i have 27 dollars to my name.
i hate my friends.
i can't afford groceries.
i have wasted my money away.
i have never felt more alone than this.
March 11, 2011
Adrian
I was cleaning my room today, organizing my dorm room like I try to do every once in a while. My room is small, and I have a lot of stuff that I tend to accumulate, but the more I cleaned the more sad I got. I realized I was collecting and throwing away things based on my value and need for them when I finished my first year, and realized with a large lurch in my stomach just how much grief I would get from my parents for having so much stuff when it came to be the day when I move out of my dorm, and back to... wherever I end up. It's a sad sort of thing, but the more I organized things the more I realized where all of my money went the last few months; the free standing “free read” collection of books I decided needed to grow, as I didn't want to spend all my time reading the classics for my English class. Fabric for the costumes that I make in my spare time; a new wig sitting above my window pane, the dark curls of it floating with the breeze my window was pulling in. The vast amount of shoes, though I didn't purchase those... the posters on my walls, the moisturizers and shampoos I've purchased... all of them petty little things that I bought, finding for some reason that I needed those at the time.
The fact of the matter is, I spent 18 dollars on a Star Wars poster that I never put on my wall, one which I know I won't put up now, since I only have a few more weeks left of class.
What grasped my attention today though was the two bottles of soaps that I have next to my window; barely used, but ones which I would never throw away. The scent is green grass, one I attach to spring time and cleanliness, but one which I never would use on myself. Yet, once again, I would never throw them away. Now, of course, I managed to find a sort of sentimental value in them, but for good reason. I received these soaps from my father for Christmas. Now, my father is, and always will be a good man. I love him with all my heart, and yet, whenever I think of him it always seems to make my chest curl into twists, and my eyes water. As much as I love him, he breaks my heart.
I wasn't too keen on the two soaps when I first got them; one a body wash, the other a sugar scrub to use to get rid of old skin and the like. They came with a louffa, though one that I wouldn't use on a regular basis; to be frank, the entire thing was a bit of a waste on me. I felt sort of sad that he got it for me, because days before Christmas he was asking me what to get, and I really had no idea. No idea at all.
Christmas was the day I received three hundred dollars from my father, which I spent frivilously the next day on boxing day sales on dresses and a new sweater, both of which I adore and wear often; but not the year I received two soaps.
Now, this isn't to say that my father hasn't been a good gift giver. He's definitely had his positive moments. This was the same year he purchased me a beautiful red pea coat, one he picked out himself, just for me. To my own disappointment, it was too snug, and I promised I would return it, but I never had the heart at the time. I wished I could fit into it, because I knew my dad had picked it out all by himself knowing that I would love it, and it broke my heart that I couldn't fit into it. I left it behind when I returned to university, promising myself that I'd return it on my own the next time I came to visit.
My father and I had lunch a few days later, and he brought me up to his office in the same city as my school, revealing to me a new pea coat, a grey colour that fit me much better. He informed me that he had picked up my red coat from my mother's place, and had returned it himself, using the credit and a Boxing Day sale to purchase me this one, one which he liked just as much.
...it's my favourite coat.
But that would be besides the point; the point of the two soaps sitting on my shelf next to my window. These... obviously are not his best gifts. Far from. In fact, they were so cumbersome, he'd left the large price tag on them. 20 dollars for the soaps and the louffa, and the next time I was out at the store I saw that the set was on sale for ten dollars now. This, this is the reason I keep the soaps.
My father and I had a strained relationship for a very long time. As a teenager I struggled with accepting his alcoholism, refusing that it was an acceptable part of his personality, and finding flaw in it whenever I could. I found every moment I could to hold against him; the time he threw a watermelon at me because I wouldn't listen, and hid in his car for hours until he would drive me home. The time he broke down with my sister, crying his eyes out begging me not to leave his house, claiming that he would commit suicide if I would. I left the house, into my mother's own empty one, heart broken at what I had done to my father. While I didn't accept his alcoholic tendencies, to the point of two other circumstances where I went back to visiting him, and then refused for months, I hurt him more than I realized I could.
