Ending it.

So I've been trying to decide how to end the blog. It was only supposed to be over the course of a year, a take-down of my life as I tried to regain some sort of control over my own future. Instead of going to California, I ended up staying in Florida until August and, in August, moved to a state that I only thought about when watching 'Pocahantas' - a cold state, filled with horrible traffic and not a single person I knew.

While here, I grabbed a job, I made friends. Good friends, I think. I realized just how much I still had to learn about myself and that in order to do it, I have to step away from the familiar. For the first time in a long time, I finally began to grow up, whether or not anyone could see it, myself included.

When January rolled around and time to end the blog came, I tried to figure out how to end it all. January 2nd was going to be the last day, my 24th birthday. It happened to be the single most miserable birthday I've ever experienced, and I'm including the ones from 9-19 when I was an undiagnosed bipolar disordered person.

I posted nothing, because I couldn't decide what to say. This blog was never popular, only one or two people reading when I made a new post, and that never bothered me. The purpose of this, other than documenting it for myself, was to keep my family in touch with what I was doing in this new place, and how I was doing - Mom, especially, and Ashley.

Mid-January rolled around, and along came the birthday of my best friends late-father, Mr. Larry. He once told me that life itself is an adventure, and that while he loved me, I was doing no one any favors by holing myself up from the world. He said, I was the best friend his daughter had (because boys who were friends would later leave for other girls), I needed to encourage her to grow up along with me, and she would do the same.

He passed away when I was in the depths of my depression, on the verge of suicide. I didn't make it to his funeral, so consumed by my own grief of his passing, and my inability to cope with anything beyond lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. I've never forgiven myself for that.

I like to think Mr. Larry has. Forgiven me, that is. I hope my friend has; we rarely talk about him.

On his birthday, I realized I wasn't ready to put away this blog; it contained a turbulent year of my life, something outside of the depression and the small bubble I kept myself in. Things happened, things changed, I got caught up on bills, of all things. I may be moving out, depending on work circumstances - I may be moving back to Florida, or Wisconsin, or to anywhere I damn well feel like going.

This year is a changing year for reasons outside of last year. My 23rd year on this Earth was taken up by discovery of, damn, I can do things. My 24th started off horribly, and I'm hoping will be filled with discoveries of myself, not just being able to complete things in my life.

So, O Reader(s), there will be another year of this blog. I'm hoping to update more frequently, with more things now going on in my life. Fingers crossed that this year will improve the same way that last year did (Car accident = no Cali = Virginia, Horrible birthday = GOOD YEAR, darnit).

Until next time, with new updates, with new awesome.

Yours.

Neglect, neglect, neglect.

Poor journal, I've left you high and dry. You'd think since no life or job exists for me, I'd be able to post more. Thing is - with my life the way it is, there's very little for me to post about until after or before the weekends.

Weekends are when my dad is home all day and we actively go out and do things. No matter what I act like, I actually have a lot of fun. Sometimes during the day after we haven't eaten for a while, my blood sugar absolutely plummets and it leaves me either grumpy. If we're driving past a lot of green things, I stare out the window because, hello, Florida doesn't have green like this place has.

Have I posted pictures of this freaking green? ... No?

GREEN!

It's a rare thing, folks. Not so much here but for a Florida girl? Totally.

I was just told that apples are now in season. I think it's time for me to try to go with that interest I've always had with more extensive baking. Poor Daddio may soon be bombarded by a slew of apple-related deliciousness, especially apple pie. No home made crusts, just yet - the last time was an utter disaster and the money needed to purchase those ingredients just aren't in my pocket book.

That leads into Thanksgiving. It's right around the corner! Last year I was unable to make my fragging pumpkin pie I'd been looking forward to. I had forgotten the condensed milk at home with no way to get to the market. Pie crust and home-smashed pumpkin puree gone to waste. If the summers apple pie turns out to be a success, I may attempt to do that this year as well as the pecan pie as my pies are delicious, thanks, and just put together a smaller portion of sweet potato casserole than I usually do.

