Chronicles of Madness

What is Left Behind

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 04:33:00 +0000

In relationships, any relationship I suppose. You give parts of yourself away. You say, here is this part of me. Look how shiny and beautiful and special and unique it is. You look at the person you have given this gift and you seek approval. Appreciation. But often you are met with blank stares. And even if you're not, if the day comes when you cease being an 'us' and instead become separate identities you will often wander the rooms of your soul and say, look at all I've lost.

How untrue.

My insides are cluttered with all the things I gave away that are once more mine. Here is my naivete, my smiles, my inside jokes. Here is that silly song I used to sing just for him and the outfit I didn't really like but bought because it made him whistle. Here are my dreams and my expectations and everything, oh every single thing I gave away, given back to me. They're lumped in the middle of the rooms and the walls are laid bare with all the things he gave me taken back.

And this isn't supposed to hurt like this I am sure. This is supposed to smart and then I'm supposed to shake myself off and start over again with someone new, someone better, and one day I will look back and shake my beautiful hair and smile my beautiful smile and I will say, 'Oh him? He was just someone I spent time with. He was fun', and there will be none of this. None of this this this this.

He came back you know. Sitting on my front step with big wide eyes and a confused heart. There's nothing that hurts a heart that is sure of their love than looking at one who is not. Not sure. Open door. Close door. I put on makeup and I practice my smile. I think I will get my hair cut soon.

Who Will I Be At The End of This?

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Sun, 26 Jul 2009 05:59:00 +0000

I'm tired. I'm hopeful. I'm too busy to be introspective, but I'm also taking stock of my life. Mapping out the future.

Dear Nana, I miss you. I miss you I miss you I miss you. I dreamt you were alive and then weren't. Your home was a rocking chair on the front porch of a house that didn't exist surrounded by the largest most beautiful garden I had ever seen. I looked around wondering if it were real and when I looked back you were gone. It felt right that you were gone even though I missed you. I kissed you goodbye before they came to take you away. You weren't the same later so I'm glad I was there to hold your hand. Touch your skin.

The other night I dreamt the sky was clear when the air turned evil and a hazy rain shattered the blue sky, I huddled inside afraid the windows would break. It felt like an omen. I woke knowing you would know what I meant. That my mother would know what I meant because it's you we inherited it from. Will my grandchildren know what I mean?

It's a New Day, It's a New Dawn

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 17:58:00 +0000

And I'm feeling good...

I feel bad for the person I chatted with tonight. But in a totally selfish way I don't care either. You see, they asked those questions, the ones you're not supposed to ask, i.e, why did you break up? And how's your mother's cancer?

And there were a lot of similar questions I was avoiding asking them, but although I tried to avoid answering them, I knew knowing me, pfft, what's the point?

run on sentence long enough for you?

The point is, years ago I had a conversation with a friend of mine and while he was talking about his ex I suddenly had this epiphany about my whole life. The next day I woke up with a completely different attitude and nothing was ever the same again. In addition I'd like to say that nothing in the universe was ever as bad as it had been again. I've often written here about unclenching your fists, letting go of your anger, and it's because it's something I had to do. Learn to let go.

Recently I've asked myself if I need to learn that lesson again, and I don't think so. What I'm doing is mourning. Mourning the person I loved, the relationship I loved and enjoyed in so many ways, and yes. I'm scared of the future. So tonight I realized something new. Time to stop contemplating the past. Time to look forward without regrets. One thing I know is that no matter what rock life has thrown me, no matter how much it may have hurt at the time, I've always been given something bigger and better.

Always.

Here I am worrying that my hands are going to remain outstretched and never filled again. What a silly worry. What a good day. In so many ways. This recipe's tricky but I'm starting to taste the sweet once more through the bitter.

I can't wait for tomorrow.

Too Young to Feel this Damn Old

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 22:24:00 +0000

I like the fact that no one's looking here. I get to be me and not worry that I'm whiny, or boring, or too sappy. It's like that abandoned playground my cousin and I found when we were little. Okay. It wasn't abandoned and we had to jump a fence to get in, but it was still awesome.

Today I'm running around my abandoned playground playing with this thought, I don't pray. I mean, I have faith, I am thankful for all of the many blessings I have, but I still don't pray. When my cousin was on life support I prayed that she not be sad that she was leaving us behind. Not that she wouldn't die. And when my mom was diagnosed with cancer, I thanked God for all of the good years we've had. I wasn't accepting that she would die, I just don't feel that there's anything I could ever say or do that would change fate.

Bad people live every day and good people die. Who am I to say that my mother's better or deserves to live more than someone else? In addition, if prayer really does work, I don't think there's a God that would strike my mother down simply because her daughter has questionable self esteem.

