tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49732550338787753582012-02-08T12:26:44.018-06:00Kiss - Tell - Crucify - Bitch SlapLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.comBlogger2661100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-4666437040522637072012-02-08T12:26:00.000-06:002012-02-08T12:26:44.029-06:00

I've spent the earliest of the afternoon going through last February's writing. What was I hoping for? A lover, survival, I wanted to be a better person, I wrote I didn't want to always be such a bully. I assumed if I asked forcefully enough, these would happen immediately. Maybe it's a common assumption in the occult community (I really think it is): If I demand in the right way for something

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-67323544823351177362012-02-05T13:04:00.000-06:002012-02-05T13:04:04.386-06:00

Turns out, gallery work is a lot of running up and down Chicago with 50 pound artworks and praying your manicure doesn't shed on a client's receipt. The only glamorous part is I've got to do it in a borrowed $600 outfit and heels. Never thought I could make it ten hours and a couple miles on concrete with these fuckers, but I guess you learn. Every morning I ache all over. My head, my neck, my

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-23847376698022252192012-01-19T11:56:00.000-06:002012-01-19T11:56:14.678-06:00

Why do I worry? It's so cold the cars outside slide bleak over the white asphalt, all ice and useless salt these days, and the awning won't stop rustling and tugging against itself. I haven't got an answer yet but do what you know and I'm bleary from lack of sleep. Last night I felt too charged to rest. My shoulders tense, plans were flowing over my mind. It's too cold to write this morning.

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-44562113578943296562012-01-18T13:01:00.001-06:002012-01-18T13:02:59.524-06:00

I am increasingly aware of a growing aversion to intimacy. Perhaps it's always been there; I know a number of my exes accused me of it. But now I feel it. I just don't want to be close. That is not to say I don't actually want to be with someone. I just don't want to be with anyone. I'm remembering all the time I spent with lovers wondering why I didn't even feel like I was there, in that space,

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-87058815082306329412012-01-15T16:19:00.001-06:002012-01-15T16:23:25.010-06:00

I slipped out of the hundreds-year-old building through a door in the blackwood, and suddenly a rush of sea air plunged toward my face. I could feel my right eyelid in a different plane beginning to creep open and I steeled my mind against wakefulness as I moved into open relief after an evening in a dark and confused setting. The area expanded into a wide promenade, nearly circular. Displays

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-78447518366519788652012-01-08T16:41:00.000-06:002012-01-08T16:41:56.058-06:00

I am torn, often, by this desire to understand the nature of evil and why it undergirds our sense of existence. I am torn, I say, because I begin to wander down a path that makes me irritable, and selfish feeling, and those are not wrong per se but the tearing comes when I know I can be better, I know I am capable of more, and yet I feel I am feeding some part of me I haven’t exactly learned to

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-55964107419429949832011-12-29T11:02:00.001-06:002011-12-29T11:03:50.856-06:00

"He walked out on you?" he was saying, and he leaned over to emphasize the point. "Well, there's nothing wrong with you, must have been his problem." And it was. I was giggling. I said I wasn't even offended, I just felt bad for him. Lord knows I like "turning them," as he had said before. I like big straight jocks (doesn't everyone?) I guess because I'd rather be the only woman in the

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-11817431343715182822011-12-28T10:49:00.000-06:002011-12-28T10:49:49.122-06:00

[...] The vast and shattered cloak of a demon idol guards the edges of gridded supra-space and she touches down into watery prehistory. A few figures, tree-like and draped in snowy furs, wave arms and staffs swaying against the temporal winds, the guttering flames of a long-dead candle. A godlike figure hangs in the distance, only halfway visible, dropped almost as soon as he had penetrated the

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-8328994697541884732011-12-27T10:48:00.000-06:002011-12-27T10:48:00.529-06:00

My favorite place to sit in the morning is in the corner cafè, at the window. Here I can watch all the boys passing and somehow feel productive because I'm out of the house before 11. The past few days I've become so consumed with my own thought life, artwork, and writing, I've forgotten to remind myself that other people exist. I suppose I've so resigned myself to the fact that no matter how

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-28679969662538949372011-12-23T10:33:00.003-06:002011-12-23T10:51:52.376-06:00

Source [....] "This region has been psychically dead for years, since the crash," she was saying. I was moving at a clip above the road, until we broached the edge of a crater, the dead brown and gray rocks sifting into the sandy soil, the trees all ended and fell into scrub brush along an expanse of miles that must have stretched into the horizon, had I been able to see it. I felt she was

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-20067379625965732412011-12-22T10:51:00.001-06:002011-12-22T10:54:35.653-06:00

A little embarrassed to be in the same bookstore four days in the row, I knew I needed to go anyway. I could see a bookshelf in my mind's eye, knew something was waiting for me. I was casing the used section for something that might ring a bell. Merlin was running through my mind, the shadowy figure left over from British pre-history, magnetic enough even to draw the attention of  authors like C

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-43212068348510734902011-12-19T19:14:00.001-06:002011-12-19T19:21:08.721-06:00

Something like a sheet of cold and heavy rain suddenly falling into me, and the ghost of someone wrapped in a cloak. I was looking over the cemetery, same cemetery I pass every morning, same ridge of grasses where the trees pushed out the same thing. My head was lolling back, I couldn't close my mouth. I wondered if I'd drool on myself. I tried to sit up but something pushed my head back again.

