Brreeeeeeed

Weeeellll, shit. I went back to the motherland to burn the Yule Log and celebrate the flipping over of the Gregorian calendar. And while I was there I checked in with mi hermano y mis padres. Ay, dios mio. Es no bien.
Families are dumb. Like, there is so much hating going on, but at the same time you're feeling bad about it because you know deep down in your heart that these are the only people that are BY LAW obliged to give any kind of a rat's ass if anything happens to you. Ugh. So much shit that I totally cannot be bothered dealing with on any level ever.
I want to have the babies. I do not think this is such a crazy thing for a lady of my years to want. We get to a certain point and our biology is all like, fucking breed, motherfucker! Well, yeah. That is a thing I would quite like to do. Not, like, next week, or anything like that. But within the next three to five years...yes, having a kid is a thing that I think would be an OK thing to happen. I'm not stupid about it. I'm not going to get the next human with a penis to sperminate me and get it all going on.
I'd quite like the breeding process the be a two person activity, right up to at least the eighteenth year. I'd be perfectly capable of being a single mum, but I'd quite prefer to have someone on hand to blame to for anything that went wrong with the wee ankle-biter. And that person would have to be someone with a similar sense of humor, someone I didn't hate with the fire of a thousand suns, y'know? Trouble is, all the dudes I know who fit that description are all like, I don't want to have kids, or oh, I dunno, maybe someday, blah blah blah.
Newsflash, "someday" d-bags...wait those extra years and you're totally going to be popping out a bub with autism or down's. Not that those kids aren't totally worthy of love or whatever, but if you're as lazy as I think you are, parenting a kid with special needs prolly isn't way the fuck up there on your list of priorities. So don't be thinking that just 'cause you're never going to have to go through all the IVF bullshit you can wait 'til you're eighty to mould a set of tiny perfect correctly-chromosomed offspring. Your genetics have the same goddamn use-by date as mine, motherfuckers.

Gonna change the world, gotta plot and scheme...

I am a little bit worried about how 2013 is going to turn out. This is mostly because I'm starting at the University of the Incredibly Common in...ooh, let's see...two weeks. Jesus tap-dancing Christ. I will most likely be taking five classes and trying to load clinical hours on top of that. This is in addition to teaching two nights and two mornings a week, possibly more. I will also still be trying to practice two hours a day and performing as much as I was in the past year, hopefully more. I plan on maintaining ye olde fancy-pants GPA and going to

I do not deal well with being overextended. Poor Ten-Hut had to deal with a truly magnificent meltdown that I indulged in last Superbowl Sunday. Much sobbing and gasping was involved. At least one other friend has seen tearily declaring that it's all too much, it's just TOO MUCH STUFF and I JUST CAN'T, I JUUUUUST CAAAA-AH-AH-AAAN'T... While it's nice to know that there are people who have my back, I'd really prefer not to sink into the mire of stressed-out self-pity in the first place if I can possibly avoid it.

Since I've already wasted enough time trying to quell my anxiety with booze and wilful, head-in-the-sand ignoring of the situation, I suppose it might be worth my while to make some sort of plan. I really don't want to burn out in six months and have to start all over again. A plan is no guarantee that this won't happen, but I suppose it's better than nothing.

IPHY'S SUPER-RAD AWESOME SCHEME TO NOT FLUNK OUT OF COLLEGE, LOSE ALL HER JOBS, AND END UP HOMELESS BY THE FULLERTON ON-RAMP BEGGING FOR CHANGE WHILE WEARING NEWSPAPERS FOR PANTS:

1. Magical calendar-type help. If I can get a day planner for my phone that links up with my Google calendar, one that sucks less than the one I currently have, maybe I'll use it more. Maybe I'll check it six times a day and set alarms and reminders. Maybe then I won't forget things, or let things sneak up on me and get freaked out when I realize I've triple-booked myself. One little app download could make all the difference.

2. Budgeting. Bllerrrrgghhh. I seriously do not want to do this. Budgets are for people who lack the creativity to whip up tasty meals out of hummus, leftover pizza, and edamame. Budgets are for people with their lives in some semblance of order. I am not those people. However, I do quite like living in a pleasant, well-heated, comfortable abode, even if the neighborhood it's situated in is a bit on the dodgy side. I like having an unlimited talk and text plan. I like being able to go to the bar once in a while and occasionally purchase low-priced clothes or shoes that I don't strictly need. I would like to keep all of the above as features of my existence, which will require some kind of fiscal responsibility. So...a budget it is, I suppose. It's kind of hard when one's income changes from month to month, but I guess I can figure it out. Anyone want to show me how to use Excel?