That said, I'm tired of living alone. No one in my family lives alone, and after all these years I'm wondering if I was bred to be single and coming back with, "Hell no!". But I can't shake my nonsensical approach to life which tells me people attract a certain aspect into their lives over and over again and whatever comes their way is what they're willing towards them.

I've never been engaged. I've never had an engagement ring purchased for me. I've never been crazy in love with someone that was crazy in love with me. There's all these good things in my life. More good than many people can ever hope for, let alone have. Who am I to think that with my history that things will change, or even that I deserve to have them change? And if I do eventually get married who's to say it will be any different from my past relationships? Except this time with a ring.

I'm not trying to convince myself that my life is destined to stay single because I would guess the odds are against that. But just in case... I'd like to be prepared. At the same time I'm hoping to be proved wrong, every minute of every day, and because of this completely stupid hope, every second that I'm not proved wrong? Just hurts like hell.

The Other Day I was all, "Look at me, my Feelings are all Hurt!"

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 05:47:00 +0000

But then today I had a beer and feel strangely over it.

There are things that sit up and slap you in the face after a break up. The first is celibacy. Oh how I hate thee let me count the ways. The other ones are, hey, remember when he did that asshole thing? And what the fuck he's already dating again? And talking about marriage? Like seriously, what the fuck is wrong with him? And you say you're going to seek revenge but really you just go home and cry and call friends and complain that you're going to die alone with no one but your landlord noticing, and only then because he's pissed your rent's late.

They protest.

They say, "No, we love you! We would notice if your were moldy and smelly and dead on the ground somewhere!"

But you know they're lying and secretly miming to their spouse that they need to change their phone number. Pronto.

The other things that hit you are, some days? Some days are really bad. Some days are lonely and when you move everything hurts in a place that's undefinable. It makes your eye's feel dry and paper thin and your throat feel tight like a door that's too swollen to open anymore. You move and it hurts and you want to lay down so it stops hurting, except then the hurt just knows where to find you faster and easier. But then you have a beer and you go out with friends and nothing hurts anymore, so what was it you were missing again?

Yeah.

Slap.

Dear Ex-Boyfriend

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 04:45:00 +0000

If we're going to break up with you telling me everything is pretty much my fault, and me naively and stupidly believing that, then fine. But could you get all the hurtful things out at once? Today I felt just fine until I realized you removed that cute picture of us from facebook.

What the hell? I was a part of your life for years and you just need to throw me out like I never existed? Like I spat on you or ran over your cat? Seriously, what did I ever do that was so horrible you need to continue to annihilate the memory of me? I know that what you did wasn't even that bad. I totally understand it in fact, especially since I long ago deleted all photos of you from my facebook. There's the key though, long ago. It's the waiting to do it that brings up the wound as fresh.

signed,

why oh why have I been so understanding through all of this?

This is What You Say When No One's Listening...

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Sat, 18 Jul 2009 23:01:00 +0000

I will not:

not wear the shoes he bought me. They're cute and that's that.
be sad when I see that dress hanging in the closet. The one I thought he'd like. I will forget the look of 'WHOA' on his face when he first saw it. This dress will cease being a memory and return to serving it's purpose. Clothing me.
be mad at myself for being sad.
pretend to be angry or bitter just to make other people happy.
sleep in late just to avoid waking up. That kind of stuff is for defeatists, and I'm too awesome for that.
forget to be thankful.

Looking Like a True Survivor, Feeling Like a Little Kid

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 05:19:00 +0000

I lost my words. All the big shiny slippery words that would slide in and out of my head and mouth as easily as one hits the snooze button every morning and then proceeds to roll over and shove their head underneath the pillow.

The other night I woke up and reached for someone but my hand fell into empty space. I should have easily fallen back into a restless slumber but instead I lay there as if splashed with a bucket of water.

For a long time I wondered if I had traded my words in for some kind of stability. The traditional roles of domesticity. And I don't really know if I can answer that with any type of accuracy except to say this, I only missed who I used to be a very tiny bit. I stepped into those new bigger shoes knowing full well that I didn't understand the jargon or what exactly my role was, but okay with the learning curve. I was a traitor to my alter ego, but my alter ego didn't seem to mind.

I'm not the only blogger to have experienced this.

I can't blame it all on the status of relationship of course. There was this job and it was huge and it was draining and their was this crazy gestapo looking lady with bright red lipstick and a slash of a haircut who printed out reports every single week with a report of every site you had visited on the net and she liked to stalk back and forth in front of my cubicle with her clickety clackety heels on the carpet. She was scary and there was more than one morning when I wondered if that job would be the end of me. I went home and melted. I also learned something. People with fancy degrees who went to boarding schools with famous celebrities and own yachts can be just as not nice as all us have nots would lead you to believe.

