We need to talk...

I’m breaking up with you. I know we didn’t have a very long affair, but you constantly make me feel like I need to change something about myself. Whether its my appearance or the way I handle myself. You beg me to change. Here’s the deal, love. Its like smoking, if I really wanted to quit, I never would’ve started. You could try to turn that around on me, but the difference is you were going to go away anyway. You are only meant to last a little while. You were supposed to warm me up and inspire me, and then go away. Hide on the other side of the sun until I need to thaw out again. What I’m trying to say, darling. The words I’m so desperately searching for… Fuck off summer; I’m tired of sweating and feeling fat.

The summer is good for making plans and for fucking. Only skinny people can “make love” in the summer time, everyone else just sweats way too much for that. I’m ready for the cool, crisp nights that take my breath away and make me want to fall in love. The summer is good for brief affairs that make me feel silly and wanted. Fall, winter, this is where I thrive. I can wear cardigans and socks and jeans and not want to drop the extra 40 pounds I have stored in my ass. I’m not built for hot. I’m built for cuddles, and cider, and soup. I feel clean in the fall, I want to smell like the sexy, masculine smoke of a bon fire. I want to make someone else hold my beer when my hands get too cold. I want to borrow your jackets. I want to stay in because the weather is too bad to go to the bar. I want to cook for you and all of your friends. I want to dream about waking up in a cold room and staying under the covers with you because its too cold to get up and face the day.

I look better in the fall; I like a good chill in my cheeks to make them pink. Not a sweaty glow. I smell better in the fall, I feel better in the fall. I take better care of myself in the fall. I tend to my heart, and my friends and my feelings. Show of hands, how many of you have seen me this summer? Ok, put your hands down. If your hand was up, you are one of the following: My roommate, my parents, someone I had a brief affair with, someone I’m currently in like with, a friend of Cameron’s, or I work with you. Everyone else, it was too hot. I didn’t want you to see me like this.

I want to go to a football game. I want to cook chili. I want to stay the night with my little sisters and cuddle up in blankets on the trampoline late at night and talk about what we want to be when we grow up. I want to watch scary movies. I want to feel comfortable. I want to be affectionate. I want to start something new. I want to knit. I want to go thrifting so I can wrap myself in oversized men’s sweaters and skinny jeans. I want to go to shitty local shows and drink dark beer. I want to wear orange and red and yellow and laugh at everyone who is fading out of their fake summer glow.

 Now for the things I need. I NEED TO QUIT WORRYING ABOUT THINGS I CAN’T CHANGE. I need to worry less about the things I can’t control and play the cards that have been dealt to me. I need to live in today and not last week, not tomorrow, not next year. To-fucking-day. That’s where I am, that’s what I have to deal with, that’s what I need to worry about. I need to take it one day at a time.

God damn it, I love when the weather starts to get cold.

nausea and a headache

I’ve made this beautiful world for myself. Its all wrapped up in my head. Wrapped in soft blankets tucked in for the night just waiting for the morning so it can wake up. I am so good at lying to myself, so good in fact that I have a really hard time gauging my own emotions. I like to think I’m happy and I know what I want, but how will I ever really know.

For example, my current situation. I have wanted what I have now for about a month, and all I can think about are the ways its going to fall apart. I’m so full of bittersweet doubt. I feel happy, there are so many things about this moment in my life that I could sing and dance for, but there are also so many reasons for me to stay up late and bask in my paranoia.

I don’t know what to do; I don’t know how to let myself be happy.

Sister Rosetta Goes Before Us- Allison Krauss and Robert Plant

Pete and Repeat

Whether it is out of passion or pain, this is why I sing at the top of my lungs. It’s the tension, the conflict between my body and my need to get all the air out of my lungs. I just want to get high; I just want to forget about all of the bodies that have once been pressed against mine. The melodies, the shapeless words, they’ve soaked into my soul like the cigarette smoke melts into my hair. Now let’s take all the other boys I’ve “just fucked”, there does not exist a single one that I did not love, if only for a moment. Well there are 2 of those and I felt dirtier and emptier than you could ever imagine. It’s rarely just sex to me, regardless of what I might say.