I think I've lost weight since coming to Virginia. Sounds odd but things are fitting better, shirts drape nicer than before. I haven't been exercising a lot (read: at all) but maybe not living right next to two gas stations and a neighborhood Wal-Mart may have something to do with my milder eating habits. If this is the case, awesome. I don't mind losing weight/inches if it's because I'm not eating like a candy-starved piglet anymore.

I miss karate.

Hells bells, I miss writing and the ability to draw properly. Being stuck inside because I lack any social graces isn't helping. I'm tempted to invade Dad's campus and just wander, go to the bookstore or library, chill in the cafeteria and eat there, try to write. I write well in public.

Okay. Werewolf story will be finished by the 15th, it is decided. So there.

Until next time, readers!

T-Minus Five Days

Whoever invented packing sucks. The same person probably invented steam, the jerk. How do people figure this sort of stuff out when they have a severely limited amount of space and places to put things?! I stand here in the middle of my room (that looks like a disaster area due to squeezing two rooms into one) and just stare at all of my belongings. My room in Virginia has no space in which to put my knick-knacks. But I like my knick-knacks and my little decorations scattered over the room.

They range from a stuffed pig to picture frames and Japanese vases, stuff from my DORM ROOM back five years ago, a whole bunch of fairy statuettes... The only ones I know I'm bringing are my Buddha figures and my maneki neko pieces. Photos are a given as I adore you all and that good stuff but. What else? What do I like enough to take with me?

I've already chosen the art supplies I'm bringing. If I have room at the end of all the packing, I'll bring more but as it stands, it's down to some drawing paper, bristol board (smooth for the win), a sketch book or two, and my Wacom Intuos 3 tablet. Books are being limited to the ones I read most often or have been meaning to read for quite a while. My collectable series are being kidnapped off - who wouldn't bring books worth 20$ each because they're no longer in print?

Maybe the most important question is how do I want the new bedroom in a new world (to me) to look? When people walk into the bedroom now, they're hit by a barrage of stuffed animals, pictures from Middle/High school, some almost ten years old. Fairy statues, monster amounts of art supplies, jewelry scattered everywhere. When I say a 'barrage of stuffed animals', I mean it. There are little plushies everywhere in my bedroom, from the shelves to the desk and vanity and, sometimes, my lamps. My art is on the walls although the stuff posted by my desk is for references while I write although one piece is, admittedly, just because I really like Minamoto no Yoshinaka. He is, like, the utter bomb.

I don't think I want my room there to be an echo of the one here. New life, new beginning, yadda yadda. Maybe just the more recent pictures on display, the older ones in the photo albums I am planning on bringing.

Ugh. Time to go stand in the middle of my room again, O Loyal Readers And Friends, and be useless just staring at my packrat ways.

Until next time.

Chica from Wisconsin, ahoy!

For the last two weeks, my best friend has been visiting from Wisconsin. Unlike my other long-distance friends, Andi and I actually met in person, here in Florida. We've been friends since the seventh grade and have known one another since fifth. If not for her (and a few other priceless loves of my life), I wouldn't have made it through that mental breakdown almost five years ago.

Just over a year ago, she moved to Wisconsin for personal reasons. We've all missed her terribly; for about six months I kept adding her to the mental list of people to invite on outings or shopping trips. Thank goodness for the Internet - we managed to keep in contact. I'm not the best person at correspondence (or remembering stuff in general) but, we somehow figured it out.

Either way - she visited. And remembered just why she doesn't want to move back to Florida. Maybe not the best move on her part to visit in the disgusting, humid depths of the summer after chilling in Wisconsin for a year but it didn't mean we were less happy to see her. We didn't get near enough drinking done (Seriously, Wisconsinites? TONE DOWN THE DRINKS. I made the 'whiskey face' each time I had a sip of my rum and coke!) but good times were had and monster amounts of talking as well. It's easier to spill ones guts and express things when not done in text and instead in a car, driving wherever in the early morning and late night.

