scared in the dark

I had to force myself awake last night, and, as I lay panting in bed, I could swear I still heard screaming. My heart pounded so loudly that I knew that wherever he hid (probably under my bed), he could hear it. The face in my dreams terrified me, and I tried to keep myself from blinking in case I fell asleep again. I couldn't move, though my bladder ached for relief. I haven't been afraid of putting my feet over my bed in ages, but last night I reverted to my four-year-old self. I wept in bed for an hour before I managed to run to the bathroom, my heart skipping a beat in the dark, while I fumbled frantically for the light switch. I tried to remain awake as long as possible, covering my ears against the imagined shrieks of fear and pain, afraid even to turn my back to the wall for protection, because he had come through the wall in the nightmare. I am still shaken this morning, not only from lack of sleep, but also from the dark and evil images that won't leave me. That face, the arm coming at me through the wall, the eye peering in from behind a darkened window screen, the silent feet walking beneath the false floor, the shadow hiding in the closet. The screaming. I'm pretty sure I won't sleep for a week.

billy joel

I thought walking to Petsmart would help me, but when I saw the puppies and kittens I burst into tears in the middle of the store, right in front of employees and other customers. So, I crossed the parking lot to Chick-fil-A for ice cream and coke. I sat in a corner licking an enormous pile of soft serve and talking to Joyce, both of which helped immensely. Then She's Always a Woman came on. I love Billy Joel. I have a soft spot for him in my heart right next to Rascal Flatts and Phantom of the Opera (so....ten o'clock?). Nostalgia made me smile, and I thought I would get through the rest of today without any more crying, but that was a serious underestimation of my reaction to nostalgia. Now I can't decide why I'm crying. I think it's because Target didn't have the Billy Joel CD that I wanted.

peter on water

Things were working fine until I looked down at the waves.

job offer

I was offered a job yesterday. And I don't want it. The responsible thing would be to accept it, which I did, not because I'm responsible, but because I was blind-sided by the offer. I was walking through the Co-op to pick up my check, when the front manager asked me if I'd be interested in 35 hours a week running the outlet. Strictly speaking, I'd still be a temp, but I'd have guaranteed hours. I believe I stammered when I said I would be interested (notice I did not say "am") and he told me to come in for training next week and walked off. I never got to think about it.

If I had thought about it, I would have been annoyed at how cheap the Co-op is. They fired the outlet employee, because she was getting benefits and higher pay than a temp. I would work nearly full-time at eight dollars an hour. Sure, that's all I've been getting there up until now, but as a temp there is a certain trade-off. No responsibility, lower pay. Now they want me to run their satellite store for the same low pay. It's an insult. I would rather earn more per hour and work fewer hours. It's not how much money I bring home, but how much my time is valued. And right now, it's being valued less than before I received my damned degree. At 35 hours a week, I'll earn enough to pay bills and debt every month, but I'll also have no time to apply for a better job or to have hobbies or friends. 35 hours at the Co-op is five days a week, Tuesday through Saturday. Add the hour plus on the bus each way, and I will become effectively cloistered in that small, cheap life.

Boring too. There is nothing to do there, and I am tired of how blank my life is. The slowest, emptiest days are those when I work at the Co-op. Yes, I receive money, but no, I do not earn it. I am much more productive staying home. Even on the days when all I accomplish in the afternoon is a mini-marathon of Gilmore Girls. At least I spend every morning applying for jobs. I've applied for more than eighty, I'm quite certain. And this, this, is the best I can get.

I came home and cried.

my high point

no go

I did not get the job. But I am going shoe shopping to drown my sorrows.

job interview

I had a job interview today. The first in this round of job hunting. I hope that it went well. I'd feel better about it if a button on my blouse, which has shown no tendency for this in the past, hadn't popped open mid-interview. I will find out tonight for better or for worse. The next time you hear from me, I will either be horribly and irrevocably crushed, or I will be planning how to spend my first paycheck.

sick day

I called in sick this morning to work. And by work, I mean the lack of work that I do while temping at the Co-op. I don't know how sick I really am. I haven't coughed since I woke up, but I felt an uncomfortable tightness in my throat. It even kind of itches. Mostly, I didn't want to stand behind a cash register, staring stupidly at the Disney Channel, waiting in vain to be useful. So I took the day. Partly because I wanted to make sure this tickle in my throat doesn't become something more. I have a job interview tomorrow, and I would rather not have to clear my throat every few seconds. It makes a bad impression. I also wanted to use the Internet, which is available to me only during business hours, in order to plan my route to the aforementioned interview. I also plan to find a lost sweater, write some fiction and watch a movie. Maybe I'll even eat some soup so that I feel better about being sick.