3. Therapy. No idea how I'm going to fit that salty little treat into my already-bloated snackhole of a schedule, but I think it's important enough that I can't ditch it altogether. If you don't have enough sanity to continue functioning day-to-day, you don't have much of anything.

4. Getting a damn car. I don't know how I'm going to afford this, but it's long overdue. People who are way more broke than me have cars. I don't even want a fancy one. I'd settle for a seriously crap car as long as I knew it wasn't going to die on me in the middle of the freeway. A car, insurance, city sticker, gas...uhhh, what else? I suppose there's a website I could look at that covers all this. Ugh. I really would prefer not to think about it, but there we are. If it means being able to take more gigs and not having to take a bus and two trains to get to After School Special, I suppose it's worth it.

5. Selling my unwanted possessions on Amazon and e-Bay. Ten-Hut has been doing that for a minute. People will buy all kinds of shit, apparently. I wonder how hard it is to set all that up? I bet someone would pay good money for that red vintage Playboy bunny outfit.

I am now out of ideas, but I think I shall return to the plotting and planning in the next few days. If worst comes to worst, I suppose I can always follow Pip's punk-rock mother's advice and become a pro-dom. I'd look awesome in a PVC corset, I bet.

There will be feasting and dancing

Next year, I'm going to...

1. Get a car. And a driver's license, I suppose.

2. Send my promo stuff to that one company that Dys kept going on about, and that other one in New York. Maybe nothing will come of it, but they're pretty much guaranteed not to give me anything if I don't get in touch with them, so what have I got to lose? It'd be nice to side-step those d-bags at Hometown Heroes. They are my primary revenge-motivation. I plan on being so rampantly successful that when H.H finally come to their senses and try to book me for shit, I can be all like, sorry, I'm unavailable because I'm too busy kicking ass and taking names and being Better Than You. Yes, I am that petty. Fucking shut up.

3. Do a little researchin' and see what else I can come up with. I know people in places other than here. Perhaps I could be doing things in those places.

4. Be more informed. TED talks, people! Scanning news sites for a couple of minutes every day, reading the paper, finding websites that tell me about books written about things that actually matter. I suppose it's time to finally become a citizen of the world, or at least something less of an ignoramus.

5. Travel. I'm going to go to at least one place that I haven't been before, that I'm not getting paid to go to.

6. Keep up with the improvement with The Problem. I think it's been about nine weeks. Someone should give me a poker chip or something.

7. Talk to the folks more. A small part of me may hate them with the fire of a thousand suns, but a much larger part knows they're not going to be around forever, and it's not worth wasting time holding grudges.

8. Try to be a little nicer. People are never going to get smarter or less annoying, so I suppose it's up to me to make sure I either deal with their irritating bullshit with as much grace as I can, or find ways to not be around them. I will be the best-natured hermit you only sort of met.

Blah blah blah

Home For the Holidays

It’s amazing how insistent you are that I come back for Christmas. When was Christmas ever a big deal for us? You were usually working, and you were usually drunk. ­You were always stressed out and cranky, and someone always ended up yelling at someone else. You did nothing to help. Did you ever pick out a present for either of us? We knew we’d never get anything we wanted and no one would look forward to the day itself. The rest of the respective clans were on the other side of the country. Family didn’t mean anything to us. Why do you even want to spend time with me, anyway? When did that become a thing?

What even makes you think that I want to lose out on three weeks of work and spend thirty fucking hours in transit to see you? I don’t want to get all Cat’s in the Cradle here, but you had your chance. You had me for eighteen years, the eighteen years that actually counted, and you blew it. You couldn’t get it together to love me then, so you don’t get to love me now. And you sure as shit don’t get me loving you.

I know a lot of it is my fault, the issues that I’m dealing with. I don’t deny that. I’ve grown up enough to have mastered the art of admitting it when I’m in the wrong. I can recognize that a significant portion of my problems are either in my own head or stem from my own actions. I’ve made peace with that, and I’m working on it. I put in my time at therapy, I take my meds, I talk to friends, I pray, and I try every damn day to be a better person. I won’t let my past actions shape my future.