We went to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. Sweated like horses - no glowing to be seen. I frolicked gaily under the Suessland semi-waterfall, successfully soaking myself to the bone and making it very difficult for my pants to stay on. Due to the weight of wet jeans, pervs. We devoured butterbeer and (surprisingly good) fish and chips. Ashley got her wands and chocolate frogs.

The castle ride? Holy. Mother. Of. Siddhartha. Seriously! Just waiting in line was awesome: you were able to walk through Prof. Sprouts greenhouse then past the Potions Room, through DADA's room. The pictures of the house founders chatted about (Slytherin, my house and fave, was a complete jerk as expected) with Rowena and the Hufflepuff one being all, gay, and stuff. The ride itself had fantastic graphics and despite the fact I knew it fake, I screamed like a girlscout pissing herself at some parts.

We left contented. They fell asleep on me in the car and I nearly passed out at the wheel as a result. Fun times! There are plenty of pictures I'm hesitant about posting. Oh well. Maybe at some point, O Loyal Readers.

Andi and I talked at great length. She listened to me bitch and in vice versa. It was a lovely time. When she was to fly out of the Tampa airport, I drove her there. We ate lunch at TGIFridays, had some gelato. Two seconds before she went past security, Andi turned to me and said, "It JUST hit me. Just hit me."

Of course, I had to throw my arms around her and say, somewhat loudly, a bit tearfully, "I am going to miss you SO MUCH."

True to form, I think she told me something along the lines of stopping the foolishness - or maybe not. I'm pretty sure I was in tears. What I remember was watching her get on those stupid train things, throwing her a heart hand signal, and then bolting to the nearest bathroom to cry. It sucked.

The drive home helped me calm down. Driving always does. I played music I liked, sang loudly, and didn't get lost once - that's a big deal.

So now she's back in Wisconsin, living it up with her friends there. We all miss her (again) but if those two weeks taught me anything, it was that she is MUCH better off there than she is here. Florida holds nothing but grief and lack of jobs, humidity and hurricanes. Good for her in her escape.

Next post will my schedule for when I get out of here. Padre said, not until Thanksgiving, and I think if I wait that long I'm going to shatter like a glass figurine under a giants foot. I tried to tell him I could be there by the end of this (yes, this very week) with all the things I absolutely need and we can fly to Thanksgiving together. He doesn't think I can drive home from TAMPA let alone to Manassas which is, I hate to say it, total bullshit.

So it will be posted. Maybe I can show it to him and prove it's do-able. I've survived more things than a drive! (Knocking on wood) I think going alone would be a damn BLAST.

Until next time, blog! Hugs.

Food Om Nom Nom

I'm becoming worried on my eating status. I've started cutting portions and eating better which is, overall, a very good thing. I've gained weight, actually, and can manage to fit into my older jeans - the 6's. It turns out that fat is probably that new ass-muscle that I've been working out, bringing things away from my hips to make me not feel so disgusting.

But, when I'm alone. I don't eat. Most days when I'm alone, I'll eat nothing but granola bars (maybe two) and a lot of tea. That's it. When Mom is home and makes dinner, I'll have some small portions and eat some more the next day, if we have leftovers. I'll eat maybe half of normal restaurant portions, eat the rest the next day, ect. It's not a bad thing. I think. Well, the lack of eating entirely is. I've started eating about an hour and a half, maybe two, before I go to karate. I'd started getting dizzy.

This last weekend, I ate. I went out for sushi, ate lunch with my sister, had pizza with Jordan, things like that. We had food during the 4th of July (a holiday that was much better than expected, actually). That's when I'm with people. Alone, not so much. Without people asking me to eat, I just don't get hungry. It's not something that happens. I get caught up in cleaning or writing, maybe a series I was watching or timing when I can and cannot put my contacts in - Rosetta stone, maybe. Who knows, i just don't think of food.

Today, I had four cups of tea, about two cups of rice + broth, and two slices of toast with a little butter. It was delicious. I drank some water - have more waiting for karate and all that good stuff. I don't think I'm becoming anorexic? I'll eat when asked, I'll eat enough to be full. I take vitamins. Make my own food.

