......

Sometimes I'm such a dick. I'm sorry.

I'm especially sorry to, well, yeah you. Sorry for being a crazy bitch-monster.

Sorry.

Deep Breath

I've taken one. I feel much calmer now.

You know what I hate? Have you ever met one of those people who just need drama in their lives? I'll bet you have; I'll bet you know what I mean, when I say they're addicted to the adrenaline rush they get from arguing/fighting/crying/etc, so if nothing's wrong in their life at a certain point, they engineer a crisis. These individuals are, at an almost overwhelming ratio, more often female than male, but I do know at least 2 men who suffer from this affliction, and only 1 of them's gay, so it seems to affect people from both genders and various persuasions... by far, it seems to be a more feminine sort of issue than a masculine one, though.

What if I'm one of them?

Absolutely nothing was wrong yesterday, except I was a little bored and generally sluggish (my period's a bit late, I think I may start it any day now) and all of a sudden, I was in the crappiest mood you can imagine. I tried to pick a fight with a friend (he wouldn't) and so, thwarted in my evil plans, I just went to bed, and woke up this morning in the same crappy mood. And now, here I am, posting inflammatory things about men, knowing the only people who read this are male... I'm so obviously, blatantly spoiling for a fight.

Not that anyone cares enough to fight with me; it's a special group, people who care enough to fight with you, but not so much that they just take all your shit without flinching. My life is full of both--people who straight away tell me to fuck off when I voice any displeasure (or ignore me, which is the same thing, only worse) and other people, who try to soothe and stroke me into a happy place, even as I'm calling them cunts and telling them to go fuck themselves. No one occupies the middle ground. I've got no one to go, 'Hey, I can see you're in a really shit mood, but do you have to take it out on me? You do? Alright then you bitch, come on, get it out of your system,' and then listen to my rant before reminding me that, okay, I've got a point, but NOW I'm just being a twat.

Common sense. Everyone needs a dose of it sometimes. And, like, telling me I'm wonderful when I'm being a shit to you is NOT common sense. What am I, fucking stupid? Do you think I don't REALISE I'm being a cow? Do you think that I'll be offended if you tell me I've hurt your feelings/pissed you off/surprised you/annoyed you/disconcerted you, etc?

Sometimes, I just want someone to dig and pry and force me into saying WHY I'm flipping out over nothing. I want an acknowledgment that I AM being a shit, before the ego-stroking begins. But no. All I get is, ho hum, she's being a dick, I'll come back later, or, awww, bless, you're clearly very cranky, tell me what's wrong snookums. Which, if you look at it one way, is just another way of ignoring me. I don't want my bad behaviour glossed over--I want to be called on it.

LOL. In other words, I want you to ask me what's wrong, but without being patronising or overly sympathetic, while giving me some common sense, while making sure that you don't ignore any single comment I've made or facet of my behaviour, AND I want your feelings to be hurt enough that you fight back a little. Ask me what's wrong, and do it in EXACTLY the way I want you to, or it's not good enough, is what I'm really saying.

And that, my friends, is what makes me equal parts drama queen and spoilt brat.

I should blog more. I help myself a lot more than anyone else helps me. Like, you know how you can get yourself off loads more times in an hour than someone else could? That's what this. Emotional masturbation. Nobody does it like you can do it yourself.

Emotional masturbation. That's too good a phrase. I bet I stole it from somewhere.

So. Plagiarist, drama queen, spoilt brat, and general cow. Could my list of personality flaws BE any worse? I'm stopping there. Fuck me. And yet... I feel much better now. Much, much better. So much better, I'm not even cheesed off anymore. I may go out and do a good deed for the day. I may help someone else. I may try to write something that's not narcissistic, ego-centric, plagiaristic shit. That's how much better I feel now.

*wanders off, singing to herself* 'Nobody does it like you, the way that you do, nobody's got the power to please me....'

Fucked OFF

I am. As the title indicates.

D'you know something? Men are assholes. Even the ones who aren't intentionally assholes, are careless and unfeeling and emotionally thick. Which makes them assholes.

'Nice guys' are the biggest assholes of all.

Fuck you guys.

No, well, not all of you. Manwich, for example, you've done nothing to incur my wrath. Most of the rest of you can get fucked, though.

