather hellish year for me. We were living in these disgusting condos, Bellevue Manor, on 148th. It was the ghetto of Bellevue. Still is, in fact. My mom was in a relationship with TM, the biggest, fattest, loudest, most disgusting Italian jerk-off on the planet. His teenager daughter moved in with us, too. She was a crackwhore...no seriously...she was a 15 year old whore. I'm not positive if it was crack that she was after, or just the love and attention that her father never gave her, but whatever her reasons, she was selling her body. TM was horrible to me. He wouldn't let me talk on the phone. We had one phone line in the condo and in the living room, a little red light would turn on on the phone console whenever someone picked up the phone in any room. So if I picked up the phone in my bedroom, TM would see the light, storm in, and make me hang up. He wouldn't let me open the refridgerator. I would walk into the kitchen, reach out for the fridge door, and he would yell from his throne on the couch in front of the TV to back away from the door. When I would get home from school, I liked to watch TV for a while, but when he got home from work, he would tear into the living room, sit down on the couch practically on top of me, grab the remote out of my hand, and change the channel as if I did not exist. One time I came out of the shower with a towel wrapped around me (my bedroom was right next to the bathroom) and he came after me, screaming about something (I don't remember what), grabbed me the neck, and pushed me up against the wall in my bedroom. He was actually holding me up by my neck so my feet her dangling. My towel started to fall off, but he didn't care. He was up in face, screaming at me and I was terrified of this asshole. He was the most controlling jerk I'd ever known up to that point in my life. He was fat and he let his bodily functions fly whenever he felt like it. He yelled and swore all the time. He had road rage before there was a name for road rage. But my mom loved him for some reason, no matter how fucked up his kids were (his son was no better- in and out of jail and rehab and only 19 years old), and no matter how abusive he was towards me. So, I don't know, maybe in my mind, dying my hair is a way to escape pain? Maybe that's taking something superficial a bit too far, but I think there is some truth to it. She would also do things like take me shopping at Ross (Ross was third in my highest spending categories on Mint), and she would buy sweets and we would indulge together. She would buy 2 lb bags of peanut butter M&M's, or an entire cake, or a box of cookies and some ice cream. There were always sweets around, but especially if I was going through a hard time. Sweets were one the ways she helped me to feel better. And today, my three biggest spending categories are hair, food, and Ross. If I include all stores, not just Ross, shopping is the highest category I have. Five times that of hair. So I am addicted to dying my hair, shopping, and sweets. Big surprise. Mystery solved. But even if I am aware of the root of my compulsions, it doesn't stop them. I still want chocolate. I still want to be blonde. I still want a new pair of jeans. I wure would love a way to stop feeling like I need these things. I know I'm a shopping addict. I shop like I'm made of money, even though I only work part time and I am in major debt. It's actually really out of control. But I just want to spend. Sometimes it's not even the spending, just the shopping. The hours spent wandering around a store, picking things out, trying them on, making a decision. Half the time I don't even buy anything, even after spending hours in a store. There's something trance-like, meditative, about shopping. It's soothing and mind-numbing. Everything else just fades away, like how it would for a gambling addict when they're shoving quarter after quarter into a slot machine. The only time I come back to reality when I'm shopping is when I'm in the dressing room and i have to face how fat I actually am. Like today, for instance. I was wandering through Ross and I found some cuter jeans. I went to try them on and I could barely pull them up over my fat legs. They were glued to me, and they were a size 5! It's repulsive. It wouldn't be so bad if my stomach wasn't a bowl of Jello. I wouldn't mind being a size 5 if I had a nice, tight stomach but just had a big fat ass. A fat ass is fine if the rest of you is tight. Look at Kim Kardashian. She's made millions off that fat ass. But she has a small waist. That's key. My waist is soft and it has no definition. It has become grotesque. It makes me so sad because my waist used to be rock hard. You could see the muscles rippling through my skin. I looked HOT in a bikini. And this was only last summer. Now, it's Jello. Even though my stomach is still extremely strong, possibly more so than a year ago, you can't tell because of the fucking layer of fat covering it. I just wish I could get a handle on what I put inside my body. It's like, ridiculous because I can cut out meat no problem, eggs no problem, dairy no problem, soy only a slight problem, but for some reason sugar just has a hold on me. And sugar is the number one thing