Maybe it's being cloistered up int he house like this. I'm thinking that when I can afford it, I'll fill up my tank, drive as far as I can get on half of it, and park somewhere soft, relaxing, and have my own personal little picnic. Maybe I'll even draw.

I just don't want to keep eating the same deep fried and sugared crap I had been. does this make sense? I'm not quite sure if any of it does.

Either way - I have a swim test for a lifeguard job coming up tomorrow. Tomorrow will be full of light and good for me foods.

Crude. I need to buy a bathing suit.

Gay Boyfriend

After my parents divorced and my mother, sister, and I moved from out house, mom got this boyfriend. I guess he was nice enough although according to stories afterwards he was this total psycho. He wasn't bad to Kelsey and I, from what I remember. He'd buy us stuff, I guess to make sure the kiddies didn't verbally attack him to Mom and get him booted from her life.

It worked when he bought me a punching bag! From what I've heard, I've had violent tendancies and mood swings since I was nine years old. Before that I, apparently, smiled, laughed, played, and otherwise interacted like any kid. That says all sorts of fucked up things about what could've changed that but that's a completely different therapy session. Either way, he bought me a punching bag and set it up for me on the porch. It was one of those heavy duty, thick and black sorts, hung from the ceiling by this hardcore chain. He said it'd be a good way to get out my frustrated energies whenever I felt I needed to.

I never used it much, weirdly enough. If I had it now, totally, but back as a kid I'd get all but scolded for using it. My sister and I got into this big fight once about something completely stupid and I got so mad that I saw red stars infront of my eyes. Now in case no one knows, that's a Bad Thing. It means one is going to do one of two things: pass out or beat the mother-loving crap out of someone. I didn't pass out and luckily for my sister, I had that damned punching bag.

Instead of ending the fight with a fist to my little sisters face (again, something totally dumb, I completely mistreated that poor girl during our childhood and teen years; I'm surprised she forgave me and we became friends. i wouldn't have forgiven me), I went outside to the porch and started whaling on that thing. At fourteen, I had this bag the same style as the one in my dojo the black belts use swinging back and forth, denting a bit. Fourteen was two years after I dented a metal door at school by punching it in order to get in. Strong kid, yeah.

Mom came out and started getting mad because I had been "picturing [my sisters] face" on the punching bag and how it was wrong. Unlike most bad-asses my age, I didn't keep up with the punching but got mad at her instead. The punching bag was there so I could get out my anger! So what if I saw my sisters face - which I hadn't been. I had been seeing this black bag because I was messed up but not a total psychopath. When he'd installed the bag for me, her boyfriend specifically told me he purchased it for me so I would be able to take out my anger on something that would satisfy and help me. Looking back on it, I think he was the only one in my childhood/early teens who actively knew just how messed up my head was. Everyone else assumed it was anger at the divorce (although I had been told I was a freak by not showing any emotion throughout the entire ordeal) and anger problems in general.

Instead of getting in a second fight with my mother, I stormed to my room, closed, and locked the door. She didn't know about the lock-pick at the top of the door frame and pounded for a few minutes while my sister cried in the living room. She always cried a lot, more than I would admit to being something I did to her.

To this day I don't understand why it had been bad to hit that punching bag. Maybe if I hadn't been made to feel bad about getting violent at it, I wouldn't have hidden it all to myself. Maybe someone would have seen it earlier.

There's no grudges! Who wants to know their kid or niece or friend is violent and possibly dangerous? I wouldn't want to. It's hard thing to come to terms with. I still get violent urges to this day although they are, in my belief, well justified. You mess with my friends? You're damn straight I'll get up in your face. You touch my tit while I'm at a club? I will punch you and get those bouncers in your face.

But I have karate now! Also, medication. Not so much therapy but that comes next, when I get the money.

So this is my little story for the day, Blog. I'm not sure where it came from but there it is. Now I'm going to go play housewife, clean, and dance around to Aqua, Lily Allen, and Disney.

Until next time!

Editing

I never realized how many times I use the word 'had' and 'was' in my writing until I began to edit my own pieces. I generally avoid doing so and prefer others to do it for me (such as in workshops). The current short story I'm working on needs some major revisions. I'd written it over a year ago and figured I could take on the challenge of discovering just how much I suck.