“Mary have mercy, now look what I've done
But don't blame me, because I can't help where I come from…”

 - Amanda Palmer

I didn’t spring fully-formed from some kind of magical pod, however. If I’m fucked up, you’re at least a little bit to blame. Some of this shit is your fault. I know you apologized for not knowing what to do to help me and I appreciate that, really, I do. I appreciate all the good things you did. I can honestly say there were more good elements than bad in my childhood. Right now, though, all I can see is the miserable, cold, lonely, unhappy parts. I’d like to take this opportunity to do a little finger-pointing and name-calling, just so you can see them, too.

I’m tired of being a good sport. I’m over looking at the bigger picture and being even-handed and fair. I am an angry, whiney little brat and this time you are going to sit there and listen to me and you don’t get to interrupt or rebut. You aren’t allowed a defensive address. You just have to sit there and listen and feel fucking terrible about yourselves as I point out everything you did wrong.

“All day I've been wondering what is inside of me?
Who can I blame for it? I say it runs in the family…”

You said you didn’t know what to do to help me, but you didn’t even try to figure it out. One visit to a therapist because of the cutting, and then we never spoke of it again. Huffing in frustration any time I’d mention the absolute hell I was going through at school that one year. Pretending not to notice the losers and creeps I’d take to my bedroom, pretending I wasn’t out opening my legs for half the goddamn town every weekend. Looking the other way when I went out and got blackout drunk, or stayed home and did the same damn thing by myself. Never mentioning the night of the Year 12 formal when I landed in the hospital because of drugs. Never bothering to notice or ask or try and get me to tell you what was going on. It was all too much trouble, wasn’t it? You weren’t willing to put in the effort, and you weren’t there for me. You let me down, and now I go through life waiting for everyone else I care about to inevitably let me down. Because of you, I can’t trust anyone, not really. If someone leaves, or isn’t there when I need them, it’s not that big of a deal. It’s no more than I should have expected.

“It runs in the family
This famine that carries me to such great lengths,
To open my legs up to anyone who'll have me
It runs in the family
I come by it honestly, do what you want
'Cause, who knows, it might fill me up…”

Because you hit me, I forged a twisted connection between love and pain. I have a secret desire to be with someone who hits me, did you know that? Did you know I’ve always thought what I really deserved was a partner who would show they loved me by giving me bruises? You said you didn’t understand when I used to cut myself. What is there to understand? I was bad, so you hit me and then we never talked about the bad parts and then things were better. I grew a little older and I did things that made me feel bad, so I hurt myself and never talked about it, and then things were better. It was so simple, and yet you never made the connection.

I don’t care that it wasn’t all the time. If I still remember it, then it counts. I don’t care that you had it so much worse growing up. I don’t care that it used to be the standard. It should have occurred to you that there was a better way, and you should have worked to find that way. It’s fucked up to discipline a child by hitting them with a belt. It is FUCKED UP. There is nothing OK about physically harming someone, anyone, to get your point across. If I saw one single bruise on any of the kids I teach, or heard them mention that their parents hurt them, I would be calling in DCFS quicker than you could say, “judged unfit.”

“Runs in the family
We tend to bruise easily, bad in the blood…”

Nothing I do will ever be good enough. Not ever. I know you thought you were doing the right thing, raising me to be humble and not vain or full of myself. You were cutting down the tall poppy, always making sure not to be too precious. God forbid I should ever exude confidence or feel pride in my achievements. I will tell you this: a child’s parents are the only ones who have a duty to make a fuss over that child, maybe not all the time, but at least some of it. If your parents don’t tell you you’re smart and pretty and kind and good, who else is going to? If your parents don’t tell you that stuff, when will you start telling yourself?

You set the worst possible examples with food. You never bothered to fix your own disordered eating and, as a result, I inherited it along with curly hair and anger issues. Thanks a whole lot for that. I hope I’m there for your heart attack, you fat greedy fuck. I hate that you’ve made me like this. I hate that I have to consider it an achievement when it’s been a few months since I made myself throw up. I hate that I can count on my fingers the number of holiday meals I’ve actually digested.

“Me? Well, I'm well. Well, I mean I'm in hell.
Well, I still have my health (At least that's what they tell me)
If wellness is this, what in hell’s name is sickness?”

