Choke Me with These Threads of Life

I've had a headache for the past 2 weeks, and it doesn't seem to be go away anytime soon.

One of the biggest contributing factors to this all-encompassing migraine is A, my father's ever asshole-ish tendencies, B, the remnants of my apathetic funk that I still haven't entirely escaped, and C, my mother and sister. 

I just- ugh. Just ugh. I am going to be a shitty teenaged stereotype and just summarize all this with "ugh". Sue me. 

ive cried myself to apathy
theres nothing left inside of me
(be thankful you can't feel
all these things from the left
they're real)

the pretty girl
with black eyes?
we've seen her pictures
we know your lies

text her
call
fuck her hard
and bare your plastic smile
let the paper believe
let the crowds be decieved
weak in their naivety
clinging to inevitability
let me drown in gasoline
let me fade the way you want
as I said; there's nothing left in me
stop chaining me to these haunts

for thats all I am
a paper

ghost

girl

with nothing left to show
how I wish you'd make sense
wish you'd understand

oh please, just let me go?

She Writes in White Ink

I've been instructed to write something "to make me happy."
The problem is, I have about 4 drafts in my folder right now, all of which are attempts of completing that goal. Of "making you happy".

I can't do it.

Cause of Death: Vacuum Cleaner

It's funny- I was actually going to write a post last night about how life was great. And although it still is, today's events were definitely a bit annoying in comparison. I guess I should've known better than to jinx it? My father had gone for so long without making any remarkably asshole-ish move, that it'd only figure he'd do it today.

Warning: this is going to be a stupidly long post (including some backstory!), that's really just for me to remember this. I apologize in advance, and offer these slightly better posts instead c:

Living in The Blur

A lot of things happened last night, and it only makes sense for me to make note of them. My mother went to her first mediation session yesterday, and it lasted for the majority of the day.

 It went surprisingly well, actually. To compress a lot of legal jargon that I don't fully understand, my mother has full custody and he'll be paying us child/partner support, along with alimony. Which is fabulous, to be blunt. While celebrating last night, we talked a lot about topics we've already gone over. One of them being why the three of us did such a "180" when we got back from our road trip, back in the Spring. Considering the fact that we moved out almost immediately after we came back. It certainly looks bad; two impressionable young ladies, left alone for a week with their mother and returning visibly anti-dad. 

My mother is concerned about it too, always asking if she had actually "brain washed" us, as my father constantly claims. It took me a while, but I came up with a decent way to reassure her. 

I'm Not Sorry There's Nothing to Save

It's sunny and clear outside, and barely a minute ago something ugly and greasy constricted in my chest as I started thinking about things.

To A Man Once called Dad

I hope you're satisfied.

I hope you smile as you roll out of your big, empty bed, and make your way through a silent house, preparing for another day of a job you loathe.
I hope you hum as you take some painkillers, for the hangover your nursing from last night, when you drank your troubles into oblivion and stared blankly at the sports channel, until your eyes glaze over.
 (I hope it makes you feel proud, when you wake up at 3 AM, having fallen asleep on a priceless piece of stolen furniture.)

Happy April Fools

I never really thought I would be pleased to say the following 6 words.

My parents are getting a divorce.

I Always Wanted to be Snoopy

It's with mild anxiety fluttering painfully in my stomach that I write to this blog.

As I'm sure Future-Me (the sole reader of these posts) will remember quite well, we moved into the apartment with the tacky 80's wall paper in the bathroom, and the ugly floral couches (which, to their benefit, are surprisingly comfortable). I'm sitting at the table that I first did roughly a week and a half-ago, when my mother and I first came to scope out the place. We're here for 3 months, as I'm pretty sure I've mentioned before.

The issue that has compelled me to yet again indulge in writing here, is my meeting with my father tonight. My father has been. . . interesting, in these days of separation. His facebook page is plastered of melancholy statements about love, and a picture of a Lucy from the Peanuts pulling away the football as Charlie Brown goes hurtling, screaming through the air. His comment? "A grin of sadistic glee on her face..."