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-45948119687509923882011-12-18T19:28:00.001-06:002011-12-18T19:28:54.575-06:00

I'm fighting the confessional urge. I spent the past couple weeks planning a triumphant return to sacramental Catholicism, calling up my old priest and telling him everything, really laying it bare. Of course, I woke up one morning and realized going back is pointless. Nobody can make it go away. Not that I think confession is wrong or weak, it's just pointless now. But much to our chagrin, we

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-4190632494171871362011-10-21T19:22:00.003-05:002011-10-21T19:24:47.997-05:00

@font-face { font-family: "Times New Roman"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }table.MsoNormalTable { font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; } “We have a saying in Spanish that you should give to Caesar what is Caesar’s.” She was running her eyes along the ground

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-67145709040905989062011-10-10T19:28:00.001-05:002011-10-11T17:47:29.112-05:00

I’m not as embarrassed as I should be that I’m listening to Contemporary Christian Music and reminiscing about the good old days when I believed that there really was a person in the sky who loved me and meant this all for good. And by “all this” I mean the fact that I was awkward and borderline psychotic and had no friends in high school and was also very intelligent, and was dying of an illness

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-27861214665379667722011-10-07T20:07:00.001-05:002011-10-08T18:40:39.789-05:00

I knew I was supposed to lie there, the way the branches stretched high over the ground made me tired but I knew I ought to be there anyway. I was wondering if I was looking for the ghost of the sex I had had there, the way I had felt happy again for the first time in years but I knew that wasn't it. I knew to look down my nose, the way the afternoon light was fading over the water behind the

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-34891854283518055272011-09-25T19:52:00.000-05:002011-09-25T19:52:36.546-05:00

Manuscript, I was thinking the other day as I paused behind a locked door, easier to think it in Italian, manoscritto, right? Latin manuscriptus, possibly. Hand-written. But we type now, don't we? Yes, but the manuscript is the copy made with my own hands, typed or scrawled on the back of a napkin, it has the special quality that nothing else possesses -- it hasn't filtered through a dozen

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-51783586937953380822011-09-19T20:18:00.001-05:002011-09-19T20:24:02.984-05:00

I wonder what people think when they ask what I'll be doing with my weekends and evenings. Sitting on the lake, I say, I have to go to the library because they have this Greek manuscript I can't find anywhere, I need to get some writing done. Someone responded with, "Simple pleasures!" And I thought, not really at all. They're richer than that. Simple pleasure: Brackish clouds struggling over

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-38137101306023914302011-09-17T20:16:00.000-05:002011-09-17T20:16:32.783-05:00

I was staring out over the water when black something floated up into the brilliant beryl halfway to the horizon hovering beneath the glint on waves. I fumbled for my camera and it wouldn't start. The glimpse was gone. Going to the lake is like eating. I am filled with meanings and understandings, the wind is the gods' blowing into my lungs, respirating me into life. The trees chirping or

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-23694588233616162952011-09-03T08:37:00.000-05:002011-09-03T08:37:29.197-05:00

I removed the nail polish I’ve been touching up since sometime this spring. I’d been hiding, these last few months, all the ruin my final bout with anorexia had done to them – the yellow, weak, protein, half the thickness of everything new growing in, peeling back from the tips. I didn’t care to cover up anymore. The point of the lacquer I’ve been painting over my life all these years, anyway

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-36995117464919772732011-08-16T00:33:00.001-05:002011-08-16T00:34:08.374-05:00

I didn't want to lie in the divot just beneath the tree with stooping branches on the harbor. I am by nature terrified of bugs and no amount of soft breeze sweeping off the lake or dappled sunshine flitting through the leaves would convince me to sweep aside the dead leaves and put myself in that place. I stepped over a cobweb and lay next to the depression and stared through the branches

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-62262191673266396592011-08-02T01:05:00.000-05:002011-08-02T01:05:31.221-05:00

I was smoking in the darkness of the alley behind my apartment, perched on the rotting wood planter, flicking away the pillbugs rambling near me. A rose bush brushing at my back sent an itch down my neck. The alley was dead empty. The translucence of the spider pacing the black-green rose leaf startled me. It pressed closer towards the edge. I felt a pull. I breathed out, a tingle in the air

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-13419513091674240712011-08-01T01:55:00.000-05:002011-08-01T01:55:00.316-05:00

August a couple years ago, my life switched paths. I was desperate for work and disillusioned with the trajectory I had been told to take. I started selling sex toys and had just gotten a taste of sex with men. I was sliding out of religion and had just discovered how alcohol made the pain go away, if only just a little. I began to wake up to the possibilities of life I had never allowed myself

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-22633288123265555542011-07-25T23:47:00.003-05:002011-07-25T23:50:16.191-05:00

I woke up from nightmares -- a wall giving way, a hand over my throat, bright colors, nothingness, sadness -- shaking at the sound of my doorbell. A package from Sweden, coffee (Oh god, bitter black coffee, thank god), and an absurd stuffed Moose from Ikea with detachable socks. My brother has, among many other positive attributes, impeccable timing. I looked in the mirror after I showered and

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-73474958856152292172011-07-23T14:28:00.000-05:002011-07-23T14:28:25.624-05:00