Sentences have been cut and surprisingly few words added. I tend to assume that more words equal better works and, well. No. Is it odd that I do exactly what I berate others for when I take pen to their writing? I'm finding the same comma errors and superfluous words in my short stories I tend to threaten other writers with death with! Is it being blind to ones own flaws or thinking certain things are perfect in pieces an author takes pride in?

I'm not sure. Maybe I'll never be sure. All I know is that this particular bit of dyke literature will be better once I'm done ripping it to shreds with my red mighty pen and send it off to be looked at by a friend. It'll be this works - fourth? Fifth? run through the proverbial shredder. Hopefully this time I might be able to consider it 'done' or at least as close as it's going to get.

A lofty (and arrogant) goal, yes, but what am I going to do without them? I do love the piece I'm working on and hopefully others don't think it's some pompous lesbian stereotypical angst. Cliche is cliche for a reason and I'm doing my damnedest to steer away from it.

Back to work. Until next time!

Bull, Horns, Ect,.

A good portion of people think horoscopes are full of bullshit. They're generalized, they don't really work, how can the planets say something about you, personally, etc., and it's come to my attention that I don't give a flying butt on what other people think of them. For myself, I believe in horoscopes, Tarot cards, the whole she-bang. Ninety-nine percent of psychics are fraud but then again, I told a kid someone was dying when his mother had just been diagnosed with terminal cancer in the eighth grade because the cards told me. I had never seen the boy before.

Lately, my horoscopes and Tarot cards have been giving me a rather specific message: get your life together and DO something about it.

On behalf of the Tarot cards, I asked them a while back the typical single-girl question of "Give me the low down on my lack of love life, please?". Usually when I ask things about myself, they like to tell me to go figure out myself, bugger off, and stop asking questions. That particular time, they told me that I am going to be alone for quite a while, go through a time filled with darkness and pain all alone and lost even when surrounded by people, and in the end it would leave me happy with a lot of paths opening up to me. I'm pretty sure this is the time of alone and lost and darkness because, whoo, my brain is not exactly the nicest place in existence but it gives hope that the crap times will end at some point.

The horoscope's have been telling me I've stopped taking control of my life and falling complacent. Too true - being laid off and strung along by the jobs (oh yeah, both of them) threw me into a clusterfuck of 'what now'. The only physical thing in life keeping me grounded right now is karate and when my three paid months come to an end in August, I don't know if I'll be able to afford more. That'll be super fun.

Every sign I'm getting says I have to DO something, CHANGE something. I have to find something to jump at and do it. Problem is that whatever's out there, I totally don't see it. The plan has been to move in with Dad but he doesn't have his own place in Virginia yet and I have about two hundred and fifty dollars in the bank period, with an insurance payment coming out in two weeks and another car payment coming up. Can't move anywhere, there are no job opportunities in this freaking place anywhere. What, exactly, am I supposed to do?

The more I write this the more I realize this is the talk of someone whose worst choices came from within and not from an outside source. So many people don't have choices on what drastic things change in their life, either from being thrown out of their homes, fired without notice, or, hell, shot in the back of the head when things get nasty. My problems have all stemmed from mental illnesses and if not for the support of those around me, I wouldn't be here anymore. There's no background, to me, on what to do or how to say it.

Maybe I'll edit a story of mine, throw it out there to see if anyone in interested. Kelly is ten times more talented than myself but seeing someone I know (and adore dearly, major hearts for Kelly) get published and go out there again is inspiration. Maybe I'll go to Virginia and chill out with Dad in his hotel, find a job there doing something. Maybe Vancouver, although I can't get any jobs out there just yet.

Maybe in learning Japanese, I'll meet a nice person from Japan and be whisked away to Tokyo or a small town or something. Who knows.

Nothing will get done unless I DO something, right? Right. Until next time!

Writing In Capitol Letters

One more time, blog! Another day, another ten million words. Or a thousand, whichever would be best to describe the way things are going. My mind has lately been plagued by Writing.