Nice. Real nice, Dad.

Rolling Girl

I awake this morning to packing.

My mother has decided that she can stay here no longer, has rescheduled her surgery (that would render her immobile for a day) and today we are packing up whatever we may need for a few days. We're not leaving the house permanently; my dad works a 7 AM - 6 PM shift most days, so we'd be able to indulge in the "luxuries" of our house during the daytime.

Clothes, food, books, computers, etc. etc. . . We're packing it all up and leaving. We're also going to be meeting the real estate agent from a few days ago, and sign for the condo we checked out. If we can't move in right away, mom says, we'll get a hotel. She says she needs to breathe, and that dad's not letting her do that.

It's an interesting sensation, I guess. Packing up as if we were moving yet again. I've moved about 4 times in my life, but it's been years since the last one, and therefore I am blissfully out of shape when it comes to art of packing boxes, sharpies and tape. Tissue wrapping valuables is a skill I've long since lost. So I'm just going to jam as many clothes as I possibly can into my suitcase, grab a few books, all electronic gizmos and whatever remains of the Mountain Dew.

Clearly, my plan is fool proof.

Anyway, finger's crossed that the next time I write you, it will be in that condo with the hideous floral couches.

50th Post: Angst Extravaganza!

I'm a little at a loss of what to do currently, sitting in my pajamas at the counter top having finished breakfast.

For the past week, I've woken up somewhere around 6 AM, had to pack up a hotel room, haul luggage down flights of stairs, elevators, sidewalks, help pack up the car and then drive until about 9 PM. And this past weekend, having returned home, I've also had to wake up at 6 AM, sleep on the floor of my parent's bedroom, eat at Panera for breakfast two mornings in a row, go apartment hunting, kill time outside of the house, skirt around my dad and begrudgingly listen in to my parent's teary conversations.

Family Knots

Another year come and gone. As the almost obnoxiously-brightly colored balloons insist on reminding me, It's my birthday today. Things were decidedly more relaxed when it came to celebrating this year, as opposed to 2011. And I'm enjoying it.

However, in the long car rides that my mother, sister and I had to partake in earlier today, we breached the subject of my father.

Ahh, Dad. . .

I feel almost guilty, writing this on the couch when I can still hear the faint beeps of his PDA as he stands by the calendar.

Scratch that.

I feel mega guilty.

Thumbprint to the First Knuckle

There is an entire list of people I want to punch, a majority of which on my elder sister's behalf, because she's too ridiculously nice to ever do so. Of course, I could very well suffer terrible consequences, "physical assault" charges or whatever, but I swear, one day I will just get in a car, drive from work place to house to apartment to park, and punch these people all in a row.

My sister and I have an interesting relationship, I think. I'll do something or ignore her or say something to get her mad at me, and then for the majority of the day we'll skirt around each other, until tomorrow, when we end up happy again.

(We both suck at holding grudges)

But sometimes when we're in the midst of a fight, something else will happen.

She'll get sad.

Silent Clockwork Hearts

It's with reluctance that admit I tend to wish it was just three people in my family, instead of 4.

The idea of simply my mother, sister and I is almost sinfully appealing.

I say this because my father has, as I'm sure is apparent, been "enraged" for the past days. And, as per usual, the cogs that make my family dynamic "tick" are beginning to rust and wear. Basically, it's becoming aggravating and annoying to the point that it surpasses it's initial fear factor, so to speak. I'm tired. I'm tired, and I don't even have to put up with a fraction of the dilemmas my mother and sister do.

Juliet Wins out the War

My sister's boyfriend just left our house for the last time.

Somehow this entire situation, the last few days and this morning, felt akin to a war movie of sorts. Surprise attacks from the "enemy side", "peace treaties" offered and refused. Then the "general" calling the "enemy" before the "battle", because apparently their husband has a confrontation issue. Gotta give it up for projection.