Last year I had this big feeling inside that this was my year. MY YEAR. I don't know if I had any outlines of what I expected, I just knew it was coming and it was going to be fan fucking tabulous. Since then not much seems to have gone right. Disaster one hit and I said, okay, well surviving this is part of the fantastic part. Disaster two and I tried to ignore it. But this third one? It's not that I believe now that this is a bad year. Not at all. Just a tough one. I'm going to put one foot in front of the other and you know what's going to happen? It will be next year. No biggie.

I once met up with a blogger who told me, 'you know what you do when something doesn't go right? You scream real loud, 'FUCK THOSE GUYS!!', and it makes you feel better'.

I tried it the other day and it still totally works.

I may have lost my words but this can still be a chronicle of madness.

Did I Really Name it THAT??

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Mon, 02 Jul 2007 20:16:00 +0000

Back in December I was forced to sign up for Vox due to mass migration. I was all, hell no, I'm a blogger 'til the bitter end.

But I have to say my friends that I'm rethinking the stance.

These days people can find you so easy on the internet and, let's face it, would you hire me???

Yeah. That's what I thought.

So I'd like a bit more privacy and a bit more freedom at the same time. I think I'm moving to vox. It's got privacy settings and this I like. I think I'll still post some things here... but maybe not. What I post is here is the extreme, venting side of me. It's not a true reflection of who I am and in the wrong hands?? I don't know.

So I have to give you the link in case you would like to see me again and to do this I had to figure out what the hell I had named my vox account all those months ago. Here it is:

http://gahh.vox.com/

what was I thinking?

Yellow Bus Week (AKA Slow)

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Thu, 28 Jun 2007 20:41:00 +0000

I am a victim of Caltrain. Which, for those of you not fortunate enough to live here (you suck) is a commuter train running from the San Jose area all the way up to San Francisco. Kind of nifty. But I don't ride public transportation because it's dirty, costs a lot of money, is never fucking convenient, and filled with people. I hate people. In fact, there is some concern over how angry they make me and how quickly. More on that later.

Anyway, my new employer is all, oh you don't live at work? Oh, you live THAT far away? Let's give you a free Go Pass! AND a free Eco Pass! What's that?

Like I care.

Anyway, it means that I ride pretty much every form of public transportation in the bay area for free. FOR FREE. Dude, I'm cheap. I like that. Plus they've got shuttles and tons of other shit making it way convenient. So second day on Caltrain and I can tell you my anger levels are dropping somewhat dramatically. Missed the shuttle? Another one comes in five minutes. Same deal for the train. In the meantime I think I'll read a book or daydream or pick my ass. It's that exciting. And the train? Fucking clean! What the fuck? I wouldn't eat my food off the floor but it is pretty fucking decent. Also, not that many people. I sit down and no one sits near me, which is how I like it. Plus guys in scrubs ride the train and today one was totally checking me out. So dig this, I get to read, relax, AND get checked out.

Now if only they served liquor.

So what can still make a calm girl like me angry? Amazon.

Or more to the point Amazon reviewers.

I'm researching two new cameras. I need a new DSLR. At first I was just going to replace mine but now I realize that I need two if I want to keep shooting weddings. Plus, I really need just a regular point and shoot digital that I can stick in my purse and doesn't produce pictures with such shitty quality that I gag. Also I suppose I need money for both things. Le sigh.

So there I am on amazon trying to see sample pics, you know, regular pics. I was at a party and took this pic, I was out in the sun playing tag football and took this pic, but what do I see? A bunch of fucking retards thinking that they're being artistic by taking a really ugly, I mean REALLY ugly picture of a vase.

On a fucking table.

Brilliant, call the fucking galleries.

Oh wait, this person was more creative! They took a close up picture of their cat's face! And look, the wonder never ceases, they included a caption!!! It says, 'Look at my cat's face! You can even see the hair around his mouth this camera is soo good!'

Yeah, that's great, the camera actually showed that your cat has hair. What a fucking surprise. What's more surprising is that you're alive and I haven't already tracked down your address and murdered you in a senseless crime that goes on to shock your sleepy stupid suburban neighbors who are also amazed that their cameras can take pictures of things they point them at. Lock your doors citizens! A killer of bad reviewers is LOOSE.

jeezus

Note to Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Tue, 26 Jun 2007 05:31:00 +0000

Your name is too long. TOO FUCKING LONG. Kind of like this title for this post is too long, but it's not my fucking fault it's you faggots that have driven me to it. God fucking damn it.