Capitol letters indeed! Why the capitol letters, one may ask, as it is very much -not- proper grammar. Has Erin lost her mind? Is she going to start spouting off things in incorrect English, more swear words than she already does? Horror! The Apocalypse! All of these horrid things, etc, etc!

It's capitalized as a title of what's going on through my messed up little brain. For years, the act of putting words to paper or screen while somehow forming a coherent and intelligent story has been the main focus of my life. Most of those words came out to utter crap, a story in the barest sense of the phrase with trite and unrealistic characters akin to glittering vampires and blood mixed with chocolate. Sometimes I knew immediately these things should never see the light of day and the characters should be burnt at the stake of Writing in a tribute and sacrifice to whatever gods actually pay attention to the inane blathering of some fifteen year old girl.

I'm twenty-three. My first story was a coloring book I did in the second grade with the help of a boy in class. It exploded from there. According to my parents I always had an overactive imagination and a glare that could tell even the most oblivious person that I wanted them to eff off and decompose somewhere dank and hot.

At thirteen I wrote a sixty page story about Amazon warriors and a guy with a plot I can't even remember. Fifteen came Ten of Light, a story that introduced a few of my favorite characters to date; this includes but is not limited to do Jacquiline Bardot. She was called Jackiline Barduo at that time and tended towards cross-dressing to fit in at her school due to a larger and more masculine stature. She's had the same personality although the back-story, motivation, appearance and overall story have changed drastically (thank god).

That story was also the last story I wrote that I allowed someone I knew face-to-face to read. When fronted with the only critique I remembered of "They swear a lot", I stopped handing off my pages of chicken scratch. Posting online came about, along with the story "Normal" about a gay 'coming of age' tale that (typically, for me) included swearing, violence, and a small curvy woman and large man combo, along with a bad attempt at historical fiction revolving around one of Jesus' sisters.

Normal, Water Age, Priests Tale, 2081 - all of them came from the smallest ideas and every single one of those stupid stories has infested my brain. They have all had altered plot lines, different side characters and underlying tones.

Text-based role-playing unfortunately hindered my writing for several years. It wasn't until National Novel Writing Month '06 that I actually got back into plotting, writing, trying to develop characters that weren't some distorted version of myself (Hello, Ian, Adali, and Jacqui!). Melosa and Atia flew into my brain, my very first lesbian couple I'd ever written. Their story bombed but Hanami and Ha'Neul came into play. I still intend to finish their story at some point.

Creative Writing kicked me into gear. After a horrible CW teacher back in High School, University had been held to high expectations. My teacher was one of the best I've ever come across before and since. She pushed for students to edit and supported my ruthless and cut throat method of editing, with gashes and insults and demanding changes be made lest I hurl high lighters at them for comma errors and boring paragraphs.

Like all good things, Creative Writing I and II came to an end with each semester. For a long time after, I couldn't even pick up a pen. What was the motivation? I couldn't post these things online for critique, not if I wanted them published at some point in time. The former students of my class, the ones who made a competition of who could receive the least amount of bad reviews from me, were busy and didn't have time to get to everyone. I missed it.

What does all this blathering have to do with anything? It has nothing to do with writing, nothing to do with this blog post, at least, i think so. It's the prologue to what's about to go down, the backdrop and back story to my future career.

In just the last few months, the bug has come back. My brain kicked back into gear and began to thrust stories, words back into my consciousness. The itch in my fingers returned, forcing me to take hold of my pen, write without planning except vague ideas of what would happen. Writing on the computer is rough for me. The words fly so quickly from brain to fingers that I don't have a chance to think about what it is I'm actually writing.

Maybe it's the B12 vitamins I started to take with my typical BPD meds in the morning or the idea of I WILL change my life, which things are finally moving in the order of where I want to be. Virginia is not the place I ever imagined moving to, especially not so close to the big cities, but more and more the idea appeals to me: it's beautiful up there.