When I got sick a couple months ago, and wallowed a week in the smells of my phlegm and fevers, and my whole body ached, and I couldn't even kneel to pray, I lost something. It was only a few days after that, wasn't it, that Luke disappeared. I remember that gray morning and waking up dead. It wasn't that he left for good, but things had shifted. The parts tied to me were just tied looser,

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-18157609940432472922011-07-23T13:42:00.000-05:002011-07-23T13:42:19.656-05:00

Although I rarely get harassed in public anymore, I have found an excellent way to handle women who just can't hold themselves back from haranguing you for existing. Pick a vague point on her face, smirk the slightest bit, and catch yourself just before you laugh. Look away rapidly. Allow it to simmer for a few moments. She will spend the rest of her day looking for whatever it was you

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-64723951323871027092011-07-18T14:05:00.000-05:002011-07-18T14:05:51.459-05:00

There is a little voice in my head that says something is missing, or that I am missing something. I know it isn't something I could walk to, or dig out of my apartment. It's something for which I have to keep moving until it appears. I have spent the weekend fighting with myself over the idea of illusion. The things I thought looked best are a lie, and the truth lies somewhere behind the

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-8318516580318532662011-07-15T00:41:00.000-05:002011-07-15T00:41:51.602-05:00

There is a point I reach every now and then that sends me into fits of fury. It's the moment when I understand that what I feel I really, truly, desperately want is not at all in line with where I am going. I usually respond at first with a pious sense of resignation, as if I am in any way on friendly terms with the universe. A few days into my self-righteous denial of self, however, I wake up

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-19069997884796347672011-07-12T23:51:00.000-05:002011-07-12T23:51:48.291-05:00

I was reading some feminist complaint about something or other, which was relatively just of her to raise as an issue. Something about sexual harassment in an elevator or something. (Dog-whistles in the dark on my way home from dinner, some unintelligible shout, someone's leaning out the window, I pick up my pace a bit. Straight life sucks more than I thought.) And I got to thinking, there's a

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-71079908040501692492011-07-07T00:23:00.000-05:002011-07-07T00:23:45.825-05:00

My base emotion is anger. As someone noted recently, "She does everything with the intent of offending or upsetting people." True story. It's a big part of why I started smoking, and drinking, and fucking, and swearing, and the list could continue for a while. I unload my rage constantly until enough people feel suitably unsettled, and then I come to my resting state, which is just angry, but

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-70155709390083302562011-07-06T01:31:00.000-05:002011-07-06T01:31:32.060-05:00

I went to the park late this evening because I knew it wasn't safe. I was standing on the avenue, just between the highway and the train tracks, and I could hear in my head a little voice saying I shouldn't go. And I could feel a force deeper inside of me saying that that was the very reason I should. And so I walked deeper into the dark, away from the streetlights. The path branched and I knew

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-91804401490760420722011-07-05T18:24:00.002-05:002011-07-05T18:25:55.172-05:00

I have pulled off the most blatant lie to all of you in the past two years. I have been proving a point, but it is not the one you think. In making you all uncomfortable, I succeeded in my objective, and yet that was also different. I made gender a political project. To be honest (and I wasn't even to myself for a long time), this was a simple distraction. If anyone criticized my gendered

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-63189325560841079072011-06-27T14:15:00.000-05:002011-06-27T14:15:28.441-05:00

One of the major struggles of becoming a fully integrated human being is discovering the limits and powers of your own creation, and the existence of who you really are. The second aspect of that point has taken me by surprise. I recently asked a friend if this is the right time for me to get on top of my eating disorder -- in the past two years I've tackled drugs, drinking, cutting, depression,

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-19809249240949366802011-06-22T10:37:00.000-05:002011-06-22T10:37:58.538-05:00

There was a TV on the sidewalk this morning, surrounded by shards of glass that crunched under my feet as I made my way to the cafè this morning. I looked up to see the window it must have flown through, or rather the irregularly shaped hole in the window a few stories up. I've had trouble sleeping the past few nights, partly because of the intensity of my dreams and partly due to the

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-58758496799700723422011-06-11T15:57:00.000-05:002011-06-11T15:57:02.166-05:00

It's hard to explain what it looks like, but there is a spark and flow beneath everything. Before every wave there is a wave pushing beyond, past every cloud a subtle ripple. I see it sparking between people and sometimes when they speak I can see the pattern their words are tracing out. I can't explain it, it just exists and I see it. Years ago, I could touch a friend and know what was wrong

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-43930520929545368372011-06-03T18:36:00.001-05:002011-06-03T18:39:16.262-05:00

I've been sitting in the late sunlight watching it pass through the people on the street and through the window. The couple sitting outside, glowing now, their long, thin, hair blowing in the hot breeze, eating frozen yogurt with blueberry and chewing without teeth, are my anchor. I can't describe how thankful I am for them. It's condescending I guess, but I am so glad the world has ugly people.