The only reason I ever watched this god damned fucking show is because once upon a time before he got hooked on pain pills got fat and then slack faced, Matthew Perry was HOT. Fucking HOT. Now, not so much. He looks sloppy, and you know who he has to blame? the drugs. He gives drugs a bad name and has he ever accepted responsibility for that? No. Fuck Matthew Perry for making drugs look bad and fuck him for making me watch this show.

Oh, sure, I still watch it, but it's not my fucking fault!

I blame Amanda Peets story line for this debacle but lately, I don't know. I don't think I can hang anymore.

Because what the fuck is with all the FLASHBACKS! Okay, newsfuckingflash to writers, flashbacks? Okay... sometimes. But not half of every fucking show for the last six fucking episodes. Cut it the fuck out, I'm BORED!!! And okay, I get it, the war started four years ago and we thought it would be over, but it's not and it's never going to be and you hate Bush and he's a fucking moron and my cat is smarter then him and could run the country better and even homeless people are more articulate, but geezus fucking christ man, SOMETIMES I JUST WANT TO WATCH TV.

Fuck you studio 60.

Next Stop Hell

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Fri, 15 Jun 2007 22:23:00 +0000

I'd like to rant. I'd like to fucking rant and kick doors down and just be a motherfucking raging bitch from hell. AND I'd like someone to sit here and fucking take it.

FUCKING TAKE IT MOTHERFUCKER.

But the thing about this rant is I would just reveal too much of the soft underbelly. The pink. And that's not funny, just pathetic.

Currently listening to: Anything by Get Set Go (look them up on iTunes)

Currently Reading: Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand

Oh My Fucking GOD!

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Fri, 01 Jun 2007 02:36:00 +0000

(And other rants and raves from Craigslist)

Okay, I'm single, female, and somewhat attractive. Attractive enough to have guys honk on horns, ask me out in, somewhat, admittedly, dimly lit bars, and sure, that might not exactly be 'proof' that I'm attractive, but for fucks sake, just take my word for it.

And so what if I occasionally surf the personals? I don't think that exactly qualifies me for loser status as I don't do it while surfing online ads to add to my ever growing cat collection. Fine, I'll admit it; mostly I'm on here to see if any of my friends have their picture up. Because I'm THAT kind of friend.

But what has stopped me from ever replying to any of these ads, drives me to want to tear out my hair, kick kittens, and scrape my nails down a chalk board??? What in the FUCK is up with people advertising their fucking stupidity on-line for all to see? For fuck's sake, learn some propriety, get some modesty, look up the phrase 'saving face'!

Got a foot fetish? Fine, I don't give a rats ass, just please, fucking please, spell 'foot' right. It has 2 'o's. TWO. And there's a difference between 'your' and 'you're' A BIG FUCKING DIFFERENCE. They are not, in any way, interchangeable. No matter what you think. Also, note how I didn't spell 'No' 'Know'. Also not interchangeable. I don't care if you typed it while you were wearing your hat backwards and grabbing the crotch of your baggy jeans because, surprisingly enough, I haven't been impressed by that particular brand of machismo since, umm, high school. Yeah. That's pretty much when the fantasy ended.

Also, when you spell 'goda' in place of 'got to' not only is it bad fucking grammar but it suggests to me that while you've heard this particular combination of words before, and have a somewhat hazy understanding of what they might actually mean, you do not in fact have any knowledge of the words that they are actually referring to.

Got
To

See? Two distinctly separate words. TWO.

Run on sentences I can, quite obviously, forgive. However, the BLATANT advertisement that osmosis, at the very least, has failed to teach you proper grammar (for example: I very funny. Cue internal gagging) and/or how to spell owl (not oul) then I give up. I fucking give up. I have to go. I have a harsh word or two to exchange with my biology teacher on the issue of natural selection.

Freaky Thursday

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Fri, 25 May 2007 00:59:00 +0000

I haven't been writing much because I haven't been myself lately. No edge. I'm in here somewhere, but I feel a bit fuzzy. I blame it on all the TV watching so I started doing Leslie Sansone's walk tapes everyday. Which helps and is cheaper than red bull.

Come to think of it... I'm still watching TV, so smooth move idiot.

In other news I'm searching for a job that doesn't make me want to drink cyanide everyday and wash it down with some good old anthrax.

I don't know when this happened. I mean, sure, sometimes there's a slight distaste for the work you do (so guilty over here), but it's what you do and it's what you've done for years so like it or not you do it well, you show up and it all goes like clockwork. You don't even have to think. So what's with all this sudden career hatred?

A lot of things really.