Plans are coming together. With that, so are my stories. It seems stress is the key factor to getting writers block for me. Who would've guessed. (Why yes, yes that is sarcasm. Thank you so much for noticing) I've even finished a short story! - Although I have no friggin' idea where the first three pages went to. Currently trying to dig those things up.

Karate starts tomorrow. I have a sinking feeling I will be up all tomorrow night writing; adrenaline rushes and working out always makes me utterly filled with inspiration. I'm starting this weighing 151 lbs, having putting 19 since I 'finished' loosing it, and a size 8/10. My goal is 130, to be in shape, to be able to fit into the clinging purple top and the skinny dark blue jeans I bought as my goal outfit.

This entire process will be filled with writing, work, hopefully some school to get that damned AA. Writing is directly affected by my daily ongoing to life. I -will- write at least a thousand words to day, I will, and I'll win this year’s NaNoWriMo again.

I will I will I will!

Writing is once again going to be a major force in my life. With the pen to paper, the fingers to the keys, the imagination to the over drive. I may never be published, never be polished or witty or interesting enough to be out there, but the writing will be done.

Read on, fellow bloggers! Never let your fear of inadequacy get you down! Go and do what it is your passion falls to, be what you want to be! Believe! Write!

Go and be awesome! I say it is so! Write, write, write!

Till next time!

Another Dy, Another Dollar

Padre just came over to pick up some things from the garage he had stored here. It was a sad moment, seeing the back of his van packed up with things he was putting into storage just down the block. Bittersweet, as a companion of mine put it. Bittersweet.

I realized yesterday that I have at least two blog posts written down but never typed. They'll probably never see the light of day! The weird thing is that those are the happy, optimistic blog posts - you poor folks are subjected to my utter emo and grump. Sorry about that. The three page rant about how tea is delicious may be typed up either way, very hopefully posted; I rather liked it. A lovely use of words if I'm allowed to be arrogant and proud for a wee moment. It doesn't happen often.

Hopefully a haircut will be done this lovely day. I've been the victim of jaw length hair for about a month now. Luckily for me and my poor hairdresser, I took photos from the back, side and front of the previous haircut so I have full color references of what I want down and how I want it done. Be proud, Beth! I thought ahead.

My former-future roommate talked to me, sort of. She stood up for me when an ex got on my case for wanting short hair; the ex called short hair feminine and insinuated that it meant I would not be lovely and femme without my longer hair. Once the former-future roommate stood up for me, the ex insulted how she looked! Sparks flew. It was epic, amazing and I fell utterly in love all over again with former-future roomie.

I typo'd 'love' into 'loe'. Blogger didn't give me the red line (but did this second time) - a mystery of spell check and Blogger! A conspiracy? I think so.

There was an article in a science magazine I have somewhere in my hell hole of a room in January about blogs and how social communication websites are actually ruining social interactions. According to this article, it made people think they had an actual voice and fresh thoughts, giving them the confidence to write these things online but failing to actually follow through.

Have I written about this before? Possibly. Either way, I think of that article every time I write in any of my blogs. For me blogs aren't so much about having a 'voice' on the internet but they are for getting out what I'm thinking in a coherant, somewhat organized manner. In person or over the internet in regular conversation, I have the tendency to blather about rather random subjects and in great jumbled masses of words. Long words. Exceedingly odd words with supposedly odder pronunciation. (Did you know that 'caramel' is pronounced 'car-mul' instead of 'car-a-mel'? I didn't. I like my version better.)

Voices are overrated. Writing about my travels this year is about me and keeping my family informed about my on goings without having to repeat myself seven times at a time. It means I will be able to look back this Christmas and remember what, exactly, was going down at that time last year. It's an exciting prospect, people! This process is akin to looking back in your high school journals: exceedingly embaressing but completely required for human growth.

Speaking of blathering, the tea has kicked in. Going to go get those silly pictures done, now.

Until next time (and a possible tea rant), peace!

-Erin

Well, crud.

I'm not exactly sure what to write here anymore; the move didn't happen and I've been all but isolated. This is the sixth time I've tried to write this post and there are at least three different drafts.