Anywho, I've been on the sidelines this whole time. An uninvolved bystander, to this cheesy remake of Romeo & Juliet. And it's confusing, to say the least. But I do know that he just left for the last time, that all those afternoons and movie nights out with my sister and him have ended, are never coming back. He was an extraordinarily nice guy; smart, but not egotistical about it. Didn't mind my "tagging along". He was a great guy, and I was happy for my sister. But I will never really be able to comprehend the pattern of... love, so to speak? I guess thats why I'm still just a bratty little, "teenage" girl. Does it ever get easier? Do the plots ever clearly reveal themselves? Will I ever shut up?

Probably not.

But I have concluded that I am an egotistical hypocrite. I'm also a pyromaniac author, apparently, so lets just say I am one huge mass of contradictions and try to return to the topic beforehand.

I can't help but wonder how things are going to be, from now on. What will my sister's next boyfriend be like? What will her ex-boyfriend's next girlfriend be like? How long will it be before my sister gives me a genuine smile? A blissful laugh? What's going to trigger the influx of memories in a few days? Weeks? Months?

Why do I write about romance, when faced with situations like these, I swear never to involve myself with love?
Hence the hypocritical mass of contradictions.

But when I hugged him goodbye and whispered "I'm sorry", his eyes were red.

Needles and Keys

It's impossible to just have a normal night in my family, apparently.

My dad just has to do something. Yell at someone. Get pissed about something.

Fun night out at a pizza joint?

Yell at his daughter and storm out, leaving his wife to pay for the pizza and ask for a to-go box.

Casual night at home?

Yell at his wife (Instead of his daughter? Oooh, variety!) and swig beer, leaving his wife to go out on the front porch with tears in her eyes, waiting for the daughter to come home.

Leaving me to go outside, do my (pathetic) attempt at comforting her, text my sister informing her of the situation, telling her to "be careful when you come home" and then retreating into my room with note book, laptop, typewriter and my new National Novel Writing Month Young Writer's Program work book. And so to the soundtrack of Sky Sailing, I'll leave this monochromatic world and enter one of my own; still monochromatic, but perhaps with a few pastels thrown in to encourage hope.

And with that melodramatic sentence, I'll see you all. . . Well, when I see you.

Welcome to Life

I found myself wondering if I'm a psychopath this evening.

Wow. What a stellar way to open an entry, huh?

But my dad is acing the whole "testosterone raging bull" act, my mother is being annoyingly docile, my sister is. . . well, being my sister. And I'm feeling oddly unaffected by the entire situation. While my dad stormed off without us, I just hoped he'd come home soon, because I left my yarn and needles in his truck for a knitting project.

So why am I being favored? Why do I feel oddly unattached and emotionally neutral about all of this? I don't know. It's rather queer, really. I'm just sitting here, knitting and typing this. I don't really care.

Take Me Up There with You

I woke up reluctantly to my mother shouting through the door this morning.

As per usual.

Then wrapped my blanket around me like a robe and shuffled out to the kitchen.

As per usual.

But then I sat down at the kitchen table, and my mother asked me why my father had been so annoyed with my sister last night.

Senior readers of this blog will already know the rocky relationship between my father and elder sister. For any new readers, lets just say it isn't pretty.

The Cursed Key to Happiness

I write this post in faith that my parents will not notice, nor care. But maybe my father will yell at me to go bed, or my mother will softly, but firmly tell me to get off and go get ready for bed. Their quite the surprise, my parents. Something I've learned all too well.

For the past... month maybe? Or weeks? I'm not sure how long its been since I last wrote on this blog, but we all know that I warned you about my irregular posting rate. But for however long its been since I last wrote, I have acquired a sort of veil of normalcy over the image of my parents communications. Things have been undoubtedly better between them, but not tonight.

Oh no, sir, not tonight.

(The Illusion of) Perfection in an otherwise Im-Perfect World

Life sucks.

Well, let me rephrase that: Life is im-perfect. Fact of life, actually. I often read books, but seldom do I read to "escape" from my own life. But that's been happening more often these past few days. And I finally see the appeal of "escaping", especially if it's a story worth escaping into. But escaping dosn't help at all, because when you finish reading "The End" page, then your just right back where you began; in your own, screwed up life. But more on that later.