Most of it in combinations so there's really no one to blame other than timing. And God. Boy that guy can be a real prick! (ick, catholic self cringing in fear)

Plus the house is still in an uproar. I just moved, for the second time in six months and third time in two years, and okay. The rest of the house is starting to look presentable but I've got 20 fucking boxes stacked in my bedroom of shit I don't have fucking shelf space for or room! And okay, sure you don't want to hear my bullshit, but guess what?? No ONE FUCKING DOES? AND YOU KNOW WHY?

BECAUSE I'M HAVING A FUCKING MID LIFE FUCKING CRISIS AT 27!!!

28 in three months, thank you fucking father time.

That's right! I ditched my boy friend, am trying to change careers, AND just moved! YAY!

Anyway, the bedroom's a disaster. Pluse I want to take the desk from the dining room into the bedroom, the shelf from the living to the dining, the armoire... blah de fucking blah.

I need a truck and a half dozen mexicans to work for five bucks and one burrito. Which when you think about it is total overpayment. Fucking illegal alien leaches.

Oooh look, I just got all racist on you. Well fuck off. I'm an equal opportunity hater. I hate everyone. But mostly their purse dogs.

Lonely

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Mon, 21 May 2007 19:26:00 +0000

There comes a point in many relationships when you go to bed alone, wake up alone, and the person sleeping peacefully next to you keeps on sleeping, or at least pretending to, while you lay awake staring at the ceiling. Disconnect.

You take road trips and during your time at the wheel they sleep. They sleep so you can listen to your cd's without their complaints and they sleep through you crying every time a love song comes on because you are overcome with that feeling. That feeling that you are missing out, that there is something else out there, something perhaps a little less dysfunctional? You stare at couples in passing cars because he keeps telling you that you're demanding, that he's perfectly normal, you stare at couples wondering if they are really happy with less, if you're looking for something that really doesn't exist; something that even if you had you would still throw away.

You fight and you fight because you call a handyman to fix the door and he screams until he turns into something ugly over the insult, the absolute incredulity that you would insinuate a handyman is better than him, and you are suppressing your rage because you just want to go to dinner and come home to a door that doesn't fall off the hinges anymore. At dinner he says women who stay home with only one child are lazy and your friend is trash and should give her child up for adoption. Sure. He's looking for a fight. But he's always looking for a fight. And when you say you hate this he says, "for someone who doesn't like to fight you sure like to fight a lot".

Which makes you realize something.

The only way to stop fighting is to take this, be okay with this, or leave.

My days are filled with unpacking boxes in my new place, a place too small for all of these boxes, and I confess; I just don't know what to do. I sold furniture on craigslist. I bought a new sofa at Macy's outlet. I take Izzy for walks and for the most part, I feel good. I think everyone thinks I'll go back because I've gone back before. Except the truth is that this hurts less. Being lonely, when you're actually alone, makes more sense. And now, when I wonder what is else out there, I feel hope.

I'm going on four nights of bad dreams. Stupid dreams that shouldn't sit with me, but do. I dreamt that I had to shave my face each morning and was horrified to discover that I had an Adam's apple. All day I felt slightly disgusted.

My mother tells me to fix myself before I start dating again. She talks to me like I am someone else, someone stupid who wears too much hairspray. I remind her that I was single for years, that if there is any fixing left to do that I am obviously incapable of it. My friend laughs when I tell her, "I don't need to fix anything. I'm PERFECT". Except it's true. There's nothing wrong with me. And I'm not going to jump on the bandwagon of thinking I need to be perfect to be happy.

It didn't work out. Isn't that every one's life story? Oh sure, it's the part they tend to edit out, but trust me, it's there.

A Moment of Silence...

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Fri, 11 May 2007 19:05:00 +0000

while we review the lyrics to, 'Damn, Wish I Was Your Lover' (lyrics that particularly make me want to crack my head into the nearest curb are bolded, italicized, one or the other, but mostly making me rip the wings off of beautiful endangered butterflies)

That old dog has chained you up all right
Give you everything you need
To live inside a twisted cage
Sleep beside in empty rage
I had a dream I was your hero

Damn I wish I was your lover
I'd rock you till the daylight comes
Make sure you are smiling and warm
I am everything
Tonight I'll be your mother (sexy RAWR)
I'll do such things to ease your pain
Free your mind and you won't feel ashamed (why? just because we're play fucking my MOTHER?)
Open up gonna come inside
Gonna fill you up
Make you cry
This bloke can't stand to see you black and blue (tee hee)
I give you something sweet each time you
Come inside my jungle book (do you think this is Woody Allen's pick up line?)
It's just too good
Don't say you'll stay
'Cause then you go away
Damn I wish I was your lover
I'll rock you till the daylight comes (the next time I go out I am SO using this line)
Make sure you are smiling and warm
I am everything
Tonight I'll be your mother (again with the crazy incest fantasy YUM)
I'll do such things to ease your pain
Free your mind and you won't feel

blah blah blah. There are obviously more lyrics but by now I'm afraid you're going to electrocute yourself what with all the projectile vomiting going on.