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-37070604689024335582011-06-02T01:26:00.003-05:002011-06-02T01:28:54.704-05:00

I was pulling a potato out of my crisper for a very late supper, and caught myself insisting that I may only have one, because if I ate two, then I would have to skip dinner at some point, since there would magically be no potatoes left, ever, in the world. I noticed it because that’s a mark of starvation thinking – if you take as much as you need (perhaps a little more), you will eventually

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-68495156131782916502011-05-29T15:49:00.000-05:002011-05-29T15:49:57.538-05:00

I was lying in the 3 am dark, afterglow having taken care of my business and looking up I saw him. Faint, citrine-haze, a face, male-familiar, I remember him from the mirror not two years ago. I began weeping. I miss you, come home. I have some things to take care of, he said, I’ll be back when you need me. I kept weeping, watching the citrine fade to red and back to black, or as black as it

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-29333375786217773562011-05-23T15:12:00.000-05:002011-05-23T15:12:54.389-05:00

Once the desperation of re-emerging flashbacks wears away, my favorite emotion comes into play: naked rage. I think sometimes the hardest part about dissociating like this is that you can wake up one morning, because the light is tapping your face through the window, urging you out, and you sit up, and you feel like you left yourself somewhere when you were drunk last night. Like, your body made

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-31223070057749230682011-05-21T22:00:00.003-05:002011-05-23T14:39:05.840-05:00

So it’s been a year since my suicide attempt, and a year since my grandfather’s death. I’m not sure what stroke of fate worked those two together so neatly, as I was lying on the beach contemplating the pointlessness of life and my grandfather just moments before had slipped out of his own. But they both swam to the surface of my memory this afternoon, and asked acknowledgment. Once the

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-40375316316934001172011-05-17T22:12:00.000-05:002011-05-17T22:12:08.847-05:00

The week before the blindness episode, I bought a rose-offering for my guide. It was gold for prosperity and the edges blushed red for love. I placed it in a liquor bottle I've kept since the night I got raped. TR and I had opened it, and I used the alcohol to drink myself to sleep afterward. I set it before my altar as a prayer that I was willing to let goodness grow out of my past, out of what

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-74931071737882327542011-05-16T22:18:00.000-05:002011-05-16T22:18:17.840-05:00

This evening I fell asleep after my first full meal of the day and the first glass of wine in a month weighed my eyes heavy. I told a friend I am good at hiding things because my family were masters of hiding. Everyone wanted to be us, except ourselves. I was walking to the beach, and the darkness was growing. I saw people gathering, vague in the darkness, their shapes rising to meet me before

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-25310534698404233322011-05-13T15:06:00.000-05:002011-05-13T15:06:05.977-05:00

This weekend, I began to lose the sight in my eye, and I wasn't surprised about it. While I was a little frightened as I watch it spread through my field of vision, I could say inside myself that I knew it was coming. Perhaps some background will help. For the past few months, there had been a constant juxtaposition of 9 and 1 in my cards. 9 is the end of a cycle, 1 is the beginning, and I felt

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-62405568678704824242011-05-04T14:30:00.001-05:002011-05-05T17:32:59.480-05:00

I was sick for the better part of last week, too sick to get out of bed for days. I had no voice, so I couldn't even use the phone or ask for help outside of text messaging. So, of course, it was just me and my four white walls and the glaring computer screen. Lying still and silent for a couple days brought a few issues to the forefront that I've been keeping busy in order to avoid: issues like

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-5545458640456028392011-04-20T20:47:00.000-05:002011-04-20T20:47:54.009-05:00

My therapist did not know that I grew up in a cult. I mentioned it in passing during one of our last sessions, and his mouth dropped open. I assumed that he'd known, but (and I've done this with other therapists), I had somehow completely skirted the issue since I started with him months ago. I see how even in the most intimate of circumstances, I'm hiding something about myself. Maybe it's

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-4987593196677386062011-04-19T12:10:00.000-05:002011-04-19T12:10:07.378-05:00

I could hear the Palm Sunday bells from Loyola's Madonna della Strada sweeping across the lake and past the beach, as I stood in the wind pressing my face and chest against a willow tree. The expanse of grass, sand, and water opened up and I could see it all at once, leaning against my quiet, living support. At that moment, I felt connected. Entirely satisfied, and perfectly in place. And I was

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-76517171878869722962011-04-17T13:14:00.002-05:002011-04-17T16:03:11.305-05:00

The unseasonably cool but bright April weather at the moment, shifting through my cracked window and ruffling the few vertical blind slats still attached to the frame, is the perfect flashback primer. It's the same weather that usually accompanies my annual breakdown in the autumn, but due to the time of the year, it's not so bad. In fact, it's like a small, comforting room within my own mind. I

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-55341628033609743272011-04-08T19:20:00.000-05:002011-04-08T19:20:45.322-05:00

For some reason, I made another stomach-turning foray into the world of Catholic blogging. I told myself it was okay because this blog has a progressive reputation, but FAIL: "Just Say No to McWork." The post's premise is that working-class people, the kind who tend to depend on shit jobs to survive, should band together and refuse to work for evil empire companies because they mistreat their

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-11605529609917734152011-04-08T00:08:00.001-05:002011-04-08T00:27:41.483-05:00

I've just woken up from a dream so thickly negative it lingered in the room until I brushed it out with the lights. I was doing a woman's reading. Every card I laid down for her she countered with an opposite statement. The more she began speaking against any positive relationship card I drew, the more I began fumbling with the deck and got frustrated. I knew she had a positive future, and yet

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-26889608521409285862011-04-07T21:07:00.001-05:002011-04-08T00:13:02.948-05:00

Last night, the ending of Carlos Castaneda's Tales of Power stole my breath. I dropped through the blank space on the last page as if the period were a rock tied to my heart. The surreal nature of Castaneda's supposed memoir had been spinning my head for days. It was the first book I'd ever read that so completely described the experience of constant dissociation without ever naming it as such,