I’m so fucking tired of being only fucked. I’ve never wanted polyamoure. I’ve wanted to be passionately kissed by someone who is worth my affection; instead I fall for small pieces of what I want in numerous lovers. His grounded thoughts, his intelligence, his tongue, his eyes, her lips, his laugh, his hands, his voice. Now, what if I told you that you encompass all of those things? That your voice is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard, your laugh makes me want to cry, when you are sad I want to murder. Its stupid really, you will never get out of your head to see this. Maybe you think you are too crazy for me, and that might be true, but I’ve been too crazy for so many others. People that wouldn’t give me the time of day.

I want to turn myself inside out and dump out all of this dirt, all of the shame. I want to take a bottle of bleach and a toothbrush to my soul. I want so badly to be pursued, to be chased. To be the prey. Something that fills you with such desire, that you must have it, regardless of the repercussions. I say to myself often, and to others as well “he doesn’t know what he wants, but he doesn’t want me. If he did, he would have me.” Why don’t you have me?

I know that its probably not progressing for a reason, but I chose to lose sleep over this. It gives me something to pine over, now as for the others that I have been killing my time with, only time killed. I might have looked inside to see if there was anything worth trying on, but it never really is my style. I know it won’t feel right once I put it on.

Should I just be naked for a while, drink in bars alone? We all know I’m not just going to stay at home; Cameron and I have two different lives. And I get caught up in my head when I’m alone. And I write things that I will never publish because I can’t let you read this. No one needs to know how crazy I am for you, especially not you. I am insane. Bat shit fucking crazy. I just want to be held at night, to be caressed, and to be kissed. Is that so god damned much to ask?

This should be read with eyes that understand that I like to exaggerate. That I will take my one little emotion I am feeling and spin. Spin, until I am dizzy, until I can feel the vomit rising in the back of my throat, until it’s the only thing I can focus on, until I have to have one hand on the wall and one on the floor to stop spinning. It should also be known that I was really happy when I wrote this and that doesn’t make any god damned sense in my head. I sat down thinking “oh I’m going to write a happy blog post.” Well guess what, princess? That shit don’t happen at night. 

So this is me, 2 days later, editing out some of the more graphic details of my love life, cause “ain’t nobody got time for that.”

With that being said, I’m going to share with you something that has been plaguing my head for quite some time, every time I hear this song, I think of this song. It’s a fun game, really it is.

When I hear:

Boys of Summer - Don Henley

I think of:

Stutter - Joe

When I hear:

Jack and Diane - John Mellencamp  

I think of:

I think I'm in Love - Jessica Simpson

When I hear:

Edge of Seventeen - Stevie Nicks

I think of:

Bootylicious - Destiny's Child 

Its mostly just the beginning of the songs and the last one is super understandable. I mean Stevie Nicks is in the video, buts its just so exhausting because all I listen to a lot of classic rock in my car, and them BAM attack of shitty music from my childhood.

         

I’ma leave you with this one.. just for fun, because its Friday. Where the Party at? - Jagged Edge 

Terms and Conditions

I’ve come to terms with something. I’m kind of a bitch, and a whole lot of sarcastic.

                Thursday night, at the bar I got caught up playing a game with my friend Cory’s friend Christian. The game was about reading astrological charts. Not just the whole “I was born on this day, so I’m a Pisces”, the whole “you were born where, when, sun, venus, blah, blah, blah.” kind. So basically, I’ve got a lot of earth and I really need an air sign to balance me, and apparently I’m a fickle hard ass… This boggled my mind; I say” if I’m such a hard ass, why do I have such a problem with anxiety?” Cory knows me pretty well; he has rescued me a few times. I make bad decisions and he never sleeps apparently. He replies “because you don’t trust yourself, you aren’t accepting the way your head works.” Apparently that’s a Capricorn thing, and I have a whole fuck ton of Capricorn stuff going on in my shit. We don’t trust anyone very easily, when we do trust we become very loyal, but if that safe little trust nest is ever destroyed it fucks our whole world. So that makes sense to me.