In a completely unrelated story, I'm not wearing panties.

I am so drunk

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Fri, 04 May 2007 07:09:00 +0000

that it is not fuking dunny. fkLURK:EJvlacxvfmdrlqtjlhjerl

I fucking hgate typos. fuck typos. Fuck them and their goddamned fug looking moghthers. fuck them.

Anyway. what wasI saying? drunk. Drunk is cool. really... um... cool
l\\\\\\

Except.ll tthat the room is slighty spinning. other than that. Suhweet~

Ok,Y!!! So, today is the first time that I played at a poker night. cool huh? Yeah I thought so too. I cleaned them the FUCK OUT! Beginners luck I know. But even if I hadn't? It would've been worth all of the money I lost. It was that much fun.
l
God I have to pucke.

or not.

I Had a Title for This Post... But Forgot It

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Tue, 01 May 2007 02:52:00 +0000

Oh fuck it all anyway.

I think carrot cake is deceiving. They should call it bad for you cake. Because then I wouldn't be tempted to justify eating so damn much of it. Unless it is healthy... and then anyone who says otherwise should shut their fat ugly lying mouths.

On a more personal note you might be wondering, Hey? What's up with the absenteeism? And then I'd be all, oh, you know, AIDS scare.

But it's all right now!

Cindy Lou explained it.

Turns out you CAN'T, CAN NOT, get it from having sex with her. Or cutting your thumbs and becoming blood sisters while drinking Patron. Nope. All a myth. In fact, she even gave me a bucket of her blood to play in. Perfectly safe. And fun.

So how do you get the AIDS then? Abstinence. Boy am I glad she cleared that up.

Happy Valenfuckyou Day

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Thu, 15 Feb 2007 00:11:00 +0000

I took a picture of my butt.

It looked like your mother's face.

What the Fuck Fucking Day Is It Because FUCK WHY IS IT NEVER FRIDAY???

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Wed, 31 Jan 2007 18:24:00 +0000

I love it when my bra creaks. It makes me feel like Rosie from the Jetsons.

Parenting 101

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Sun, 28 Jan 2007 23:06:00 +0000

Sometimes my sister (9 years old) runs past and I think, 'Oh how innocent she is, how young, how...wait a fucking minute,' because it's then I start to remember what I did and did not know when I myself was 9 years old.

Then I stop.

Because I really don't want to think about it. It's just gross.

But of course my stupid parenting side has already kicked in and I start to think about what information should be coming from us. Us. The adults. I'm the same person who took her to her first day of kindergarten, stood outside the cafeteria door with her everyday for two weeks until she built up the courage to walk in, walked through the lunch line with her until she turned to me one day and said, "Terra, I can go by myself."

But she was five! She CAN'T go by HERSELF.

I'm the same person who stood outside the cafeteria for three days watching her navigate the lunch line, making sure she sat at a table with friends, opened her milk carton successfully. And I know, I know she has actual parents that are there everyday, but... they're old. And so not cool. She needs to hear these things from someone who's hip. In 'the know'.

I don't know anyone like that so I fill in occasionally and the other day I had the following conversation with her:

So Alex, what do you think of Britney Spears? (See how cool I am?)

She's cool. I like her. I listen more to (some sister band I can't remember the name of to save my life).

Yeah, I guess she hasn't done much lately since she got married.

Yeah! But she's getting divorced.

And going out without panties!

I heard.

You know, the other day I forgot panties and sat all over your bed.

GROSS TERRA!

Well I guess that's a lesson about panties. I hear they're a 1.99 at walmart.

(laughter)

How stupid is Britney Spears if she can't remember 1.99 panties.

I guess pretty dumb.

What do you think about Paris and Nicole?

They're pretty.

Yep, really pretty.

I like their hair.

Me too... did you hear Nicole got arrested the other day?

Yeah! For driving the wrong way on the freeway!

I think they said she was smoking marijuana.

Yeah.

Boy, that's so cool.

Wha?

Yeah, that's totally cool! Do you know how much cooler and prettier I'd be if I did pot and drove the wrong way on the freeway? When the cop knocked on her window she was on her cell phone!

(laughter)

Seriously. (valley girl voice) Um, like, oh my god, I think this police officer wants me to roll my window down. HOLD ON! I'm like, on the phone. So anyway Buffy, let's go to the MALL after I get out of jail. Ha, like jail is so lame.