Especially you. You know who you are. Fuck you.

Underwhere?

I have to write about this. I have to. And I know you, my audience members, are all-male, but try to maintain your interest. I have to get this out.

I just got a bra. An oversized, un-underwired, flat, cottony, 2 cup-sizes-and-2-inches-round-the-back too big bra. A nursing bra, as well, with daft foldy-down cups and no lace or silk or any other redeeming feature. It's black--I just bought some groovy underwear, black, with little pink and white and aqua polka-dots, I wanted something to match--but it's in no way sleek or slinky. Did I mention, it's like 4 sizes too big?

I ordered this hideous contraption online, because, as earlier journal entries will attest, I have been BLEEDING FROM MY NIPPLES for the best part of 3 weeks. I've actually been going bra-less, wearing baggy sweatpants and fleecy, threadbare shirts for the last week or so, and covering my upper torso in a strange lotion made of animal by-product, in an attempt to accelerate the healing process. It's worked, more or less--though my flesh is still drying out and peeling off in layers, leaving me raw if I don't slather myself in sheep lard (or whatever lanolin is) as long as I don't restrict my breasts with a proper bra and keep them moisturized, I'm in no pain. Some mild discomfort from the itching (do you know what animal fat does to your pores? It clogs them, leaving you susceptible to ITCHY SKIN INFLAMMATIONS) but hey, at least I'm not bursting into tears every time my 6 month old latches on for a snack. And, since things have been so improved for the last couple of days, I thought I'd ease myself back into actual clothes, starting with a slightly loose, wire-free bra.

Oh. My. God.

This not only looks like something my grandma would be ashamed to be seen in, but it feels like it, too. Thin, limp, no-stretch cotton, offering no support whatsoever--nevermind not restricting my breasts, I'm not even sure it's covering them. Even stuffed with breasts pads (disposable cotton pads that suck up excess milk/keep your nipples from chafing against your clothes) it's so loose I can't even feel it. I'm only sure it's there because, well, I'm half-naked and I can SEE it, and the breasts pads haven't fallen out into my lap. It's so unobtrusive, so non-restrictive, just so NON, that once I put my clothes on, I won't even be sure it's there.

Which brings me back to the title of this entry; it's not so much underwear, as.... ;)

Blog of Doom

This is turning into exactly what the title says. It's depressing and pessimistic. I'm sorry.

The thing is, since no one comments on my blog, I forget any of you actually read it. Oh I know, I know, you occasionally send me an email or a text telling me you liked what I wrote, or asking me if I'm alright, depending on the content for that day... but I'd rather have some of your creative or emotional output actually saved on my actual blog.

Come on, people. This is a two-way effort. Show me some love.

And for my part, I'll be back soon (with any luck) writing more and happier entries than the last few weeks have seen. For now, I have a PO (Priority Occurrence) in the background, which I'll need to move to the foreground.

Thanks for reading this, though, guys (lol and you are, all of you, as it happens... lol).

Women (my favourite topic?)

I've been reading a book. I think it's a good book, and it's certainly a book full of meaning and depth and layers. In a book, I can think of nothing better than layers. Secrets. Things you kind of suspect from the beginning, but don't find out fully until later on.

I like books like that. I also like books that are set in my native Southland, so this book is a winner on 2 fronts. Perhaps what I like most, this book is about female friendship, of which there is far too little in the world.

I haven't had that many good female friends in my life. Women are catty, and bitchy (why do those two terms, about cats and dogs respectively, get used negatively only in reference to women? I have called a man a bitch before, but when a man is called 'Dawg,' or referred to as a 'cat'--which was slang long before my time, but I like movies from the 50s--it's a term of affection or respect, even envy. Why is it that the feminine form of a thing is always meant to imply the bad side of that thing?).

That was such a digression I'm starting a new paragraph. Women, however much issue I take with the terms themselves, are catty and bitchy creatures. Not because we're built that way, necessarily, but because society allows and expects us to be weak, ineffectual, whining little animals, who have to learn to dissemble and divert and misdirect at an early age. I have learned the harsh truth since leaving my home--women are bitches. Not all women, certainly, and maybe not even most; but many. Enough that it spoils things for the rest of us.