You gave me the worst possible model of how relationships should be. Are you at all surprised that I’ve been divorced twice? How could marriage seem important to someone who grew up viewing it as an insignificant, vaguely unpleasant chore? I can’t remember ever seeing either of you tell the other that you loved them. I can remember only a couple of occasions of you kissing each other. How was I supposed to know that it mattered, that it was possible to be with someone who made you happy? And that you could make them happy, too? It never occurred to me that there could be another option besides dividing your time between being furious with each other and freezing one another out? How the fuck was I supposed to know what a successful relationship looked like, much less have one of my own? Because of you, I only ever fall for people who will ignore me or treat me badly. I accept the kind of love, such as it is, that I think I deserve, and I am looking down the barrel of a life lived alone.

I hate that I still have this well of rage bubbling up inside of me. You were both so angry, always so damn angry in your own special ways. Yelling and slamming and swearing and smashing, or sulking and avoiding and shunning. You couldn’t get it together to figure out how to deal with things like civilized human beings, but you thought it was OK to have kids and bring them up in that toxic environment? Well done, people. Gold fucking stars all around. I’m almost thirty and I’m teaching myself things that you should have taught me before I was out of primary school. Thanks for that.

“I'm telling you 'cause I just want you to know me,
Know me and my family, we're wonderful folks…”

Did you ever wonder why I left? I left as soon as I could, and I’ve been getting as far away as I can ever since. I hate our family. I hate that you couldn’t get it together to love each other or interact like normal adults. I hate the examples and precedents you set.

I hate it even more now that you’re nagging me to come back. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to spend time with you. I don’t want to be reminded of the shitty situation I came from. I’d rather pretend I didn’t have any family than actually spend time with you.

“Running is something that we've always done well
And mostly I can't even tell what I'm running from
I run from their pity, from responsibility,
Run from the country, and run from the city
I can run from the law, I can run from myself,
I can run for my life, I can run into debt
I can run from it all, I can run 'til I'm gone,
I can run for the office, and run from the cause
I can run using every last ounce of energy…”

Do you feel bad? Do you feel like failures? Do you feel guilt? Do you feel shame? I hope so. I hope you feel it deep down inside, so far down that you know you’ll never be able to wash it away.

You are the worst parts of me. You are everything I wish I weren’t.

“I cannot run from my family, they’re hiding inside me

Corpses on ice

Come in if you like, but just don’t tell my family…”

Things I want

1. To travel. I want to go to London, Paris, Botswana, Phuket, Reykjavik, Mexico City, Costa Rica, Lombok, Berlin, and about eighty-five other places. I suspect I was meant to do this in my early 20s, but whatever. Honey badger don't give a fuck.

2. To be a writer of some description. This will necessitate writing something outside of rants and sonnets to pudding and bad TV. I should get on that.

3. To have kids. I believe we've discussed this.

4. To not have The Problem any more. I am already working on that, and will be working on it to an even greater degree come this Thursday.

5. To help people. I want to shuffle off this mortal coil knowing that some people's lives sucked somewhat less due to my actions.

6. To be proficient at kickboxing.

7. To live in my own goddamn apartment. I don't want to own it (maybe one day), but Jesus tapdancing Christ, I have had it up to HERE with roommates.

8. To get my mother-fucking American drivers' license. Soooooon.

9. To be sedated. Bam bam bam bam bah, ba-bam bam bam bah, I wanna be sedated.

A little, not much

I am reading a book about emotional eating and the overcoming thereof. For those of you blessed with stable brainpans and no interest in things psychological, emotional eating is when you cram a bunch of food into your face instead of dealing with whatever it is that's making you upset. Eating your feelings, so to speak. Here's the part where you can roll your eyes and make some kind of "first world problems" joke, because obviously if it's an issue you've never experienced, it must be completely lacking in weight, if it exists at all. Perhaps you'd like to make fun of some people with bi-polar next?

While I'm digressing, I would like to tell everyone on the goddamn planet that telling someone with major depressive disorder to "cheer up" helps exactly no one, least of all the depressed person. The only thing that will result from sharing your little misguided ray of sunshine will be a mental line crossing out your name on a list of people the recipient knows they can count on.

I was going to write more, but now I'm tired. I believe I will lay on the couch and wait for Sunshine and Roses to come over so Roses can reclaim her boots. Dys sort of stole them and then deviously pretended to be giving them to Goodwill when she moved out. Good thing I compulsively seize people's cast-off clothes, or Roses might have cold and unstylish feet this fall.