Boadicea

.and if I ever say otherwise, kill me.

Ok, I hate the kissy-face noises that couples make to each other. It makes me gag. And if I ever have a S.O. and s/he does that to me, I'll throw up and then kill him/her.

I also hate PDAs to excess (read: dry-humping in the mall; lots of drool/slobbering whilst kissing; snogging on benches; and not being able to be separated for more than 0.5 of a second, not even to go to the bathroom); phone conversations ending with "No, you hang up!" ad in-fucking-finitum; couples who go to a movie they haven't seen and don't actually watch it (it's so fucking disrespectful to the filmmaker...unless of course you're watching The Land Before Intelligence Time Three Hundred Gajillion and Ten---then by all means, snog, cause it's the only worth you'll get out of the 16 bucks you paid to get in [aside from this exception, see below]); and when people seem to lose their spines when they enter into a relationship. "No, honey, I don't have any plans for the future except to be your spouse and have lots of kids and to do whatever you want to do! Tee hee!"

What I love about relationships (not mine; other people's)......holding hands. Hugging. Quick, sweet, chaste kisses in public (what you do in private is your business). INDEPENDENCE. Compromise without compromise (meaning, I'm willing to work with you on various issues but I will not take your bullshit and you will not take mine). Fun, carefree, non-sexual frolicking through fields of daisies. (Ok, so I'm a fucking hopeless romantic. Are you barfing yet?) Fun, carefree, non-sexual frolicking through the dairy section of Safeway (and this must include big blocks of cheddar cheese, somehow...and yes, I did say 'non-sexual'). Going to a movie you've seen several times already and watched to snog in the back, though if you do this in Star Wars a plague upon both your houses. Playing games of Mad Libs to compose poems/wedding vows for each other. Laughter. Love without price. Love without conditions. A willingness to grow and change together. A willingness to sing love song duets on Karaoke Night at your local sushi bar. Hand-feeding food to each other in that really sweet, very sappy way that only couples can do (and this will, of course, lead to either sex or a steamy snog session on the couch/dining room table/kitchen counter back home, and that's good too).

There's lots more that I love, and lots more that I hate. But this is enough for one entry.

.I've learned that I'm pleasantly furious half of the time.

About everything. Everything everywhere, and everyone, in everyplace and everytime. But most especially, I'm furious about the Gender Wars. I mean the atrocities done from men to women and from women to men: husbands beat their wives; wives kill their husbands in retribution; girls lie about rape and get guys sentenced to jail; men rape women and get away with it; women deal crushing blows with words of steel and men commit suicide; men leave women for one younger and prettier; women leave men for one richer and older; men are afraid to commit but can't admit, and relationships become years wasted in a love that goes nowhere; women aren't ready for sex but don't let on until it's too late to say wait, and if you're lucky he'll pull himself back but you've gotta let him know; and because of all this or maybe a part of all this is men and women afraid to love each other because they might get hit.

With humanity's great capacity for good and evil and great capacity for learning, you would think that we'd begin to get it. That it is harder to walk the path of good, but in the end, so much more worth it.

I'm using Freud's analysis of the psyche as an analogy of where demons, humans, and angels fit on the scale because it's what really does what I think justice: demons are the id, humans the ego, and angels the superego. Angels are so into pure that they won't put nutella on their bagel; demons take chocolate syrup baths and live in decadance without substance. Humans have a nutella bagel once in a while, but mostly eat granola. And therein lies the balance.

But there are...influences. Something pushes humans one way or the other.

I'm begining to bitterly think that it's nothing more than choice.

i want to stop thinking.

Only a Plank Between One and Perdition

.that horrible midpoint.

There is this horrible midpoint between beautiful and beautiful in two different cultures: the aboveworld culture of the beauty myth, thin is in, etc, and the underworld of fat admiration. I am at that midpoint. Camryn Manheim*, apparently, is at that midpoint. At the midpoint, you're 'too fat' for the aboveworld, and 'not fat enough' for the underworld. It seems that the people who like girls my size are few and far between.