As I get older, I come to terms with the fact that yes, my father is an alcoholic who drinks. Frankly, there's nothing I can do about that fact. However, what I can do is try to mend what I had broken in my own frustrations with not accepting who he is along with that fact; my dad. His drinking never changed that he always dressed me in Osh Kosh B'Gosh overalls and took me to the park when I was a baby; that he drove with me to Nova Scotia every year to visit family, and bought me my first Nintendo 64. He was the man who didn't sell his car, but instead gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday (without asking my mother, funnily enough), who did everything he could to be the best father he could, in whatever ways he could create at the time.
And I? I ran away from him, insulted by the circumstances created by an addiction that he cannot control.
These days? I have lunch with my dad every two weeks. We go out and we talk school and business; he gives me money for my education and free spending, and I try to do well in school and make him proud. My dad and I are heading out every so often now; he's giving me driving lessons since I finally got my G1 a few weeks ago. We're good, we're getting better.
For the longest time, I was terrified that the day I head down my wedding aisle I wouldn't have my dad with me. That he'd be dead; he'd have committed suicide because of his depression, or he'd drink himself to death. Today, I know with confidence that he'll always be there. My dad will be there until he hits old age, proud to be there, and proud of me.
And you know what? I'll be proud of him, too.
The fact of the matter is, I spent 18 dollars on a Star Wars poster that I never put on my wall, one which I know I won't put up now, since I only have a few more weeks left of class.
What grasped my attention today though was the two bottles of soaps that I have next to my window; barely used, but ones which I would never throw away. The scent is green grass, one I attach to spring time and cleanliness, but one which I never would use on myself. Yet, once again, I would never throw them away. Now, of course, I managed to find a sort of sentimental value in them, but for good reason. I received these soaps from my father for Christmas. Now, my father is, and always will be a good man. I love him with all my heart, and yet, whenever I think of him it always seems to make my chest curl into twists, and my eyes water. As much as I love him, he breaks my heart.
I wasn't too keen on the two soaps when I first got them; one a body wash, the other a sugar scrub to use to get rid of old skin and the like. They came with a louffa, though one that I wouldn't use on a regular basis; to be frank, the entire thing was a bit of a waste on me. I felt sort of sad that he got it for me, because days before Christmas he was asking me what to get, and I really had no idea. No idea at all.
Christmas was the day I received three hundred dollars from my father, which I spent frivilously the next day on boxing day sales on dresses and a new sweater, both of which I adore and wear often; but not the year I received two soaps.
Now, this isn't to say that my father hasn't been a good gift giver. He's definitely had his positive moments. This was the same year he purchased me a beautiful red pea coat, one he picked out himself, just for me. To my own disappointment, it was too snug, and I promised I would return it, but I never had the heart at the time. I wished I could fit into it, because I knew my dad had picked it out all by himself knowing that I would love it, and it broke my heart that I couldn't fit into it. I left it behind when I returned to university, promising myself that I'd return it on my own the next time I came to visit.
My father and I had lunch a few days later, and he brought me up to his office in the same city as my school, revealing to me a new pea coat, a grey colour that fit me much better. He informed me that he had picked up my red coat from my mother's place, and had returned it himself, using the credit and a Boxing Day sale to purchase me this one, one which he liked just as much.
...it's my favourite coat.
But that would be besides the point; the point of the two soaps sitting on my shelf next to my window. These... obviously are not his best gifts. Far from. In fact, they were so cumbersome, he'd left the large price tag on them. 20 dollars for the soaps and the louffa, and the next time I was out at the store I saw that the set was on sale for ten dollars now. This, this is the reason I keep the soaps.