that makes people fat. Why can't I just let it go and stick to it? Why does it always creep back in, practically hours after I commit to giving it up. I just can't stop. I feel totally powerless over my cravings for sugar. Will I ever be normal? Will I ever be non-addicted? I feel like, even if I'm not drinking, drugging, or smoking cigarettes, my brain always attaches itself to something, clings to it and will not let go. How do people free themselves from addictions? I am tired of being ruled by outside sources, things that can never make me happy long-term, only fill a void temporarily, because the void always reappears. It opens back up almost instantly after the damage is done. All that money spent, all those calories ingested, and for what? I don't feel any better. I'm fatter and I have less money. That wouldn't make anyone feel good. I want to treat myself, my body, my money, my future, with respect and love. I want to save money and eat healthily. I want to stop this insanity because that's exactly what is is: doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. It will never happen. Blonde hair won't make me happy, chocolate won't make me happy, a cheap shirt that I won't even like in two weeks won't make me happy. It's no wonder I have piles and piles of clothes but nothing to wear. What would make me happy is a flat stomach and a savings account full of money. I don't mean that in the superficial way, either, I mean it in the sense that if I have a flat stomach, it's because I'm taking care of my body, and if I have a full savings account, it's because I'm taking care of my financial future. I want to be someone who treats themselves with that kind of love and respect. That's what would make me happy - being congruent with my beliefs. Being vegan is a fantastic start, but I still have a long way to go. I mean, let's be real, here: bleach is NOT vegan.

So my Dad has been in China the whole summer, and when he left, he only asked for a few simple things. One was to get the mail, another to water the plants, and the third was to make sure we didn't get any water on the wood pieces by the stairs because they are unfinished and will stain if any water gets on them. Well, we've been bringing in the mail, we've been watering the plants, and today we discovered that there are water marks all over the unfinished wood! I am just a little bit FREAKING THE FUCK OUT! After work today, we're going to Home Depot, and then Lowe's if necessary, to first see if there is a way to get the stains out, and if not, to have it replaced with identical pieces...I don't believe in God, but in situations such as this one, you better believe I'm praying that we can pull this off. If he comes home to that, it will just be one more reason not to trust me, one more reason that I couldn't possibly care for my own home. We are both totally confused by these stains, too, because, first of all, it's summer and has been relatively dry, and second, we have been extremely careful with the wood. We even moved the plants to the floor to avoid any possible spilling from the watering can. We don't set anything down on the wood. We are very careful to avoid setting anything down on the wood. So how could this happen? We're both at a loss for an explanation. But it sucks, that's the one thing we are both certain of. The other thing is that we are leaving on September 5th for our road trip, and he is getting home that same day, so whatever we do, it has to be done by then, and god, it better be good. If we can't fix this, I won't be able to sleep at night. I don't want to email him about it and have him pissed on his way home and pissed again when he gets home. We have to, I repeat, have to find a way to fix this situation without him ever finding out. My last resort is to take the cat, dip his feet in water, and press his paws into the wood over the water stains to make it look like he did it. My Dad would never get mad at the cat, the cat is his fucking golden child, the son he never had, Mr. Prrrrfect. The little shit. But whatever, it would piss him off, but not nearly as much as it would piss him off if he thought that HAM and I did it. And I'm not into animal abuse, like I wrote recently, I've gone vegan again, but don't put it past me to hold him against his will, dip his feet in water, and press his paws all over that damn wood until he is sure to be 100% framed for the staining of the wood. Of course, I hope it doesn't come to that, I hope there is a more humane resolution to our problem. It's not that my Dad would DO anything to me, it's just the disdain he would have for me, one more reason not to trust stupid, irresponsible BG. BG, always making bad decisions, BG, never able to follow through on her responsibilities, BG, a failure. Maybe this is more my own idea of myself than it is his, but where do you think I got it from? Years of being treated like a dumb girl, because girls are silly and don't really know anything and they can't take care of themselves, and they're certainly not as smart as men. And I don't just experience this with my Dad, but with most men, men in general (with a few exceptions of course). Whatever, they can kiss, my big, smart, responsible, ass.