                I realize that I put myself in a lot of really vulnerable situations and I’m always exposing feelings. If I put them out there, I am in control of them, but that always ends up ending with me being all crazy and hurt. So I should probably not do that. I’m scared of getting comfortable in my loneliness, but I don’t need to keep walking around like I’m made of glass. Its exhausting. So basically, what I’m saying is that I’m going to make people work a little harder to gain my trust. It feels better when there is some actual sowing effort before all the emotional reaping. And its probably a little bit more healthy that way.

                I saw my mother this week, and I drank sooo much this weekend. Not my finest weekend, but I’ve had worse, it was interesting though. Or at least its interesting to look back on now. I was running so hard away from the whole delicate, fragile, anxious person I’ve been for the past few weeks because I could not handle my mother stepping on my little heart. So I just became this crazy, reckless individual person who didn’t give hardly any fucks. It was fun, kind of, but my liver and my lungs are probably just about ready to tell me to fuck off. But I feel like I was possessed by a crazy white trash demon, I mean Thursday night after the bar, I think I turned the charm on and Friday I didn’t do a whole lot of talking because my feet weren’t really touching the ground. At least I didn’t talk much after the bar; the bar was a different story. Talked a lot there, sang a lot, kept my friend out too late because I can’t say no to karaoke. I need it, its like a drug.

                I need to keep my feet on the ground, my heart off of my sleeve. This is the world I’m living in, my head may be able to manufacture images that I would like to see in real life, but my head is not real life. Its my head.

the yellow rose of texas

“And the worlds got my dizzy again; think after 22 years I’d be used to the spin.”

                My anxiety has been getting worse. I came to a realization tonight, I’m alone. I have friends, yes. Thank you for pointing that out, but I’m alone. This force I have been running from is finally catching up to me. I’m not much of a runner anyway. We all know me to be more of a spinner. So tonight, I decided to go for a good long spin.

                Yesterday, I woke up to something I didn’t want to hear, I fought with people I really didn’t want to fight with. I had a panic attack, my shoulders are still sore from it. Sometimes I wish I had a little note keeper in my head, I have a really fun dialog in there sometimes. Today at work I wanted to write about how much it pisses me off when people blame their actions on drunkenness. I’ve done some stupid shit when I was drunk, some really stupid shit. But I knew what I was doing, even the times when I’ve been black out drunk, at the time I remember knowing what I was doing, I don’t remember what it was but decision making is still involved. I can recall thinking to myself, “I’m going to remember this in the morning” and waking up to a blank page. That’s not good for my head, I know.

I wanted to write about how I hate when people describe themselves as “broken”. No one can break you; our lives are ever changing puzzles. Just because the edges of the pieces are changing and moving around doesn’t mean you are broken. It will never be the same, yes. But its not broken. They didn’t break you, you didn’t break you. You aren’t broken, you are different. You might not even be put together, that just makes you separated, but not broken. You don’t need to be fixed, you don’t need to be healed, you just need to rearrange some things.

Instead I’m going to write about how fucking scared I am. The anxiety, its terrifying. Its to the point where I get breathless when I think people are mad at me. When I think I have let someone down. Or if I have too much caffeine.  Knowing that I’m all lonely, its scary. I’m scared I’m going to turn back into that 13 year old girl who is sleeping alone for the first time and dreaming of murdering the mother that isn’t speaking to her. I was sitting outside smoking a cigarette, there was a shadow dancing in my eye, it felt like there was something in the corner of my eye. My eyes were trying to adjust to the darkness and I could feel it. That scares the shit out of me; I don’t want to feel the dark. Its dark and scary. I don’t really want to feel this alone, but I’m going to. I still have people that I’m going to hang out with; I probably even have someone to kiss this weekend. But that’s a casual thing that is surprisingly one of the most consistent and healthy relationships I have right now. He doesn’t put up with my shit, well he might, but I haven’t really given him any shit to work with. I keep my shit together around him. Except for that one time with Lil John and Vampire Weekend, but that was “adorable” so eh. I’m scared of getting used to being alone, to just dealing with it and getting so warm and cozy in the one person life I’ve created that I don’t leave room for anyone else and I end up alone forever. Alone with a house full of cats and whiskey.