(laughter)

(still valley girl voice) Maybe later we can get together do some drugs and drive around K? K! Catch you later skater!

Then we basically talked about how cool it would be to go shopping and do some drugs. There was hair flipping involved, and then some very small talk about how that is NOT cool. Which is basically what I was fishing around for because if I am EVER related to someone that thinks Paris, Nicole and or Britney is cool I would have to kill myself. Or them.

Revelation

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Sat, 27 Jan 2007 00:20:00 +0000

You know you need a drink when you start looking at a wine cooler sideways.

You All My Bitches

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Tue, 16 Jan 2007 20:28:00 +0000

So that's it. I've gone gangsta. I'm not exactly up on all the lingo but so far I've learned that popping a cap in someone's ass is apparently not a friendly gesture.

My bad.

Last weekend the Irishman and I decided to go to a movie, he picked two movies, I picked two movies, we each cancelled out one of the other's choices, we flipped a coin, and then before we even looked at the quarter we decided, fuck it. Let's just go see Dream Girls instead. Life's about compromises, and Beyonce's ass.

But then we missed the movie's start time so what does the Irishman do? What does the fucking bitch ass Irishman do? He turns to me and says

AND SAYS

'Let's go see The Holiday instead'

(My internal response) What the fuck, are you a FAG?? Holiday? Fucking shit ass Holiday? I would kill myself instead! I would kill small children instead! I would bang my head into the cold ass cement instead.

(My external response) hrm. Um. Hrm. I dunno know, why don't we go see Alpha Dog instead? I heard Justin Timberlake's pretty good.

Irishman- Yeah... but I don't have a good feeling about that movie. I think I should take you to a chick flick for once, like a good boyfriend.

(My internal response) CARS IS NOT A CHICK FLICK! STRANGER THAN FICTION IS NOT A CHICK FLICK! TALLAFUCKINGDEGA NIGHTS IS NOT A CHICK FLICK! The Notebook fucking kill me now is a chick flick. Whatever movie with Reese Witherspoon that my mother tried to drag me to, chick flick. Japanese martial arts movies, Will Ferrell movies, Children of Men, NOT CHICK FLICKS. Mental note: Create a graph... possibly involving checklists for him to reference.

(My external response) Uhm. Okay then. The Holiday it is... I guess.

Anyway, the point of this story is that we walked out of The Holiday within five minutes after I had already started figuring out ways to track down and kill the writers, went in to see Alpha Dog and totally loved it. Okay, so Justin Timberlake's Dick in a Box was hilarious, but the guy can seriously act. And the movie was based on a true story, so if I had actually cried at the end it would have been acceptable... especially if I were PMS'ing.

Which I was.

But that doesn't mean I cried.

Only people with hearts cry.... and I sold mine for some drugs. So there.

Pulling the Pink

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Wed, 10 Jan 2007 22:43:00 +0000

I've been sick for two months now. Not full on sick, but sick. It started in November with a constant queasiness and moved on in December to full on motion sickness. It comes and goes in waves and sometimes I even get sick from my own driving. Which may or may not be a reflection of my dubitable skills.

In mid December the Irishman noticed I got car sick within a half block with his driving and he turned to me and demanded to know how many days late I was.

Late?

None.

Shut the fuck up and drive.

Except, I never know if I'm late or not because I never keep track. Also, I have a history of nausea. Stressed? I'm nauseous. Cold? Nauseous. Tuesday? Nauseous. I pay absolutely no attention to it and never have. It's just a constant. Also since my hormones are constantly out of whack I'm sometimes PMS'ing all month prior to my period, and even worse directly after it. The only break I seem to get is when I'm actually on the damn thing which makes me wonder what exactly I did to piss off the universe. So in December I'm PMS'ing all long. Which for me means muscle aches, hot flashes, nausea, constant feelings of fullness, and gaining weight at the drop of the hat.

Still I actually went to a calendar to double check if I was late or not. I wasn't. I marked the day I was to start and when that day came I started. Wow. Look. For once I'm on time.

New Years weekend and I'm so nauseous that no one else can drive me. I've gained ten pounds in... pretty much one week, and I'm throwing up everything in sight. It's beautiful. Then I feel better. Until the next Thursday when I vomit in the morning. And the next day when I vomit all morning. Then mysteriously better. Until Tuesday. I'm so sick even water gives me a heartburn and I got motion sickness from walking and changing directions too fast.

So I make an appointment to see the doctor, tell the Irishman I'll be home late, leave work and sit in the lobby until the doctor can see me and tell me, most likely you're pregnant. She orders all these blood tests (one for pregnancy) and then she sends me over to the lab to get my arm pricked.

And I have to say the most amazing thing happened on that walk to the lab, I got happy. Happy happy.

