Tasty Nightmares

Dear Sala,

Right now, I'm sitting in a call with M and listening to a conversation she's having with her mom about Moon Pies. Tomorrow is my twenty-third birthday.

Normally I would say that a lot of things have happened in these past few days, but that would be trite and untruthful. The truth is that a gargantuan shit-tornado of things happened recently, not even a fraction of them had anything to do with me or my own. That said, what did have something to do with us varied... some good, some bad, some neutral, and within my scope of online-connection to the past, something completely horrible.

Yesterday morning, I'm not sure at what time, a young mother was found dead by her fiance. I'd rather not talk about how exactly it happened (for a variety of reasons, which I will nonetheless go into later in this entry), but this young lass was a long-time friend to many folks, and someone I consider a friend, myself.

I didn't know her too well - a conversation I've heard repeated in wee obituaries placed all over her Facebook wall - but I wanted to. I hope you'll be able to forgive me for sparing myself typing the exact same conversation I've had with a dozen other people, and probably will have to have again because there are really so many people who love her, and with good reason. She was amazing.

Aaaaand, clear.

It's now the thirteenth. Lets get a full wrap here, everyone, close it up. What's been going on? Well, here's some news you already know, a beautiful girl is dead. What else? Well, perpetual heartbreak. It's been in an awful state of disrepair for a while now. I'm really not sure what to do with it. 

I feel horribly for everything I say, and I feel even worse for her and her little one and everyone who loves her more than I could even imagine. 

Another friend of mine, a childhood friend from back in the era where friends were a rare and valuable treasure (and very much genuine, unlike nowadays, where friendships aren't about friends and are all motivated by fears and ambitions that leave some of us shaking at night with loneliness and grief) went 'poof' sometime back in June (you know what's funny about that? It's also her last name!). I'm fair sure she had her reasons, never doubted her. But I was starting to get scared. Got more scared, guilty, and strange, when the third member of our trio called me in despair. I really cared but I didn't know what to say, because I couldn't do anything. She asked me to build a shrine. I went on a walk and slowly collapsed inward, because one day, everything I ever feared will happen. And no one who knew better will be there to tell me that they told me so.

Anyways!

I realized today while bawling in the shower over a man I haven't seen in years, and met now almost nine years ago (seriously, nine?! Well, I guess I couldn't be called fickle) out of a senseless fear of something awful happening to him. Then, the horrible realization of the above (which I know, I know already! But it wont go away, you understand? Of course you do. You're in the exact same boat, aren't you? Unless you're magic. Are you magic? I do so like stories about magic.), so uh. Anyways.

I REALIZED!

Writing isn't just an art form, it's a discipline! A way of life! How many times have I sat down with words burning behind my eyes, and written instead about how and why I couldn't write what I was thinking, even though I knew exactly how I would phrase everything? I don't know. But I don't know if I'd want to know, either, I'd probably just end up making myself even more miserable. Ha! Brilliant. No, seriously, I don't know what to do with myself and have virtually no one to turn to.

Anyways,

I found out that this computer can't run Rift for the life of it. I've been downloading and modding older games that I liked, then - "older" - like Dragon Age: Origins and The Sims. Every time I mention that I like the Sims, I feel almost as though I should flog myself for being a worthless female casual gamer, but then I remember that other people can suck my non-existant balls and honestly, The Sims already makes me feel so existentially cold and dreadful that I'm already basically flogging myself by playing it anyways.

In other news,

I really like sleeping. It's one of my favorite past-times lately. Usually, I have these terrible nightmares that cause me to wake up mid-sobbing over some bizarre rehash of earlier life experiences. Now, while I still wake up every two hours or so to a panic attack, it's usually only because I realize that I'm awake and that this is reality. 

Lately, my dreams have been almost pleasant. They've been pulled right from the pages of fiction, even down to being narrated with an ear for prose that I don't have the nerves to attempt anymore. Sometimes, I sit down to start writing a story or a poem, and I end up curled up in a ball in the chair because (Damn it all, I don't want to write about it! I want to do something! I want to experience it again! I want to leave, I want to see people, I want to do anything! I feel like I'm just waiting to die!), or I end up really angry at myself for the way I think to phrase things, for my superficiality, for my inability to be one specific, easily identifiable and comprehended human, for being human, for being arrogant, selfish, proud or unintelligent. And then all of the little connected thingies to those, where I compulsively predict what people might think or see if they saw me - then I feel terrified, alone in a still room with no one around awake to hear, early in the morning - no family, no friends, no work, no enemies, no strangers, no pet - ah, but the occasional roach or fly to see me company - so afraid that they'll see me!