And yes, I specify women, because for men it seems not to matter. I wouldn't know, I'm not a fat man (not biologically, at any rate), but it really seems that fat men have an easier time getting dates than fat women do. My dad has had no problem securing three wives and five million girlfriends in his lifetime, and there was never a time when he was 'skinny' (except pre-puberty, but that doesn't really count, now does it?). In fact, the rather portly countenance of my father and his mother are, I'm sure, what I inherited.

Now, I'm not at all blaming genetics on my weight. I know that it's psychosis, years of self-hate and abuse, and depression that has contributed to the size I am now. So no, it's not the fault of my DNA. But my genes are a factor, like it or not. Just as my genes for soft teeth are a factor in my having several cavities and one gold tooth, and just as my genes for bad fucking luck are a factor in my wisdom teeth choosing to come in underneath my middle molars.

Like it or not, I'm big, and like it or not, I'll never ever be smaller than a size 12. (Come to think of it, I wouldn't want to be. My mother thinks I could be a size 10, but that's just too much work. I'll be happy with a 14.)

Yes, my body is huge, yes, I'm a fucking fat-ass, and I wouldn't consider myself pretty. The first two points I'm making are facts that I have accepted, and the third is 1/2 self-hate and 1/2 "Yeah, I wouldn't date me."

Regardless, the self-hate is still huge, still there. It's what fueled my anorexia and made me lose twenty pounds (which I gained back at the slightest whiff of acceptance in Guatemala, where they like women no matter what size). It is what forces me to go to the gym when I'm exhausted and push myself beyond my limits. It's what makes me choose a salad, or no food at all.

These are, in my view, good things. I need to lose this weight. Not for the beauty myth, the non-existent perfect body, or for the purpose of landing a boyfriend (though that would be a welcome side-effect). No, I need to lose this weight because I will most likely die if I don't. Yes. It's sad and it's true. I'm 18 and I'm facing serious health problems because of my weight. I can feel the near-heart attacks coming on, and when I throw out my back or my hip or my knee, I know it's not because of my joints because I drank a fuck of a lot of milk as a kid---it's because of my weight.

Being 128 pounds overweight is no small deal. It is a very big deal. And while I am this weight, I can't have kids, because the dangers already inherent in pregnancy combined with the dangers I now face would irreperably damage my health. I can't get lipo, either suction or selection, because doing so would make pregnancy impossible. Bit of a Catch-22, or it would be if I didn't have another option.

Yes, good old-fashioned working out, eating right, staying fit, and losing weight naturally.

Of course I can't do that normally. I have to do it my way.

So I got a membership at 24-hr Fitness and now go to the gym at 2 in the morning, after eating maybe 500-1000 calories a day. (Remember: 1200 calories/day is a starvation diet.)

*Incidentally, Camryn Manheim is amazing, beautiful, smart, and a wonderful actress, and anyone who thinks otherwise can answer to me and my Feminist!Fist of Death.

.but there must be something else.

Besides this whole 'horrible midpoint' thing, I do believe that there is something else that prevents people from loving me. Or from being close enough to me to love me without fear.

I've thought this for a while, and it was only after hearing it from someone else other than my mom that I really started to believe it.

It's my passion. My utterly raw enthusiasm for life or whatever else I fling myself at. (That includes depression.) If I do film, I do so with abandon, throwing everything I have into that piece of work to make it spectacular. If it's classes, I work my ass off. If it's a relationship, I scare my partner.

And I think that people see this coming before they see anything else. Even if I try to be demure and muted in order to get to the next phase of courtship, it wears off very quickly and the person leaves in interest of calmer, more controllable prospects.

Because let's get one thing straight: I will not be controlled. And I can't be calm. I try to be calm. But something excites me and whoops! There went that plan. So I just have to be myself and hope that someone who is male, likes girls, and is single will appreciate me and love me for who I am.

... ... ... ...

So a life of solitude it is, then.

.hypocrisy is a many-tongued demon.

And yes, I am fucking bitter about this: the shit that people spew about personality and smarts mattering more than the body size/type/looks (you know--mind over matter). It's BULLSHIT. Utter bullshit. The people who say this are in denial. They will indeniably go for a certain type, because it's in our natures.