I thought about my Papa tonight. I miss him terribly. I started thinking about my nephew, yesterday I was playing with him. He was throwing pillows at me and climbing all over the loveseat. He slipped and bumped his little head on the back of the couch. It hurt, he hit it good. He cried and Elaine, his mother, consoled him and calmed him down. It occurred to me that mothers are wonderful people, a child’s first best friend. She is the one that plays with him, and makes him smile, his company. All parents really, that isn’t just a mother thing. Dads are pretty awesome too. My grandparents were a really huge part of my early childhood. Most of what I remember from before the divorce is being over at Granny and Papa’s house. James will never get to meet my Papa, and that makes me really sad. I need to spend more time with my Granny because I know she won’t be around for forever. But its hard because Papa isn’t there. He died quite a few years ago, 2004. But he is still in my head, in my heart. I was his yellow rose, hence the yellaroses. He used to sing “yellow rose of Texas” to me all the time. My middle name is Rose, for those of you who didn’t know. My next tattoo will probably be a rose, for my Papa. They were married for over 50 years, Granny is alone now. Over half her life spent with this one man.

“And it only feels worse when I stay in one place, so I’m always pacing around or walking away.”

Landlocked Blues - Bright Eyes

the string unspun

I’m longing, hungry for your touch.

Its for you, I drink too much.

Drinking for you, can’t get enough

Drink you down, I’m so in love

Listen to every sad song

The radio will play

For you I’ll ever long

So many things I shouldn’t say

In my head you tell me no

To you I want to run

For you, the places I would go

For you, my strings unspun

I’m longing…..

Never knew me a better time,

I guess I never will

Crocodile rock just makes me cry

You with her, it makes me ill

In my head you hold me close

To you, I’ll always run

For you, like rivers I will flow

For you, my strings unspun 

I’m longing, hungry for your touch.

Its for you, I drink too much.

Drinking for you, can’t get enough

Drink you down, I’m so in love

I'm drunkish. I can't get very far without thinking of him, it sucks everytime. all the time. in time it will get better. more numb. more controlled. for now the Jameson is here to fuck with my head. You keep me from making decisions I shouldn't, but its out of loyalty to you, not out of respect for myself. Fuck around, my heart is heavy, my hands are slow, my head is weary. 

And I look up...

I talk a lot about spinning. Spinning, round and round, looking up, arms spread. Stopping just to have to world spin round around you. I like songs that spin. Mumford and Sons spins. I think it’s the mandolin. It just goes. I have decided on something that I want. I want a love that spins, not even a love, but a passion. A need for anything, but it has to spin. It has to start one place, see something, hear something, get excited and spin. I can spin in sadness, in happiness, in loneliness. I have said that I  “wallow” in my self-pity. I don’t wallow, I spin. I take that feeling. I look at it, I focus on it. And I spin.

