money buys marshamallows


There's always a certain point where you can feel yourself begin to descend back down. After a while, you learn your own triggers. Exhaustion, rejection, threat, panic. They swirl together in your head, you have to shut yourself down to quiet them. Stop thinking, stop feeling. That desperate attempt to calm the storm that seems to constantly rage, to surface when you become too tired to fight it back. And you realize how exhausting life is. How tired you get of pushing it back. How wonderful, how terrible it would be to stop pushing and let it wash over you. Collapse back down into it again. Permanent numbness.

Of course, numbness never really works. It's then that you become so painfully aware of your body. Of the bones of your wrist, the tendons in the back of your hand, the sharpness of your teeth. The veins that run everywhere, the pulse in the soft places...hands constantly dart to the wrist, the base of the throat. Feeling the pulse, pushing at it, counting by it. Calming down to the rhythm, that isn't really a rhythm at all anymore because you've spent so much of your life trying to break it. Sent it into a perpetual, panicked confusion, skittering about your body and hiding, so that sometimes you can't find it. And you sit, counting the seconds, convinced you are really dead, because there's nothing happening in that hollow on the side of your wrist. You press your hands to your chest, waiting. Eventually it comes back. Tricked you. Relief and disappointment, at once. Sometimes it's angry, throwing itself against your ribcage, your throat, your skull, until the room spins and the walls leer and you can barely remember how to smile reassuringly and wave off the concern.

And you remember that sick feeling. So horrifyingly well. And that little part of you that you'd like to forget about longs for it. The coldness of pain, the disassociation. You plan for it all day, eventually begin to find it in any way you can. Cup after cup of cheap acidic coffee, black, oil swirling on the surface like gasoline. The way it bites at your stomach at 2am, makes your hands shake and your head spin while you write, manically. The pages never make sense in the morning. Scattered and nonsensical, in shaken, infantile handwriting. The yellow circles hidden in the box on the shelf, swallowed when you need more bite, more trembling. Followed by aspirin when your body has given up on you, has become so unpredictable you live with your fingertips perpetually pressed to your wrist, or, at night, the inside of your thigh. Humming a tune to the scattered beat of what's left of your heart. The aspirin always works, blood roses blossom up under the skin, wilt and fade. Sick, sick. At least its an explanation. Its solid. Something you can point to, quantify. Not like everything that happens in your head in the middle of the night when you're afraid to turn out the light. Even so, you never tell. You never tell anybody, because telling a secret is losing it. And losing this last bit of control, this ability to point to something and say, definitively, that is what's wrong with me, that would be worse than anything you can imagine. Then you're left with your thoughts, the whirl, the panic and helplessness that you can't ever define or predict. So much better to give it body, to give it your body, which you have grown rather tired of inhabiting anyway. And you find that eventually, you're watching your life from a distance. Removed, amused, bored. Letting this other thing take over while you conveniently flit away into a corner, fall asleep in the hollow space you've created of yourself. Pushed out by whatever you can swallow or press into you, whatever works.

You remember it all. Miss it. Teeter on the edge, wondering whether or not you should fall. Thinking perhaps it would be an interesting experiment. Perhaps a disaster. Usually both, but in your mind it's always got to be one or the other.
money buys marshamallows


Cruelty always surprises me. I'm not sure why; at this point you'd think I'd recognize it early. Or at least be ready when it hits. But I never am. I can understand anger, disappointment, that need for space. But never the capacity to hurt somebody who cares about you simply because you can.

I hate this feeling. This restlessness. Fluttering in my chest, knocking desperately against my ribs like the birds that used to get trapped in my mother's sunroom. Panicking until they broke their necks on the windows, even after we opened the doors. So blindly desperate they couldn't take the way out, even when it was right in front of them. I hate the way my hands shake and my mind races. I need something to distract me, but I can't focus. Everything in me wants to cry but I'm not sure I'll be able to stop. Mostly I hate that I ever gave somebody the power to do this to me. That I still haven't learned. That every time I let my guard down, I regret it. Every time. Never learn.

Some of the worst moments of my life have been born of this feeling. Of that desperate need to make it stop, to numb myself until it dies off on its own. And all of the ways I know to shut it off have the same end result. My neck is broken, and there was another way out all along. It seems that in the long run, the only way to chase off the panic and the pain is by inviting another form of it in. Whether I swallow numbness, or hide myself in another person who could one day make me feel this way all over again, it's essentially the same. The outside looks so pretty, but you can't trust the glass not to stand in your way and break you.