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-17790126859225892122011-04-01T22:41:00.001-05:002011-04-01T22:43:26.484-05:00

Last night, my stalk of lilies opened. I bought them on Monday, out of habit. I like to blend them with greens and carnations because of the vibration they lend to my apartment, that uncluttered sense of happiness. I put them before my altar, of course, and hope the Virgin likes the colors and combination I choose. This week, however, my lilies refused to bloom. I thought they were dead and

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-78573614699152265172011-03-26T23:01:00.001-05:002011-03-26T23:04:50.616-05:00

Reaching the end of my last phase of school for what I hope to be a very long time, I'm nestling into a strange present that seems constantly stretching and collapsing between the past and the future. I'm meditating on what I've been through in the past ten months and how it's changed me, and I'm looking forward to a way of life I expect to be considerably different from what I've known up until

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-51539381264377198012011-03-15T00:13:00.001-05:002011-03-15T00:15:06.220-05:00

Late last week I got a clear message that, on no uncertain terms, I had to leave my means of income. I received it through multiple channels: my own gut, dreams, divination, and an entity I work with closely. It came as a shock at first, especially since I felt I was really coming into my own in the field and had a plan in place, but it made sense judging from the undercurrents I've seen popping

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-29264114988210050922011-03-10T23:27:00.000-06:002011-03-10T23:27:47.601-06:00

Yesterday I entered my apartment tired and with ashes smearing my forehead. I immediately sensed the lilies near my altar. While I was busy grumbling over hair and fumbling through the Liturgy of the Word at Our Lady of Mt. Carmel, they had finally bloomed before an image of Our Lady of Charity. I went to church because I wanted to. I tried to fast, it was Ash Wednesday, and I only ate fish. But

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-25299262874819099742011-03-09T23:27:00.001-06:002011-03-09T23:35:53.227-06:00

Tuesday was our last day of beauty school classes. Ever. Now we're just running out our hours until graduation, scrambling for jobs, trying not to slap our classmates even when we're sick to death of each other. We each had to share about how our lives were changing/what beauty school meant to us. I had quietly planned my miniature speech, making sure that it didn't involve anything too personal

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-13551002517839433422011-03-04T22:59:00.000-06:002011-03-04T22:59:45.389-06:00

Today a model described to me how taxing her job is. Not only did the poking around her face and pulling and heating her hair make her want to "crawl out of [her] skin," but the lack of consistent schedule, long hours all at once, and physical demands stressed her body. The whole time I listened, running my fingers through her hair and pinning the crimped portions around a thick filler, I kept

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-91975739855459708852011-02-23T00:10:00.002-06:002011-03-04T23:01:43.568-06:00

I was gazing into the rising jasmine smoke. Fishes repeatedly materializing darted among wheeling birds. Fish after fish, all different shapes and sizes, gulls gliding briefly through my field of vision. I spread my cards: Period of self-imposed celibacy passing, don't lose the head-ground you've gained because of your emotions. Approaching debauchery. Above all, the outcome: the heartbreak is

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-56911184938878836702011-02-22T00:11:00.001-06:002011-02-22T00:16:03.262-06:00

This morning I dreamed I was standing on a clear-lit lake in early afternoon. Lining the banks in bulrushes clouded shrines to the dead, wooden structures like docks into the lake. Each shrine was cluttered with notes tied to offerings: flowers, memorabilia. Each note expressed how deeply the person missed their dead friend, and described how they had grown and changed since their loss. I could

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-45462025614984239432011-02-20T21:06:00.000-06:002011-02-20T21:06:22.845-06:00

The rain had been pattering outside my window since I woke this afternoon, tempting me to join the outside flow. And so I washed up and headed -- boots, cap, and umbrella -- to the nearest beach. There's a knoll on which I've always rested, a little off the path cutting through the park and in full view of the pier, the waves, and the bend in the coast leading north of the city. I've known that

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-60358539109969981392011-02-14T19:40:00.001-06:002011-02-14T19:42:03.281-06:00

Need help finding religious supplies, sinner? I took a long walk near the lake to the Christian bookstore in my neighborhood today. The last time I was there, the saleslady glared at me until I made it clear I wanted to purchase a nice rosary -- then she grudgingly helped. So this time, I made sure to go as femme as possible, femme enough to get looked over by all the straight men on my way

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-61226381614764071312011-01-18T21:46:00.003-06:002011-01-19T00:46:33.686-06:00

One thing that dabbling in the occult seems to be teaching me is that, as far as spirituality concerned, there is a lot of negotiation. You need to use the right tools to make a working result, for instance. But more specifically, if you want something done on a spiritual level, it's probably going to cost you something. I got this message growing up, albeit with a different spin, when they

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-76858875152343079262011-01-17T14:31:00.002-06:002011-01-17T14:44:55.421-06:00

BTW, you're better than her. G2K, right? These days, I avoid most of the arguments over gays in religion, as I feel that was a large factor in losing my faith and it just annoys me now. The reason for this was I saw both sides arguing over the same biblical passages until they were blue in the face. I realized that they both had convincing arguments, speaking scripturally -- the only deciding

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-32145366403811562172011-01-08T14:51:00.000-06:002011-01-08T14:51:54.762-06:00

We were stirring our bitter coffee with tiny spoons, perched in the Kastrup mezzanine and hoping my flight would leave on time despite the rare blizzard fading out the Copenhagen view through the airport windows. I had a couple hours to wait, regardless, and these were our last moments in person for who knows how long. I kept forcing the tears back down my throat and sipping on my cup, growing