                I need to quit looking for things. For anything, I need to allow things to happen. I have an idea of what I want out of my life, but it’s a very vague idea. I have friends, I have very good friends. I have a certain kind of friend that I’m not sure everyone truly has, I have a best friend. His name is Cameron. I know I talk about him in a very playful manner, we fight, we argue, we do ridiculous things. He did something today that really blew my mind. I came home from work and immediately changed and left, he was a little sad. He hid under his blanket and told me a certain someone was right. Here is the thing that sticks with me; this is the man that has seen me in my most ridiculous, and he still enjoys my company. The past 8 months that I’ve lived here I have been absolutely insane. I cannot express the amount of times I have uttered the phrase “Cameron, you were right.” The man has seen me in situations that he knew were not going to be beneficial to me, he has expressed his concern, I have been a stubborn cunt and did it anyway. And he has held me crying whenever I got hurt. He has seen me drunk out of my mind, freaking out over a fucking karaoke contest. He has seen, and heard me weep the lonely, sad, desperate, angry, ugly cry that I would never wish anyone to see. Its well beyond the normal ugly cry, it’s the point where my face becomes hilarious and he has to stifle a laugh. He has been more than a friend; he has been a guardian, a protector. He has seen me cast myself in a very unattractive light, and he still wants to hang out with me. He still wants to be my friend. He still lets me live in my house. I’ve mentioned the main reason I give everyone as to why he is my “best friend.” In 2008 I got “kicked out” of my house 2 days before Christmas. Cameron let me stay with him. He took care of my stupid 18 year old head. He loved on me because I needed infinite hugs. I may have met him randomly in Wal-Mart and we both probably would have shat ourselves had someone told us we would be living together in 5 years. But he is one of the most positive influences I have ever had, I will probably ever have.

                Now I just told you all about this man, this wonderful gem of a man. I live with him. We are good friends. I have him, and other numerous people that deal with my shit on a daily or weekly basis. But I still get lonely. Everyone does, I know, but I get really lonely. Mostly at night, fun fact: I didn’t really sleep alone until I was like 13. My older sister and I shared a room before our parents got divorced. We would sometimes share a bed, especially when we could hear them fighting at night. When I moved to Kansas City with my mom, I slept in her giant king size bed with her. I think I slept in my own room there once, and then my room became my brother’s room and we shared a closet. When I moved back to Oklahoma I had my own room. But I had awful violent nightmares about killing people. I was like 13, ripping out throats in my dreams. Counseling was involved and that got better. Fast forward to college, I was reading a book one night, House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski. It scared the shit out of me; I couldn’t turn the lights off in my dorm. I couldn’t lie with my back to the open side of the room. One night it got so bad I had to go stay with the guy who let me borrow it. Then there was Kyle. Our first summer together he would come visit me in Ada and we would sleep on the floor together. We eventually got to where we would sleep together at his parents’ house. Then when the school year stared, I was staying the night at least 3 times a week. Then more, then more, sleeping in a twin size bed. I had a house off campus, and a full size bed, but there was no body in that bed with me. I needed the security, the warmth. We moved to Arkansas in December of 2010. When our relationship ended in September of 2011, we continued to sleep in the same bed until I moved out in November. That was such a stultifying situation. It fucked with my head more than I let on. I don’t want to talk about that anymore its late and I will make myself sad. The point is I get very codependent at night. I love sharing my bed with others. I’m a cuddle slut and I’m afraid of the dark. Not what’s in the dark, the actual dark. I get scared of the shadows in the corner of my room. I have nights when I will get up and turn the light on 2 or 3 times just to get the dark off of me. I get lonely at night, and in the morning. The morning when I don’t have anyone to tell me how cute baby dinosaur is, baby dinosaur is me when I wake up. I have little roars with every yawn. I think I’m cute, don’t ruin this for me.

                There are a lot of things that go into the idea of loneliness, I know I’m not alone, I have a Cameron. But intimacy, honest affection, security, these are the things that I get a hankering for late at night. I’ve flirted with the idea of polyamoure; I think it has some valid points. But I know that I truly just want one person to think I’m special. Not even entirely special, just special to them. I want to be cuddled. I want to get out of this headspace because I will stay up entirely too late and listen to lots of Bright Eyes and I will make myself very sad. I’m tired even. I has a sleepy. Its 4:30 in the god damned morning. I need to crawl into that bed that I am strong enough, brave enough, to sleep in by myself. I am bigger than my loneliness. I know that I am important to me, that I make myself happy. I would like someone else tonight, but I don’t need it. I’m menstruating and it’s a full moon. I’m just listening to Mumford and Sons and their spinning stringed instruments getting all sappy. Silly Leah, you silly little girl, go to sleep.