After the car accident, I needed a new car, I needed to get this and that, and I thought I was going to loose my car. Things were bad, I was broke - I am broke, honestly. D stopped talking to me once I was unable to go so, yeah, that's quite fun.

This blog is here, regardless, and that means I will keep posting. This year will be eventful no matter what, even if it doesn't span to California or even outside of my rinky-dink town. My father got a job in Virginia, one he's been waiting for, and he asked me to go with him. Ashley wants me to move into his old place with her and her boyfriend. I don't want to stay home; I love my mother but I honestly think I'd love her more if we didn't live together.

I'm not sure what to do. Escape is clear on the Virginia horizon, it means I can go and get out to live in somewhere far off and beautiful. Ashley needs to escape as well, to get the hell out of her house and get from under her parents thumb... We've been talking as if it is set in stone. Moving with her is safer, moving with Dad is tempting, far too tempting.

Kelly thinks I should go. She hasn't given bad advice since I've known her; she's usually the voice of sanity to my ranting and a pretty shower of calmness whenever I need her to be. But - Ashley.

I can whine and bitch about Ashley and what happens between us but when it all boils down, I am horribly protective of the girl. Her current state of affairs honestly upsets me and this - this is her chance of 'getting out' just as much as it is mine. If we don't, she and her boyfriend can't afford to move out on their own. I'm not sure if *I* can afford to move out period. Time will tell.

A coworker pointed out I was at a fork in the road - how true! Oh woe is me for having more than just one choice on what I can or cannot do. This isn't like moving to California. Moving there was to be with D, so I could live in a place where I wasn't odd or strange and, yes, just getting my lily white butt out of here.

Maybe it'd be easier to just scream, "PEACE" and run to Virginia with my tail between my legs. Correction - it would be.

Does this count as a 'count down' post? Maybe.

Peace, blog. Until the very soon 'next time'-

Erin

T-Minus Forty Four Days

Every so often, a person has a breakdown. I'm not talking of the sort of breakdown that leads to slit wrists and emo tears that leave black, black tear trails as dark as your soul. Those breakdowns don't lead to revelations and thoughts that make a person try to think of things that are beyond their normal conventions.

I believe, truly, that these things have a reason behind them. A rational man will never be able to accuse me of being a religious person; my system of belief doesn't exactly match with those of mainstream religions. 'Dogma' may have been a satire but in that spoof of modern thought processes there is a jewel of wisdom: You can change an idea. Changing a belief is trickier.

It's true. I like to think of an idea as something formless but still necessary to life, like oxygen. Everyone has ideas, don't you think? Even the most straight laced of Christians have their own ideas and interpretations of the Bible whether they admit it or not.

When beliefs come into play, it tends to come across like a hurricane that fails to die after it leaves the water and goes onto land. They rip down anything in their paths, fully visible to the naked eye and terrifying those who don't go with it. It is terribly, horribly dangerous to go and throw everything that is you into the hurricane. The sheer force will rip you apart.

Then, sometimes, just sometimes, there can be a change in the air. I don't want to say that it's exactly an idea becoming a belief so much as an idea becoming more visible, a strong breeze in the middle of the forest whipping through the leaves just quick enough for you to think you may have seen the light blue of it all.

Never say you can't see the invisible! Just because oxygen doesn't show up when you breathe (winter aside) it doesn't mean that you can't see it. Pretending that the lack of evidence means that the item in question does not exist is simply stupid. There are too many things out there that are unexplainable and unattainable to brush off.

Revelations and breakdowns have a lot in common. Both of them come with emotional walls being kicked down, quite possibly with tears and screaming involved. This isn't always the case, as long as we keep Siddhartha in mind, but they always have a purpose. It can be as simple as the need to vent, to release stress in a manner that doesn't hurt yourself. Other times, it's a way to get in touch with what may or may not be important to you through prayer, pain, pleasure, or any other ways to center a person.

When those breakdowns come, one shouldn't assume they're crazy. Take faith in what your ideas/beliefs may be. Whatever is felt is genuine. Embrace the 'crazy', my loves.

Something good is going to happen.