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-15967813979655675502010-12-25T17:23:00.001-06:002010-12-25T17:24:40.555-06:00

When I was a teenager, I went through a really bad bout of depression due to an (accidental) overdosage on medication and a bad home life. I ended moving in with a family from our church, but seeing as my family has always been big on appearances, we kept the whole thing a secret. Which was difficult, as I moved into the house all my friends would hang out at, and still didn't believe in lying

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-51557515474464673202010-11-30T23:28:00.000-06:002010-11-30T23:28:46.576-06:00

My therapist is making me come in for a second session this week. I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm going to try to kill myself by Thursday or something, which seems to be the general theme coming from all the really sweet and lovely people who've reached out to me this week. But the truth is, I'm not. I'm really not going to kill myself. This is because I'm all out of rope, guns, sharp knives, and

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-89636737390965521952010-11-29T22:45:00.000-06:002010-11-29T22:45:39.180-06:00

Sat in my therapist's chair and bawled my eyes out almost immediately. As I was wiping layers of weekend makeup off my runny face it struck me how easily it happened, like it had been building for weeks. I only cry two or three times a year, and usually only in particularly intense sessions of counseling, but this time it just came on. I was just reiterating my frustration at the glib lines nice

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-84768952532572248292010-11-28T17:07:00.001-06:002010-11-29T22:49:07.822-06:00

I feel that I haven't been writing for three reasons: 1) Exhaustion. 2) Fear of myself. 3) Distraction. Quitting my job has given me a lot of space to think. My instructors at school like me so much more now that I'm not an abject asshole all the time and have the mental clarity to really make my clients happy. I'm just starting to reconstruct my social life, which for many reasons has pretty

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-36431174465105335892010-11-17T19:27:00.002-06:002010-11-17T19:41:39.762-06:00

Well the good news is that since my building never turns the heat on, the cockroaches are dying slowly in the hallway in front of the elevator, which is nice. He was in my siiiiiiink I turned on my bathroom light to find one I named Jason Voorhees the other night lounging in my sink. Took me five minutes to kill him, which is fine because I always wanted to know that cockroaches get so big

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-57707799886149271732010-11-05T00:13:00.000-05:002010-11-05T00:13:03.517-05:00

I came across some info on channelers, how their brains release DMT (the death hormone) when they go into ecstatic states. How they also have a tendency to have been traumatically abused as children. It reminded me of how I read auras develop holes in them, where a child's consciousness is thought to escape during abuse. It reminded me of the out-of-body experiences BDSM practitioners talk about.

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-18860479105746003062010-11-02T23:19:00.000-05:002010-11-02T23:19:39.959-05:00

This song came on at work today. I remembered listening to it right around the time of my suicide attempt this may. I went back and looked it up, realized I put it in a post the day of, actually. I felt so groundless, which is why I loved it. Lost: I mean, no more god, and life was pointless. There was no reason for being here other than I wanted it, and I was tired of wanting anyway. And the

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-26916584332295703272010-10-28T23:24:00.001-05:002010-10-28T23:32:10.572-05:00

1. Yes, other people have told me that. 2. Edward Scissorhands was a malformed and socially maladaptive killer who displayed signs of mental disturbance and poor fashion sense. 3. If you insist that it is really just my hair that reminds you of him, I should probably just drop out of hair school. 4. If you cover your tracks by saying you mean I look like Johnny Depp, you are referring to

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-4443461201133783732010-10-28T01:00:00.002-05:002011-05-07T11:53:30.694-05:00

Dear Neighbor Who Stole My Package of Fake Titties, I can appreciate, to some degree, the thrill that must have coursed through your body as you secreted that box to your own apartment. What could that UPS man be bringing this time? What marvelous treasure lay hidden between those six corrugated walls, so cruelly separating you from the satisfaction of pure knowledge: the knowledge of what lay

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-53148871779294030692010-10-22T14:09:00.001-05:002010-10-22T14:22:16.710-05:00

Five months ago, I was hopped up on painkillers and standing on the side of the rush-hour road debating the merits of throwing myself into traffic. I had spent the afternoon at the beach and, once a combination of substances had hit me harder than expected, wasn't able to get home. Every way I looked, the distance telescoped, the ground was shifting, I felt so tired. Yesterday, I made the trek

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-16232294222990426382010-10-08T00:32:00.001-05:002010-10-08T00:34:20.137-05:00

A friend I rarely see and I were chatting over the phone about current life events. I had recounted some major personal developments that were stirring up some strong feelings and how rough it can be. And she mentioned how great it is to be able to feel. Which is true: the worst part of depression is the lack of feeling. Coming out of it is hard, as I find myself rushing in the other direction

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-64133296418284607312010-10-04T12:51:00.000-05:002010-10-04T12:51:58.035-05:00

I was cutting a writer's hair the other day and I started thinking about the influence my own mother's writing (and my editing it as I grew up) had on me. A textbook Virgo with my north node in Pisces and my moon in Capricorn (read: emotionally and relationally fuuuuuuucked), I'm a natural at editing people's work as I love criticism and perfection -- of other people, that is. But I was thinking

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-35802678393185403212010-09-30T00:09:00.001-05:002010-09-30T00:13:59.425-05:00