Mumford and Sons - After the Storm

Far, far away from here.

Tell me I’m sensitive. I bruise so easy.

                True story, I really do. If you check up on my Facebook you already know that I fell off a bar stool. I have a sore boobie and bruised shin. It’s a fantastic story. I was getting up to “fight” with someone, my leg was hooked under the bottom rung of the stool. We all rolled over, and I fell down, to the ground, to get out of the rain, boom boom boom boom. I laid there for a while. The fall itself wasn’t so bad; the recovery however, has not been pleasant.

                I like having thin skin; it shows off the effects of others on my being. If you upset me, you will probably know it. If you inspire me, I will tell you about it. If you hurt me, I will bruise.

                 No one’s favorite pass time should be beer. Its in my top 10.

                 I don’t think people ever want to be happy. I read somewhere that vacations don’t make people happy, it’s the weeks before. We like having something to look forward to, we like having hope that there is something out there that will be better than what we have right now. Its not the destination, it’s the drive. I’m happy right now, but its that bitter, twisted, fucked happiness. My hope is skewed, as well as my reality. But it makes me happy, who am I to judge myself?

                I’ve never been on a plane at night time. Why are there so many flights late at night? Gets my hopes all up for the shooting stars, but you give me something to wish for.

                Even when we fight we can be happy, it’s the hope that it will be so much better when we make up, those “little happy moments” that’s what drives us to deal with so much shit.

                I don’t know what I want, I don’t ever know what I’m doing, but I know why I’m doing it. I know what I don’t want. I don’t want to be bored. I don’t want to feel like I am a part of the whole. I don’t want to feel neglected or unimportant. I don’t want to be the big spoon (very often). I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to be tied down. I don’t want to be a mouth only to kiss. I don’t want to be someone’s Thursday night girl. I don’t want to be a secret. I don’t want to be a lie.

                We are all just looking for the little glimmer of hope, we are just waiting on the vacation. I’m happy not getting away; I just like daydreaming about it.

I'll set this town on fire

I need to quit writing “lyrics” so late at night. My mind gets all one tracked. Its bloody awful.

How many times have you wanted something just because you weren’t allowed to? I am insanely curious. I have an overactive imagination. I could list names, for discretionary reasons I won’t. But they are ****, ***f, *y**, r***, *o*, **l**. Oh dear lord, that was far more ridiculous of a thought process than I thought it would be.  I had to put in a letter so I wouldn’t get confused. Then I got sad, then I decided to stop making that list.

I was making that mostly to justify shit I shouldn’t need to explain. Oh well. More words….

You would’ve thought I’d know better,

Seems this happens all the time.

Like the changing of the weather

Wouldn’t want you if you were mine.

Hands I shouldn’t hold.

Lips I shouldn’t kiss.

Laughter's never old.

Never mine to miss.

What leads the smoke to fire.

The tension pulling tighter

You’ll always love a fighter.

Want what you’ll never have

Look deeper for that meaning.

Always try to make you laugh

Only love you when I’m screaming.

Don’t think I can do it better

Know I’ll never have the chance.

Wait it out like stormy weather

I love this fucking dance.

What leads the smoke to fire.

The tension pulling tighter

You’ll always love a fighter.

So I'm trying this new thing here...

So, if you remember I had a blog post a while back that mentioned something about a band. (sad hipster post about identity and procrastination) Well the mother fuckers flaked. So I pouted, got drunk and cried over all of the past wonderful, beautiful musical moments I’ve had, BLAH, BLAH, FUCKING BLAH…

I’ve had the whole “write lyrics if you want to sing” conversation with a few people. I don’t really do that… remember the bit about me and identity and being a musician? Yeah, still an uncomfortable word in my mouth... anyway... balls out. Please give feed back as lyrics are not my forte. Please don’t judge me if it sucks. I really just pulled this out of my ass..

Dream girls don’t exist.