I've been listening to Matthew Ryan today. Something about his voice that suits it all so well. The way you can hear it, underneath, that wavering when the pain threatens to break through. That caught breath to keep it in. That hope that no one else can hear it, that the disguise is working.
  • Current Music
    Matthew Ryan, May Day
money buys marshamallows


I met my Charon when I was eighteen. He was so solid, I didn't particularly care where he took me. I liked the predictability. The grip of his hand on mine as he led me down. A little deeper each time. Down into the canyons, the basements, the empty pools. The parties blend, collide and fade into each other. They did even then. Colors jumped and slid away, the laughter was sinister and the flowers could poison you. Or take you into elysium. You just had to pick the right one. Hibiscus drizzled with sugar and honey on the plates, oleander sprigs on the tables. Don't get them mixed up, because nobody will notice if you fall. Hands slid out of nowhere. Each wanted something different, but they all wanted to take. I remember when Charon pulled me out of a corner, out of a sea of hands and wild eyes and hunger. I remember staring curiously at his hair while he whispered, the way it curled on his shoulder. The press of his hand on my back. They think you're going to save them.

I've wondered, since, if I was looking for that, too. For an Orpheus. But I knew, even then, that it was all myth. That nobody would descend and pull me out, gasping for air. That saviors aren't real. That if a hand reached for me, I wouldn't take it, for fear that it would drag me down further. I knew he was my downfall, and my way out, all at once. I let him dress me, lead me down. I wanted to see how far it would go, how bad it would get. I watched myself tremble in class all week, coming down for days. I smiled and faked it, told nobody. I kept that world for me, made sure it never became real. That's the secret. You can only find your way out of the Underworld if you never really believed it existed in the first place. He faded away after that summer, and now I can never remember his last name. I remember his first name, his stage name. And especially the name I gave him silently one night when we crossed the city line and everything suddenly seemed harder. And of course, I've learned since then that things can actually get much worse. That someone else's Hell isn't nearly as bad as the one you build yourself. That sharp teeth and dead eyes don't compare to a raw voice and desperation, or to codeine and bathroom floors. But he gave me my first taste. He probably doesn't remember me at all. Which, at least, has to mean he can't come looking for me.
money buys marshamallows

Winter Glow

We got our first icing-over last night. I went outside this morning and everything was covered in a layer of ice. Bare tree branches were coated, dripping softly and shining like crystal. The best ones have a leaf or two on the tip of a branch, also coated in ice. It's not cold enough for the rain to turn to snow or sleet, it just freezes slowly on contact. So everything is surrounded by a sleeve of ice, sparkling and white. The little angel in the garden sitting under the stone umbrella is surrounded by a sphere of long icicles. The trees glow, and the street signs glitter. I love this time of year. I love how everything looks magic when it's white. I smiled during the whole drive to work this morning, looking around in wonder at how pretty it all is. No matter how bad things get, ice will always come and make it okay again.
money buys marshamallows

Josh the Pumpkin Seed

This is Josh the Pumpkin Seed. He is sad because he was accidentally left inside the pumpkin and didn't get cooked like all his friends (we haven't told him yet that he should really appreciate that).

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After I'd made and named Josh and Wilma, my brother found two more seeds left in the pumpkin. We suggested he name them Jake and Abby (for him and his girlfriend). He went to wash them off and one fell into the sink. His response: "Oh no, I think Abby just went down the drain! I still see her, but I think she's doomed!!" He turns on the garbage disposal. "Yep, definately doomed." I think perhaps the kid has issues with girls.
money buys marshamallows

Journal Hijack!

Psst!Hey don't tell anyone...It's Jeff.

Yeah him...That guy...Cabbage, the Canadian guy, know.

I just wanted you guys to know...Katy is amazing,she's sweet,gentle,scatter-brained (trust me it's cute),stubborn,kind,extremely intelligent,caring,kind and sometimes a wiseass.

And if I wasn't her boy I'd sure be proud to just know her and be her friend.She is and will be a person who makes the world a better place.

Not only that!I have an 8 year old nephew that has crush on her and loves her.

Oh and one more thing SHE'S FREAKEN HOT!She makes me crazier then a 13 year old boy who just discovered his older brothers stash of Playboy magazines!

I made that icon for her up there...It's a surprise.