An exchange with someone left me furiously spouting, "Don't you judge me! You have no idea of what I'm going through!" just like that girl we all judged in high school. I cringe looking at myself a bit, not because I was wrong in saying it, but because I never thought I would. And what of it? I've spent plenty of time drinking myself unconscious or getting stoned on painkillers just to make it

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-20280021829202419072010-09-27T22:23:00.000-05:002010-09-27T22:23:58.227-05:00

"That sounds like hell," my dear friend admitted over french fries, "for your therapist." He said this as we picked at the crumbs leftover in the diner's window booth. "To have a patient say he knows he's making the wrong choice and will do it anyway -- how can the therapist respond?" We were talking about today's session, the one I ended by saying, "These are very 22-year-old emotions, these

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-30473594817933744892010-09-24T23:25:00.001-05:002010-09-24T23:26:09.511-05:00

I've been reading Ethical Slut lately and was hit hard by the authors' section on starvation economies. A major emotional problem, they say, is that we were raised to think that love or sex is available in finite quantities and that if someone else gets any, we won't. And if we do get some, we should be aware of how we are depriving others. The ethical slut is to counter this with free love, that

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-65806395477301651252010-09-17T23:32:00.001-05:002010-09-19T14:21:27.689-05:00

I didn't go to school today. I woke up at eight to croak out a message for the retail desk that I couldn't make it and promised to show up tomorrow. Last night, I was working through a spread and noticed the King of Wands reversed for my near future. The King of Wands is a father figure, and reversed represents a pretty typical image of a bad father: unnecessarily harsh, bigoted, unforgiving,

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-28434839450408332152010-09-17T12:31:00.000-05:002010-09-17T12:31:22.777-05:00

I burned incense to center myself again as soon as I got home. Things got worse last night with a recurring nightmare -- as one friend put it, a dream-flashback -- and continued with general dissociation. I didn't hear people speaking to me today. If I did, it was as if they were speaking to someone else. I sunk into a long silence. At times, I felt my self floating above my body and looking

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-66382882497650083972010-09-16T00:09:00.000-05:002010-09-16T00:09:22.892-05:00

And still feeling so spread out, thin, watery. A coworker commented on my faded aura, my wrists hurt badly today, I'm so tired I don't remember what I do. And I've been wondering what is missing, why do I feel so vaporous? Anyway, I think it has to do with sex and baggage, and drinking and smoking too much, and too much work. So I paid someone to cook for me and then dragged my homework home so

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-66118786375915774632010-09-13T15:09:00.001-05:002010-09-19T14:24:35.947-05:00

I kept finding beer bottles this morning as I was scrubbing the week's dishes and burning a stick of incense I'd forgotten the name of to mute the smell of whatever we had eaten, and sweat, and sex. My apartment felt full, heavy, smokey and the light oozing through the blinds nearly singed me. Sometimes sex and romance lend a greater deal of clarity, narrowing my focus so my writing streams

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-24657393091198506722010-09-06T14:43:00.001-05:002010-09-07T00:21:31.160-05:00

Stoned and staring at the leaves through a canopy of branches just before sunset: we're listening to trashy pop music and I'm in and out of my body. The breeze is cool and constant. I hear leaves crackling. Darkening on the train, and I can feel it rumbling through a memory. Laundromats and fluorescent lights, Judge Judy on the dilapidated TV and the Detroit rush hour smog are clouding through

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-55888975964012697512010-09-03T20:12:00.001-05:002010-09-03T20:13:23.270-05:00

Last week's dream sent me scurrying back to an occult bookstore, where I queried the stoned witch behind the counter as to books on dreams. He handed me Spiritual Cleansing by Draja Mickaharic and I nestled into the padded chair near the window and the incense, flipping through the pages. It felt like more than a dream, and as I've been reading I've been seeing more about the ways people

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-86833566465766704542010-08-29T14:18:00.001-05:002010-08-29T14:28:48.788-05:00

In a back-corner booth, a hazy restaurant and we seem all alone, and TR sits down in front of me. I am filled with anger but only a little fear sits simmering low in my abdomen. I order him to stay away from me from this time forward. Leaning a little forward, he says the court case and my resulting victory have inconvenienced him. He pulls out an identification card and written on it is, "

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-87162273389663052332010-08-26T00:32:00.000-05:002010-08-26T00:32:46.553-05:00

"So things are looking up!" Was my boss's opinion. I was taken aback, perched on the arm of the large sofa that's seen so many arguments and episodes in the shop. I had mentioned the checque my parents had sent for my birthday (or for not inviting me to the funeral, perhaps) and the money I had made in tips that day. But I was thinking about TR's return, missing the funeral, the torn pocket on

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-35026725416575753372010-08-23T14:36:00.000-05:002010-08-23T14:36:30.569-05:00

I found out a couple things I didn't want to know this week. I found out my grandparents' funeral, which was scheduled so that all of our extended family members from all over the eastern United States could attend, was this Saturday. I found this out Friday, as my parents didn't bother telling me about it. (I get the feeling I wasn't invited). I also found out that TR (for those of you who are

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-10106912881858509472010-08-16T14:23:00.000-05:002010-08-16T14:23:36.651-05:00

I was pissed that I missed yesterday in bed with a hangover, so today I'm telling myself I'll go shopping. Of course, I'm inside on the computer, so we all know how that's going. But once groceries are out of the way, I'm taking a trip to the local occult bookstore and then I'm looking for clothes and jewelry. It's totally my day off. I'm cultivating my recent fascination with the occult as I