My father and I had a strained relationship for a very long time. As a teenager I struggled with accepting his alcoholism, refusing that it was an acceptable part of his personality, and finding flaw in it whenever I could. I found every moment I could to hold against him; the time he threw a watermelon at me because I wouldn't listen, and hid in his car for hours until he would drive me home. The time he broke down with my sister, crying his eyes out begging me not to leave his house, claiming that he would commit suicide if I would. I left the house, into my mother's own empty one, heart broken at what I had done to my father. While I didn't accept his alcoholic tendencies, to the point of two other circumstances where I went back to visiting him, and then refused for months, I hurt him more than I realized I could.
As I get older, I come to terms with the fact that yes, my father is an alcoholic who drinks. Frankly, there's nothing I can do about that fact. However, what I can do is try to mend what I had broken in my own frustrations with not accepting who he is along with that fact; my dad. His drinking never changed that he always dressed me in Osh Kosh B'Gosh overalls and took me to the park when I was a baby; that he drove with me to Nova Scotia every year to visit family, and bought me my first Nintendo 64. He was the man who didn't sell his car, but instead gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday (without asking my mother, funnily enough), who did everything he could to be the best father he could, in whatever ways he could create at the time.
And I? I ran away from him, insulted by the circumstances created by an addiction that he cannot control.
These days? I have lunch with my dad every two weeks. We go out and we talk school and business; he gives me money for my education and free spending, and I try to do well in school and make him proud. My dad and I are heading out every so often now; he's giving me driving lessons since I finally got my G1 a few weeks ago. We're good, we're getting better.
For the longest time, I was terrified that the day I head down my wedding aisle I wouldn't have my dad with me. That he'd be dead; he'd have committed suicide because of his depression, or he'd drink himself to death. Today, I know with confidence that he'll always be there. My dad will be there until he hits old age, proud to be there, and proud of me.
And you know what? I'll be proud of him, too.
February 1, 2011
He both hated and loved the thing; like one who feels for his lover, the whore.
~*~
Her fingers danced along the hard wood of the bed frame, nails drawing small vibrations in their bed as they waited; she waited. She was never fond of patience, a virtue that never crossed her mind in all of her years. Her body wasn't made of things that made stalling easy, her body spent most of its time waiting to jump. Was it a flaw in her creation? Of course. But was she to blame, too? Hardly. She would never call herself the responsible one when it came to the creature that she was. She was pulled into habit because of what others had made her do, what others had created for her.
The 'God' figure whom everyone seemed so reliant on and fond of had made her so sinful, and those dreadful boys had been the reason she caused all of the trouble that she did. Besides, God had made the things that tasted so good, he made her partial to them, and he created that which provided her with all that she sought after. She could hardly hold responsibility for all or any of this nonsense.
She wasn't proud of her anticipation, though. In her mind it was the only real flaw that she had. She encompassed all that was sinful, yes, but that made her special. She was angry, seductive, lazy, greedy, indulgent, envious... and she took pride in it all. If she could describe herself she'd have easy explanation- she was the perfect human, full of flaws and imperfections... and a carnal hunger that was never-ending.
That was what she was waiting for, that was what her fingers longed to scratch at, the moment when she could dig her claws into flesh again. To taste the sick flavour as it seeped down her throat, first thick and rushing, but slowing after time into an almost dry state- but she had to hear it, first.
Her jaw gave a sharp crack that interrupted her thoughts, loud enough to wake the sleeping boy beneath her. Well, he was hardly a boy, but it all stood in comparison of one another. The man, as she supposed it was logical to call him, opened his eyes, watching her a moment.
"Darling?" he asked, tired eyes trying to glance over her and understand, clearly sleep to be more inept at using his functioning brain than usual.
Her hand went over his mouth, drowning out any noise he could have made, and with cold eyes she stared him down, as if in warning. She didn't want noise while she waited; she desired silence, and that was what she was going to get, despite the few minutes of struggle, and then patience again.
If her ears could perk, they would have done so behind her tresses. There it was, she heard it. Her eyes softened their glance upon the boy, a fond expression melting any of the harshness from before as her hand moved away from his face.