I don't think I care about what people think of me, but they frighten me. Why? Am I afraid to die or some such? Hardly. I don't even know what I'm afraid of. It's like my body doesn't wish to listen to my mind. I feel in despair, and the best part is that if I choose to joke about it afterwords, everyone will believe I was just playing a part.

Ah, ah, a little lass messaged me.

Oh, right, PS. Mom is getting a divorce, my grandparents on my stepdads side took all of our stuff out of storage because Mom apparently earned my stepdads ire, and are apparently going to sell everything and give my stepdad the money if they haven't already. Also, haven't heard from Sam in a few days. Also, Meme is sick. Also, I don't know if Mouse is alive. Also, everything else that has kept me here hasn't changed at all. 

But I have one word of good news that keeps me cheery, if not sustains me (because I know what does - keeping a swath of promises, because I love those people. I love them and will always love them, and it reminds me of who I am even when there's no one to see it) --

My friend is back! And best of all... she's safe.

- x - 

Milk and Microwaves

Dear Sal,

Today, I tried to microwave some popcorn in my grandparents new, expensive microwave. When the timer rang, I went and opened the door only to find that the entire bag had been transmogrified into a cloud of smoke that spilled out in huge clouds all down the doorway and on to the stove. It was a friendly enough cloud, and presumably sentient, because shortly after it appeared, it swept down to greet me through my air-holes.

Suffice it to say, the entire experience was rather unpleasant. 

My grandfather had come into the room, striking up a conversation while the bag was cooking and I'd forgotten about it. I had microwaved it for a minute prior, but it was too short, and then stupidly put it in for two minutes (and thirty seconds), which most anyone who owns a microwave would know isn't an advisable move. I was so distracted by talking with him, that I didn't realize the timer was almost up until he asked how long I had placed it in for.

Then I opened the door (or was it him?), and, well, you know the rest. My grandfather turned and looked at me after I'd taken out the ruined bag of smoking popcorn and said (with a stern voice and steely gaze) "Take this outside and throw it away... quickly!". I bolted out the door, muttering to myself about lighting the beacons, and threw it in the garbage can. It struck me that placing a smouldering object into a case filled with garbage might not be the best choice of action, but decided to ignore it. Oxygen is needed to feed a fire, yadda yadda. I think we should be fine, as the house has yet to go up in flames.

Shortly after I returned, my grandmother peeked her head out of the door to her bedroom, wrapped in a towel and still wet from the shower. "Is something on fire?" she'd asked, stress and bewilderment pairing off as the words spilled from her mouth. My grandfather pointed at me and said that I'd nearly lit the microwave on fire. I looked at her sheepishly and exclaimed "Microwaves are hard!", to which she shook her head slowly, her eyebrows drawing together. "No. Microwaves are easy." My grandfather smirked and said I had forgotten to use the popcorn setting, and joked that I might be a little slow. I question whether or not he was truly joking, as often, I wonder that myself.

Not long thereafter, he made another bag of popcorn and mentioned that I might try manually popping the corn we have in jars beneath the counter, since I seem to do better where electrical appliances are not concerned. My uncle would be proud. 

Except he wouldn't, because he never is, and he's an engineer, and thinks I'm probably insane. He may be right.

A few hours later, I was rotating between lying face-first into the carpet, and lying face first with half of my body off the bed. On the rare occasion, I sat in the desk chair and thought about the eventual 'death' of the universe, and the meaninglessness of my own existence. Then, I got up and poured a cup of sugar into a mug, filled the rest of it with ice, vanilla, and then milk. At some point during this process, I decided to take up the advice given to me by many beautiful, charming souls over the years. That, perhaps instead of naming objects around the house and telling them about my problems, I should write them down. 

What problems you may ask? Well, there was a point when they were relevant to my life and others. Now, they're usually only relevant to my toes. See? Toes. I spilled milk on them moments before. Milky toes. 

Gods.

Home(ish):

And before you ask, no, I'm not allowed to swim in it.

I never thought I'd say this, but... I miss people. Even the shitty ones. Maybe especially them, at least it gives me something to feel.

Solitary and bored,

LQ

P.S. I'll explain the living situation later. Maybe. Promise. Kind of.