A baby.

And I thought about all that would mean. Baby baby. Would I have sufficient time at my work to allow for pregnancy leave (assuming I'm two - three months along)? Would my mother want to watch her during the day? How would I get them to each other?

Teething, weaning, soft hands, little shoes, fluffy snow jackets, Easter, and Christmas, and strollers, and cribs.

A baby.

And I'm 27 and I want that baby so much, would love that baby so much, and it never ever occurred to me until right then.

Of course the Irishman's got his three year plan and I don't know what he would say. Mostly I think he would be mad, and I'm afraid he wouldn't want the child. Would always look at it as some small object that came along and ruined all of his plans, his unlived life. You know, the way he sometimes looks at me.

Unbeknownst to me the Irishman's at work being asked by his assistant what's wrong, and he's telling her he thinks I'm pregnant. I've been sick forever, gained a bunch of weight, and now have missed work because of it. She's telling him that realistically there's only so many days a girl can get pregnant during the month (since I've been sick I've been putting out less), and also, how bad would it be? Sure, he can't use the stress a pregnancy would bring, but we make good money, he's 34, I'm 27, I'm the only girl he's ever lived with and declared he intended to marry.

And he's replying, I guess you're right. It wouldn't be the end of the world.

He's getting used to the idea and I'm getting used to the idea and the lab is processing my blood that says I have an infection.

And I'm not pregnant.

Talk Too Much, Write Too Little

noreply@blogger.com (TerraT) — Mon, 08 Jan 2007 19:26:00 +0000

So I'm making up for it, or just using it as an excuse to start rambling.

Thing One: My neck is out. Mainly because I live in a semi-affluent neighborhood and the other night a bunch of teenagers drove by me yelling and hanging out the windows, speeding and smoking cigarettes in a brand new land rover or discovery or some other fucking vehicle that costs twenty times the value of my own car (not kidding, KBB prices my car 1000-2000), and so I then began prancing around, flinging my head from side to side, saying in a posh voice how I couldn't possible go to chem class today, I must, ABSOLUTELY MUST, go get my hair highlighted and then run over to abrocombe.

I may or may not have begun singing, "I'm a model, you know what I mean". And anyway, now my neck is out.

Thing Two: The Irishman has informed me that if Hell exists I am definitely going there. Which I find especially harsh since all I did was vocalize my wish for my grandmother and Shirley Temple to die.

Soon.

Thing Three: Fuck you holidays. Fuck you scale. Fuck you hormones. Fuck you stomach and fuck you genetics.

I rarely, if ever, gain weight during the holidays. Instead I tend to pack on the pounds in the summertime. I know. It defies logic. So for you to understand this rant you'll have to know that piece of info, in addition to the fact that my father's side of the families stomachs are all fucked up. We can't eat certain foods, and we tend to retain food as well. Meaning, if we eat heavy food, it stays with us. For fucking ever. So this holiday, thanks to my hormones, I eat one meal a day and am stuffed for the rest of it.

IT FUCKING SUCKS!!

And you know what else sucks? I ate half of what my family ate and gained four pounds Christmas weekend. My mother was all, NO WAY TERRA, YOU ATE WAY LESS THAN US! And I did. And I was pissed. So the week after I said FUCK NOT EATING, and I ate more. Because that's, you know, a good normal reaction.

End of story, I'm up ten pounds, in two weeks. It's so fucking awesome I'm going to go hang myself.

Thing Four: This new job actually requires me to work. Expect less posts and acts of prostitution. I got out my calculator last night and realized that I bring home (bring home) 1,034 more a month here. That's right. ONE THOUSAND THIRTY FOUR more a month. AND, I get an annual bonus. After I figured this out I crawled into bed with the Irishman to inform him, I used to be poor. I mean, poor. Poor, buy myself a two thousand dollar car and thank Jesus I don't have to ride the bus with the smelly old man who may or may not have pooped his pants, poor. And then we laughed because I am STILL poor. All that extra money has gone straight to my educational loans and credit card debt. I'd like to say that my credit cards were used irresponsibly, that I bought high fashion and appletinis or some crap with them, but mostly I just bought groceries. And gas.

So that sucks.

Thing Five: With all that extra money I'm going to go visit Grace! YAY! Grace is so slutty. I miss her. And her big boobs. But mostly her boobs. I have pictures, but it's just not the same.

You wish you could visit her boobs too. But you can't They're mine bitches. I just let her husband touch them. It's really nice and Christian of me.

Thing Six: I'm trying to work the word bitches into my vocabulary more often and phase out fuck. Partly because the Irishman doesn't seem to like being called a bitch and partly because fuck has become my trademark. Time to shake it up bitches.