"I'll just be a moment," she said lightly, a smile forming as she kissed his nose briefly, slipping backwards and off the bed, as if disappearing into the midnight dark.
~*~
January 11, 2011
Dear Churro,
I'm in Paris, now. You were right. Palmer was suffocating, and everything changed. People got older, and they got meaner. They aren't as nice as they used to be, and all the places I know don't seem so welcoming anymore. Every Thursday I still go and eat lunch on the stage, but you don't say soliloquies anymore. I sleep with the wedding blanket, because it's warm and it reminds me of the way things used to be. I make a wish every day that you're alive on my magic lamp, but I tell everyone else that I'm just cleaning it off. No one really gets that I'm hoping for a genie, but I like to imagine you would (even if I might be wrong). I tried being mature and grown up for a while, I was a secretary, but I'm much happier running around being happy. Growing up means being miserable, and I guess that's just life for you. Maybe you skipped that. Though... I know that isn't true.
I talked to your stepmom, and she told me why things ended after twenty-seven days. You know, as much as Vivian was nice, and her red hair was very pretty, I'm a little mad at her. Maybe if she hadn't done that I wouldn't have been stupid enough to stay here. Maybe we'd be married for two years now, and maybe we'd both be in New York. You'd be alive, and you'd smile at me every morning and call me 'mi fleur de ma corozon', or however you write it. You'd put your forehead against mine, and you'd kiss my nose, and then we'd carry along our days. My hair would be shorter, I think, and I'd wear more bows. I'd still be talking to my family, and I wouldn't have overdosed. But... a lot of these things weren't her fault, or yours, I've just made some really bad choices. I can accept that, and take responsibility for that.
I just wish that you were alive, because it's hard to imagine your hands cold, or not there anymore. I want you to be alive. Can't you come back, please?
...I'll change my flight plans. I'm going to go to New York. I'm mailing this to the address you gave me, and if you get it, I will meet you in front of the Disney Store on Fifth. I'll sing Edelveiss if you really want, and I'll wait for you for a year. And if you don't come after a year, I'll just join you.
Love, Taterbug
August 29, 2010
So goodbye Summer- and hello University. I leave in a week- as in, in a week I will be in my new single room in Toronto. And to be honest? I'm not all that nervous- yet. I probably should be, I should probably be terrified but more of what's going through my head is "Do I have everything I need?"
I think I do.
...I hope I do.
...shit.
June 19, 2010
fuck.
fuck this fuck you fuck trying fuck hurting fuck wanting fuck being fuck this fuck that fuck him fuck her fuck wanting fuck longing fuck belonging fuck listening fuck caring fuck love fuck hate fuck friendship fuck giving a damn fuck being someone fuck importance fuck excitement fuck muse fuck belonging fuck this fuck that fuck me.
June 14, 2010
reflection
i started this at midnight- just for reference.
Looking back onto my free writes over the semester, I see a slowly developing process. At first, it’s easy to see how unsure I was about what I was writing. More than anything, my free writes were like journals- recollecting on my life, showing me how I felt. My life felt more and more like a story the more I read it. However, as I passed on over time, the development is clear. Looking at the flow of entries, I see how my writing changed to develop stories and theories, opinions and thoughts into small, poetic pieces. Each paragraph resounds into a different part of me, and I can remember exactly how I felt each time, how much my heart ached, or my mind soared to argue. My feelings developed from angry moments where I recollected about my day into ideas about the world around me, my writing style losing etiquette, but in a way I was very comfortable with. And while I may have lost that skill, to a degree, it relaxed my style of writing. I feel so much more confident about all that I write about, having the ability to write at any spur of the moment and be proud of my work. It’s why I put my work on a blog. I am proud of my work, and I want to share it with everyone- I want people to see what I feel and have thoughts about, and watch my work develop as I do the same. My voice changes over time, and I think I want to continue this- I want to watch my voice and style change over time, and see where it takes me- which is why I’ve decided to do a free write once every three days!
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