I, for one, prefer girls who are shorter than I am, and skinnier (and who isn't?); I prefer guys who are tall and slender---but these are just preferences. Possibly completely overridden in favor of personality and brains and sense of humor. As well, totally possible for me to find people who don't 'fit' my preferences as totally gorgeous and attractive. It's not set in stone.

But at least I acknowledge my preferences. I acknowledge that yes, I am human, and yes, I have likes and dislikes. But they're not even written down in spiritual law, much less engraven in stone.

Most people don't. They don't acknowledge their preferences. They pretend they don't care, and then when asked why they won't go out with someone, they'll give bullshit answers: "She's not my type," (how can you have a type if you won't acknowledge your types?) or "I'm going to become a monk and have taken a vow of celibacy." Which is pure bullshit for someone who's 17. I can't believe I fell for it.

You know what? Stop telling me it's not about body size for you. Stop that line. Stop telling me that you care much more about personality, because it's obviously not true: I've been single for four years and you apparently like my personality enough to be my friend, but not my S.O. Tell you what: for once, be fucking honest, and maybe when I see you act differently, I'll consider believing the mind/matter line.

But for now, don't even fucking bother.

All of this Past

Found this delightful bit of writing at this site (courtesy Vox Humana):

Dear Mr. President,

It has come to our attention that, due to a prolonged period of rather adverse weather conditions which has now abated, the United States currently has much of our soil piled up on top of it. Granted, this did not happen during your administration, nor did it, as far as we can determine, happen during anyone's administration. We therefore hold you blameless in this matter.

We would, however, like to have all of it back. This would include silt, sand, gravel, miscellaneous pieces of rock, and, of course, the topsoil. You need not return the groundwater because we do have plenty of that up here, but also to spare you the difficulty of trying to send drippy packages through the mail. Regular post would be fine, but FedEx would be splendid and also go a long way toward repairing your rather sad reputation up here.

Thank you for your immediate attention to this matter.

Sincerely,
The People of Canada

---

Corpse At The Gym

I have never felt so dead inside in my entire life. I feel a great aversion to doing anything that requires emotional energy. However, working out at the gym is fine. When people ask me how I'm doing, I want to say, "I died two weeks ago. How are you?"

There are times when it hits me and I start sobbing uncontrollably for a minute or so before I slap myself and say, "Dude, you're driving. Get a grip!" I have started keeping a box of tissues in my car for this very purpose.

And I think I've lost my...caring for things. If I ask a friend to hang out with me and s/he says no, I'm busy, then I really could care less. I go and do something else. It's not loneliness. It's almost like the loneliness is my comfort as much as the company is.

I don't feel like talking. Silence took my voice. And it's not like the previous 'no talking' bouts I've had. This time I /really/ don't feel like it. So I don't.

I suppose people think I've fallen into a dislike of them. This isn't true.

I just....

I need some time. That's all.

And at the same time I feel like that time that I need will never ever be enough. That no matter what I do, this pain will not ease. This grief will not dissipate.

When I went to go see her, I kept on expecting her to wake up. I expected her eyes to open and see me, and I expected her to smile. I thought my wonderful wolffy dog would return to me.

And even now, I find myself thinking that I should have tried to reach her. That I should have tried to bring her back.

This is how I know that I walk the borders of the Twisted Kingdom. Gray shapes make up my world. I don't know where reality begins or ends.

There is a big, gaping hole in my heart. I can feel her not being there as sharply as I felt her presence when she was alive.

The night before I left Guatemala there was a documentary on a wolf pack on tv, dubbed in Spanish. I couldn't watch it.

Revelations 22:20

PARENTS LIE.

YAY I AM NOT DEAD ON BD!!!!!!!11111oneoneoneeleven

I met people who think like I do: 'fucking Christians' and 'fucking Texans'.

Which is unfair, because I know Christians who are really cool and I know Texans who are really cool and I know Christian Texans who are really cool, so I know that it's just a stereotype and I'm generalizing.