This whole topic reminds me of a paper I wrote in high school. It was basically about men marginalizing us, keeping us locked away, keeping us down, etc. It was a rather well-written piece, for a high school senior taking a university freshman course, and in the spirit of consistency (and because I didn't have time to change it) I kept my original title and thesis and turned out an essay which painted men as the single most detrimental thing a modern woman will ever experience. I defended my point very well, I managed to avoid most of my usual grammatical mistakes, and I got a shiny happy A (maybe an A+) on that particular work of genius.

However, in the course of my research into how society, the media, and most of all men keep women in their degraded and degrading places, I came to a startling conclusion. I discovered, by analyzing and evaluating everything I read, that the reason women are less likely to achieve their utmost, is usually other women. So my amateur, childish research indicated; and so I have found, now that I'm out in the world myself.

For every fine, generous, beautiful, unique, simply lovely woman out there, there are at least 5 jealous cats waiting to take her down a peg. Just waiting for the right time to knock her back into her place. Just waiting to steal her boyfriend, her promotion, and her group of friends, and then probably key her car on their way out the door.

It doesn't have to be like this, though. I check myself continually, and so should other women (although maybe this is part of the problem--women want to boss other people into being 'better', whereas men have a more live-and-let-live approach).......

Wow. I wrote this a while back, and I'm going to publish it now, because, well, I wrote it. But it's a real shame I've started to feel that way--I didn't, growing up. Of course, I'm a long way from home... maybe people are nicer, where I'm from.

I hope people are nicer somewhere.

Frightened

I am frightened all the time. How can no one, ever, in my entire life, have thought that was a sign of something deeper?

Actually, someone did. My stepmother thought I was emotionally disturbed. Oh, and my aunt thought I had been sexually abused (which I guess is another way of saying I seemed emotionally disturbed, really, isn't it?).

From my perspective, I always knew I was odd. A little unusual. A bit strange.

What it took me, oh, 20+ years to realise is HOW fucking strange I am. I am beyond abnormal. I am a proper fruit-loop.

It's like this. Imagine that everyone's thoughts and reasoning ability are blue, and emotions are red. Most people either think logically, in blue, or they feel, in red. You know what I mean. When you're being calm and logical, doing your grocery shopping, you're blue. When you're throwing a temper tantrum because your wife deleted your favourite episode of Battlestar Galactica from Sky+, you're red. Very rarely do the two colours overlap. You're either being logical or emotional. Not both.

But for me... whatever mechanism filters out the emotional response in your brain, just doesn't work in mine. Any new experience, and my world is flooded with red, and I have to try to work through it logically in spite of the fiery haze scorching my synapses. My world doesn't really switch from red to blue, or blue to red; but a dozen times a day, it goes purple.

That's not as pleasant as it sounds. It's distracting, and annoying, even when it is kinda pleasant (when I'm distracted by my emotional response to a song I like, for example).

On the other hand... I like to think I'm a writer. I like the idea that I create things. My purple world is full of inspiration, and if it's full of pain as well, maybe that's not such a high price to pay.

On the other, other hand (or the original hand)... sometimes it is so hard to function this way. Embracing the quirkiness is easy enough to suggest, but harder to follow through when you're constantly worn out, frightened, embarrassed, confused, or any combination of the above. And note the use of the word 'constantly'. I'm not 'continually' one or more of those things--it doesn't come and go, however consistently--it's always there. I am suffering, nearly every minute of every day, and even when I'm not, I am, because I know the pain isn't really gone, it's just eased for a moment.

And oh my God. I've done this to someone else. I have done this to my daughter.

Am I the right person to help her? I know how she suffers, and I give her such leeway because of it. I am more lenient with my own child, because I see myself in her, than I would be with any other child.

Saying that, my judgment has always been exceeded by my mercy. If I'm suffering so much, who's to say that other people aren't as well? And my mama taught me to err on the side of compassion, just in case... which only makes it worse. If I'm such a soft touch generally, and I'm even softer with my daughter, how can I be sure I'm not ruining her??

But then, that's the whole point, isn't it? You can't be sure of anything, really... but I am. I am sure of one thing.

I am sure that all this uncertainty scares the shit outta me.