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-84569986016301709222010-08-15T21:37:00.002-05:002010-08-16T14:25:16.667-05:00

I haven't written much after the burst of creativity that spanned the past few months. Moving onto the clinic floor and being burdened by heavy work hours and struggling so much financially have been a distraction, of course, but there are times where I feel like I don't have anything to say. Those times are more about pragmatics, just putting your head down and getting things done. When you feel

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-49515318284680100602010-08-11T21:45:00.002-05:002010-08-16T14:26:20.968-05:00

People kept asking me this weekend what was wrong. I didn't feel well and was pretty worn out as last week was the final portion of my introductory phase to beauty school -- the allegedly worst phase. (Never. Again.) It was also a weekend when I worked extra shifts and on a festival, my first week on the clinic floor, and the tenth. By the time some miserable drama surfaced with a friend

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-39191029639925952652010-08-06T19:34:00.000-05:002010-08-06T19:34:42.725-05:00

I found the cover for one of my headphones on the floor of the bus. I had just woken up and a cockroach was skittering up towards the front. We're at the very end of our first quarter, which was supposed to be the worst. I'm looking forward to getting on the floor and using what I've learned. I know I'm good at hair but I have a long way to go. I'm trying to figure out how to forgive. I feel

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-23827393866986390632010-08-02T13:18:00.000-05:002010-08-02T13:18:15.981-05:00

I'm up to my ears in magazine clippings for a massive portfolio due tomorrow. With the stress added by work and a time-crunch, as well as facing some family issues, I have to say it's strange to be on the other side of my exacto-knife, especially since I never changed the blade after I stopped cutting. A coworker said it was symbolic. My brother has been visiting, which thrills me (no, seriously

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-65771472982034281872010-07-27T15:38:00.002-05:002010-07-27T15:39:47.670-05:00

Walking home this afternoon, my hair dirty and held back and makeup running down my right eye, I felt a weird peace with myself. (Surprising, as usually I'd be screaming, "DON'T LOOK AT ME I'M A MONSTER," and holding my arm in front of my face.) I played hooky today, as I haven't missed a single day all quarter and, after this weekend, had no desire to deprive myself of any more sleep than

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-34253657997530657912010-07-25T21:28:00.002-05:002010-07-27T15:42:14.959-05:00

We were doing makeup at school and my instructor seemed rather surprised that I could pull off some beautiful impressionistic looks on classmates. She asked how I learned it, I said drag queens. I leaned on her desk and mentioned that my biggest accomplishment was going out as a woman and passing. She was shocked and laughed. Before school started, I went to Payless for shoes. The clerk

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-38674571530246502072010-07-23T19:27:00.001-05:002010-07-23T19:31:21.747-05:00

The thunder that's been threatening for days has finally rolled over and planted itself, washing the newly torn street and bathing everything in white flashes. The yellow headlights on passing cars are so deeply reflected I'm worried about my fresh pedicure and debating the wisdom of wearing flip-flops. I'm surprisingly awake for someone who fell asleep twice on the bus and squeaked when he fell

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-64737229085985821142010-07-19T15:22:00.001-05:002010-07-19T15:24:22.373-05:00

There's a new Vatican document out since last week that repositions certain theological and legal crimes as more severe and warranting stricter penalties (excommunication). Apparently, only the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith can lift this excommunication, put in place by a local bishop in certain circumstances. Then again, at this point I only skim these things so I may be wrong.

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-53254223073281800682010-07-18T21:48:00.002-05:002010-07-19T15:32:02.507-05:00

I mean, the only reason I can pass as a woman is that I have the body of a kind of idealized woman (ignoring my crotch, unless you're into that, too). I'm waifish and have a medium-length bob haircut. I have the height and weight of a supermodel, thanks to poverty, stress, and chain-smoking. I have a high voice that gets higher when I'm nervous and a long, angular face. I have dark-set eyes and

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-3821811120645314482010-07-18T21:34:00.002-05:002010-07-19T15:31:23.351-05:00

A lady was panhandling this afternoon and asked me for change and called me miss. Then she asked if I was a "sister", and then said, "Oh, you're a man aren't you? Are you a man?" Since it's generally socially unacceptable to grab someone and scream, "Why does it matter, you obnoxious crone?" I shrugged and just said, "Eh..." Someone at work was trying to figure out if I'm transitioning.

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-8621332727785134372010-07-17T21:45:00.002-05:002010-07-19T15:25:17.960-05:00

The double-time schedule makes everything stretch thin like water. My energy is draining, my patience, my attitude. I have very little tolerance for people and realize how much I accommodate everyone to my own detriment. As we've reached the period in our quarter when students later in the program warned we'd be at each other's throats (and we most certainly are), I've made it clear that I am not

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973255033878775358.post-87376990357658287802010-07-12T12:29:00.001-05:002010-07-19T15:41:02.637-05:00

I was washing peroxide and ammonia out of my mannequin's hair and trying to keep my stomach inside of my body. Every time I leaned over I could feel everything rising but I'd swallow and breathe a little. (Was it the free hot dog? Last night's beer? The smell of bleach?) My classmates sidled up to me as they were waiting for the toner to set in one girl's bangs. The other complained her stomach

Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258994820747202119noreply@blogger.com0