But then I think of raptureready.com, and I cringe at the utter....there's not even a word for it.

Then I think of my dad, who's not even from Texas originally but lived there long enough to /be/ Texan (yes, he does have a gun--3 of them).

And then I think of Bush.

And I realize, generalization or not, there is a Christian Texan in charge of this fucking country--a Rapture-believing, Christian Texan. Who thinks that God wanted him to be President.

Well, you know, God also wanted us to "Love Thy Neighbor", but SORRY CANADA AND MEXICO! And also, God said "Thou Shalt Not Kill, unless you need their oil, in which case bomb the fuckers." Yes. That was in the Gospel of Bullshit.

I'd say we're going to Hell in a Handbasket, except for two things:
1) The Handbasket is broken down--terrorist bombs, you know;

and

2) Hell is my home, it's nice, and where we're going is much, much worse.

One Winged Angel, full version

I need a new mp3 player. mine sucks.

If you read yesterday's entry, don't think I'm being shallow and immaterial and not thinking of my dog. If i think of Blue any more, I'll cry. and it'll be fucking Niagra Falls. I can't afford that yet. Not until I have someone to hold me while I cry, and that's not forthcoming here. So I have to hold in the grief and rage for 8 or so days, until I get home, and be happy and smiley in the meantime. Because it depresses people when they ask how I'm doing and I say "My dog died on Friday." When I really want to say "My daugther died on Friday," because that is what Blue was to me, but that would attract unwanted attention and questions.

I'm so fucking fed up with people's sympathy. I want someone to hold me. For as long as I need it.

Only one person has ever done that for me (though I'm sure, if given the opportunity, others might), and I might get to see him as I pass through LA. If you pray at all for me, then pray that I get to see him and ease my heart's anguish. Don't give me your sympathy. Empathy I'll take. Sympathy I can't stand.

And while you're at it, give a kick to God's corpse for me. She's fucking dead as far as I can see.

I am so done

This is it. God has had my soul on slow-cook for years, and I'm finally fucking done. Ready to be served up when Lucifer comes over for tea tomorrow.

Fuck you God. Fuck you and your whole holier-than-thou posse.

Was eleven days too long for your great fucking omnipotence? Was it? You couldn't make my wonderful canine companion's kidneys hold out the eleven days it would take me to get home? Was that too much for your little hands of doom and greatness? Could handle creating the fucking universe but not keeping Blue healthy long enough for me to see her one last fucking time?

Blue was all that mattered to me. Through thick and thin, when the going got tough I was able to keep my faith in You, God, because Blue was with me. Even when I was close to losing it all--her smiling furry face was there to remind me that You existed, and that You loved me.

I knew it was her time. How could I not, between her back breaking and her heart failing and her energy dropping like a lead balloon? I knew. But I hoped that you would love me enough to let me be with her. To be with someone, not all alone in Guatemala. You couldn't even let it happen before mom left. You had to be completely sure that I had no one to hold me as I cried and cried and cried until the 98% water that makes up my body was gone. You had to be sure that she wouldn't survive my abscence, even after I decided to come home a month early, and you had to be sure that I would be alone in my grief and anger.

Whatever trust I might have placed in you is gone. FUCK YOU. Fuck you god. You fuck and you fuck and you fuck with people until they can't take it any more and turn to drugs and alcohol and theatre.

Oh, gee--just when I decided to quit those three, just when I thought my life was picking up--sure, there's no money and I'm still fat as fucking hell, but life was getting steadily better and had been stable for months--no suicide attempts in weeks! Big fucking improvement, don't you think?--then, then you had to do this. And not even the fucking courtesy of letting Mom be with her. Mom was in LA.

Do you even care? Or notice? Too busy searching the divinenet with yahweh! to make her last 11 more days? Her spirit would have held out--it wasn't a broken heart she died of. It was her fucking kidneys that gave out.

But I suppose your Sniper Rifle takes up a lot of energy.

That's it. I'm done. The only angel I believe in now is One Winged...and I have a lot to learn from Sephiroth's anger.

Know that my anger is great...and I shall strike down all in my path with a great and terrible vengenance.