We now return you to your normally scheduled LJ drama and buffoonery!
money buys marshamallows

Hollaback Girl Revisited

Stolen from Orange County Weekly. Because people from Orange are just that damn funny.

Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl” is one of the most baffling pieces of music of the modern age. It’s got something to do with cheerleaders—that much is clear, judging from the chanting and the marching band that’s honking and tooting in the background. Beyond that, good luck deciphering the song’s ambiguities. We were so vexed by the mystery that is “Hollaback Girl” that we have devoted countless hours to its study. Our conclusions are below. The first thing you should know, though, is that Gwen is not singing “I ain’t no Harlem fat girl”—at least, we don’t think she is.

Uh huh, this my shit
Gwen is introducing us to her shit.

All the girls stomp your feet like this
This talk of shit and stomping has nothing to do with actually stepping on feces. But what does it mean? From a reading of the later text, we can conclude that the song takes place in the world of high school athletics, and that Gwen is apparently leading the girls in a calisthenics exercise. The “shit,” we surmise, is what she calls the exercises she’s teaching the other girls.

A few times I’ve been around that track
So it’s not just gonna happen like that

Here, Gwen exhorts the girls to try harder as they jog around the track, reminding them that physical fitness is “not just gonna happen,” but must be worked at.

Cause I ain’t no hollaback girl
I ain’t no hollaback girl

These lines are the most confusing, but their meaning will become clearer later.
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money buys marshamallows

Dorkiness and mushiness, all in one

I awoke to your smell today
A perfumed blanket
And a memory
The quiet moment
Where I closed my eyes
And the pain went away
Sleepy eyed dawns
The rain drop sounds
I saw the streetlights
Shine in your hair
The warmth of your hand
When you took mine
And whispered
Everything is okay
The streets of a lonely city
I've wandered for years
Are yours now
And there are memories
I keep on each corner
Reflected in storefronts
And shadowed on sidewalks
When I reach my door
I still look up
And hope to see you there
Waiting for me
Brown eyes and home.
  • Current Music
    Alice In Chains, God Smack
money buys marshamallows

Chicken, Broccoli, and Parental Advice

So, uh...I had breakfast with my dad today.


I hadn't seen or spoken to my father since January. And I had a police escort with me at the time. And he lives over 500 miles away from me.

But when my phone rang this morning with a local area code, I answered thinking there couldn't be any harm. But it was him. Here. Asking me to breakfast. I went, mostly because I was in shock. The man drove eight and a half hours for breakfast...and I was hungry.

So I got a chicken and broccoli omelette, a talk about how cool it is that I am "making my own decisions now" and how Jeff could be the best thing that ever happens to me, and $141 worth of groceries. He even ran around the grocery store dumping things into my cart and saying things like, "You like these right? Well try them anyway! Ooh, look, macaroni and cheese!" Who is this man and what happened to my father?

So things are civil now. Not perfect...I still don't have huge amounts of trust in this whole situation. But civil. I may be able to have him help me move out of the dorms, rather than making my poor grandfather do it. And, if I let myself get REALLY hopeful (which I shouldn't), maybe I'll talk my way back into my car.

This whole thing is crazy. But dude...I have a lovely assortment of herbal tea, Honey Bunches of Oats with Banana, and Odwalla Superfood. So I can handle a bit of crazy.
money buys marshamallows

Alias Grace

I am reading Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood. I read it before bed, as I have every other book I've ever read. But this one effects me.

I dream that I am Grace Marks, that I'm being shoved aboard a boat by McDermott. That he's forcing himself into my room at night, into my bed, and that we're both being forced out of it by the police. I can hear myself in my dreams, telling my story to Dr. Jordon. Only in my dreams, I'm not telling the story in a room in the Governor's house. I'm telling them abstractly, my voice coming from nowhere as I live out the story, running in the background like a tape. I'm being thrown into tanks of sharks while my voice calmly tells of it overhead. Waking up, and falling back asleep to dream of being lowered into a tank of ravenous, genetically modified fish with graping mouths and sharp teeth, swarming and thrashing as they fight to devour me.

Aside from the first dream, none of them make sense. I know that the sharks are the doctors, the fish the other innmates. Yet there are no fish in the book. Nor much water really, aside from the brief crossings from Ireland to Toronto, then Toronto to Niagara. I keep waking up gasping, with my heart pounding, swearing I can feel the water closing over me and the slick skin of the animals.

This book is driving me insane.