burned

I had a dream a few weeks ago that my apartment burned down. I lost everything, despite my attempts to run back into the building. Afterward, as I stood in my ball gown (I don't know why I was in formal wear) next to Kevin, looking at the ruins of my building, I felt a hollow place inside me. I did not mind the loss of my clothes, long since reduced to ash. I mourned my books, and I felt real grief for the loss of my USB device, complete with all of my writing. It was for this last thing that I had been willing to brave the flames. I wept over that loss. Yet, that was not the worst pain of the night. The hardest part was discovering that I owned nothing more than the clothes on my back, a brown hoodie in the mailbox, and the furniture that I had in my mom's storage. I felt so small, knowing that I had nothing to offer to anybody. I don't remember telling Kevin about my furniture, but I remember him telling me that he didn't like it and he didn't want it. The only thing that I had to give him and he didn't want it! I felt crushed, devastated. I knew then that I couldn't marry him because I had nothing to offer. I took off his suit coat, which he had gallantly lent me, and stumbled to my mailbox, where I retrieved my fleece hoodie. I think the dream ended very Incredible Hulk-esque, with me walking off alone, but without the theme music. I kept crying all day as images bombarded my waking mind. This nightmare, though less violent than many, pierced all of my insecurities. The fire in the dream just made more apparent that which is. I fear that someday others will see what I saw in the flames there: that I have nothing to give in return for all that is given to me.

finals nightmare

My finals nightmare took a different twist than usual. I showed up for a test, and I kept calling a girl from my class by the wrong name. I first called her Jody, then Josey and finally Judy. Her name is Erin. Jody and Josey are also in that class. The dream made me afraid that I really hadn't learned anything in there, not even Erin's name.

at the end of my rope

I am going to SCREAM!

First, my house was taken over by velcro-pulling, cane-thumping, alarm-setting, mess-making loud mouth cattle.

And NOW the damned cleaning crew in the library are THUMPING! Over and over and never in any sort of rhythm.

I. am. losing. my. sanity...

to dye a virgin

I really did think that I would never, ever dye my hair. I was proud of that fact. I prefer things low maintenance, so I knew I would never keep up my hair color, and I am not afraid of growing old; in fact, I rather like my gray hair.

But, I was bored. I wanted a change, the kind of change that requires new clothes, new makeup, contacts or a new haircut. I have completely chopped my hair four times in my life and spent years growing it back each time. My hair is now the longest it's ever been. So, to stop myself from a regrettable move, I pounced on the opportunity my sisters offered of dyeing my hair with them.

The color they chose is practically identical to my natural hue. Joyce helped me through the actual process, since it was my first time and I have a lot of hair. And I had a lot of fun doing it. I felt adventurous, believe it or not, dyeing my hair. And, weirdly, I really like the new color. It is a little nuttier than my natural color, and now the gray doesn't show. In fact, my hair is incredibly shiny and healthy-looking (though considerably more damaged in actuality) all over.

The best thing about the dyeing process was really that it alleviated the boredom I had been feeling with myself. I still want jeans that aren't so old that they look white-washed. If I could, I would even own that turquoise corduroy coat from Target. And I definitely still want contacts, for a variety of reasons, including that glasses get in the way of some expressions of affection. But at least I no longer want to cut my hair off.

group paper

When we started the damn project, I apologized that, with my schedule and upcoming GRE, I would be the worst person to count on for this paper. I did my part, but I was the slacker. Or so I thought. I mean, I didn't do my section until a week after we had agreed to turn them into each other. It turns out that once again, I am the one doing the work and doing it well. The final paper is due today. The conclusion hasn't been written, and I am trying to edit the introduction that, no joke, includes the line "This is called the American Dream." Only some of my freshmen write worse than this. I'm planning on printing the paper sans ending, because at this point, I cannot do any more work. I've done it all already. My group will have to live with the C that they've earned.

* * *

Okay, make that a D. The grades just went up. This sucks.

worst song ever

Window to His Love is meant to be spiritual and inspiring. It is in fact doctrinally unsound, belittling and nauseating. I was disgusted.

spring onion

I originally wrote this 9/25/07, but hadn't yet added any of my thoughts. I still haven't, but I want to post it.

In the book the Karamazov Brothers (or Brothers Karamazov, depending on your translation), Grushenka, the town's whore, tries to seduce a young monk, but stops herself when she hears he is in mourning for his mentor. He praises her virtue and in return she tells him this story:

"You see, Alyosha," Grushenka turned to him with a nervous laugh. "I was boasting when I told Rakitin I had given away an onion, but it's not to boast I tell you about it. It's only a story, but it's a nice story. I used to hear it when I was a child from Matryona, my cook, who is still with me. It's like this. Once upon a time there was a peasant woman and a very wicked woman she was. And she died and did not leave a single good deed behind. The devils caught her and plunged her into the lake of fire. So her guardian angel stood and wondered what good deed of hers he could remember to tell to God; 'She once pulled up an onion in her garden,' said he, 'and gave it to a beggar woman.' And God answered: 'You take that onion then, hold it out to her in the lake, and let her take hold and be pulled out. And if you can pull her out of the lake, let her come to Paradise, but if the onion breaks, then the woman must stay where she is.' The angel ran to the woman and held out the onion to her. 'Come,' said he, 'catch hold and I'll pull you out.' he began cautiously pulling her out. He had just pulled her right out, when the other sinners in the lake, seeing how she was being drawn out, began catching hold of her so as to be pulled out with her. But she was a very wicked woman and she began kicking them. 'I'm to be pulled out, not you. It's my onion, not yours.' As soon as she said that, the onion broke. And the woman fell into the lake and she is burning there to this day. So the angel wept and went away. So that's the story, Alyosha; I know it by heart, for I am that wicked woman myself. I boasted to Rakitin that I had given away an onion, but to you I'll say: 'I've done nothing but give away one onion all my life, that's the only good deed I've done.' "

recent sountrack to me

Recently some songs have struck a chord with me.

Billy Joel- "She's Always a Woman"
Dashboard Confessional - "The Places You Have Come to Fear the Most"
Ben Fold and Regina Spektor - "You Don't Know Me"
Vivaldi - "Winter from the Four Seasons"
Simon and Garfunkel - "I am a Rock"



These are songs from earlier eras of my life. They are not necessarily favorites, or even ones around which there are many memories. These are simply songs that explained at some time or another exactly how I felt. The list is not exhaustive.

Billy Joel - "For the Longest Time"
Dashboard Confessional - "Hands Down"
Jewel - "You Were Meant for Me"
Celine Dion - "It's All Coming Back to Me"
Lucky Boys Confusion - "Fred Astaire"
Wicked soundtrack - "For Good"
Death Cab for Cutie - "The Sound of Settling"
Avril Lavigne - "I'm with You"
Cranberries - "Dreams"

sometimes a limerick suffices

I'm tired of being invisible.
Your affections are far too divisible.
What can I do,
to get through to you,
and convince you that I am quite miss-able?

my nephew

This is my first ever nephew, Owen Hunter Clement, and he is beautiful.

solicitous

People who are solicitous hover in such a way that I wonder what they are selling, or what they need from me. They are not there for my sake, their how-are-yous are forced out of their mouths like a whine, and they gain satisfaction from mealy hugs that are worse than their dead-fish handshakes. Their very presence is apologetic, which begs the question, what offense have they committed? The answer, for there most certainly is one, is that they are carrion fowl: they are there to prey, to take life from others' lifelessness, to conquer in a sideways-creeping fashion that which they could not bring down in its height of strength: they are eaters of the dead.

They do not view themselves this way. They view themselves as helpers. They are there to support, succor, aid, assist. These nice verbs, settled firmly into a positive connotation of Christian virtues, lack one thing: an object. These verbs demand one, they need one in order to have any meaning. I help... what? whom? Those who base their identity on these verbs invariably demand the aid of someone else to underpin it. These helpers must search for willing victims to validate their identity. That is what they demand of you when they hover and smother and paw. Let me help you, is their plea. Without you to help, they are incomplete, vacuous things. You legitimize them, solidify them, humanize them. You remove the question mark from their self-identity. I help you.

Save me from the solicitous! Every time I hear their queries, I feel the blood seeping away from me toward their gluttonous bellies. I want to scream and raise my arms in defense, to beat away their predatory advances. I'd rather run and hide than hug them in that sideways fashion, but to do that might hurt their feelings, heaven forbid. So often I submit to their caresses, overtly intended to convey their sorrow while really fueling their pleasure, and I feel drained by them, like a bite has been taken from my soul to feed theirs. And these are the helpers of the world!

Give me the life-givers. These are the people who don't ask for validation: they are completely self-actualized. They are. Whatever adjective follows this verb is self-contained and does not require an object. Sometimes they are grumpy, irascible, gruff. But at least they are. This does not imply that they never have needs outside of themselves, only that their needs do not threaten your own. They may ask for anything from a cup of sugar to a hug to a lifetime commitment, but they do so with candor, allowing you to freely grant or refuse. Their very requests honor your independence. And their hugs are strong like their handshakes, giving as much as taking.

Solicitous persons do not like these free agents, who grant them nothing. To them, the latter are rude, uncouth. They do not adhere to expectations for their behavior. They break rules. This is precisely why I like them, those I typically call jerks: they do not bend their behavior to my expectations and they have no expectations for my behavior. It is very freeing. When I am low and have nothing to give, the only company I can abide is that of people who do not need anything from me. Their energy does not sap the remnants of my own, but allows me to build up my own reserves against future parasites. Plus, they're okay when I am mean to them. And lately, I've been mean a lot.