Wipe her make up from your lips

All she wanted was your kiss

You will never call her “mine”

Look for love in crowed bars.

Stumble drunken through the cars

What she wants is who you are

More fickle now than ever

Roll me up in arms of cotton

Your past lovers are forgotten

Wanting only to be whole,

Never asking for any more

Roll me up in arms of cotton

Then her prince will take her home

Love’s so lovely, wonderful

Touch so tender, she’s alone

Pick your clothes up off the floor

Roll me up in arms of cotton

How to love? its all forgotten

Wanting only you to hold

Never asking for any more

Roll me up in arms of cotton

I got about that far and then I realized what was happening and started thinking too much.. so I stopped. I have a feeling lyrics are going to be like crafts with me. If I don’t do it all at once, I will never finish it.

e chu ta!

The floor is lava, the floor is always lava. I wake up in the morning (afternoon) and I make the decision to swing my legs over the side of the bed and let my feet get set on fire.

                My back hurts. Its irrelevant what I actually did to it. But it hurts. Working on my feet for 9.5 hours didn’t help matters.

I finally finished the Star Wars trilogy, I had seen it in my childhood, but had no recollection of the films. I can name all 5 bounty hunters in order. However, I can’t spell that shit, so I’m going to share with you my word association in learning them. Danglars, P90X, Bobba Fett, Bosk, Forlorn, Zapatos. Also, Scrumptious Crum, Rafiki, and Max Reboom. Bacta Tank.

If you can kidnap me an Ewok, I will marry you/make you infinite sammiches.

Stupid things make me sad, like having nice conversations with old friends, fills me with all the sadness of how the friendship used to be.

Smells make me sad, cool summer nights and Parliament lights smell like last year.

“First the window, then its to the wall. Lil John, he always tells the truth.” Cue hyperventilating and overwhelming embarrassment. “Hello nervous system, how are you today?” “Oh, you are insane and want to make the world close in on me?” “Fuck you!” Seriously, I am insane, who laughs themselves into a baby panic attack? And who finds that endearing, or not really endearing, but tolerates it and fixes it? And is all sweet and affectionate, but then gives the shit? These are all wonderfully nice things that I have a really hard time swallowing. I’m used to people being shitty, I can understand that shit, I can justify it even, but affection? It makes me crazy. (Dear person this situation is talking about, stop freaking out. Its 5:30 in the morning and I am processing. Its my blog and I’ll do what I want!)

I had a hand in a conversation about the new Spiderman movie, two nerdy boys, two separate states. Two very different opinions, one on speaker phone, the other in bed on the other side of the door, in bed. Me? Oh, I’m on the shitter. You know, being adorable.

It is never ok to tell a stranger you aren’t wearing underwear. I just talked about something I did whilst pooping, that is more acceptable than telling a stranger I’m not wearing panties. I might have the least amount of class possible in a female, but I have never once told a stranger I wasn’t wearing panties.

I know I’m late to this whole party, but OMG! Jenna Marbles, total girl crush.

I really have no idea what it is like to have a normal sleep schedule anymore… No idea at all.

I’m tired, I am writing random thoughts instead of diving deeper into the world of Frank Castle. I know I won’t stop once I start. It starts stopping when it stops stopping. It stops stopping when it starts stopping. Can’t stop, won’t stop the beat. Beat it, beat it. No one wants to be defeated. Nobody knows what its like, to be the sad man. You’re my brown eyed girl. You look pretty in your fancy dress, but I detect unhappiness. Blue, oh so lonesome for you. Don’t stop believing.

Come Home

If you want to make me fall in love with you, show me good music. If you want me to love you, sing with me. If you want me to be yours, make music with me.

                I once had a conversation with someone about the idea of organic music. The laughter of children. The wind blowing leaves. The way you feel when you smell a fire. The crackling of leaves. The skipping of a rock. I once made her cry in the car. I was singing along to the song Wading In Deeper by Katzenjammer. That was a prime example of organic music. I wanted her to hear the song; I sang out with everything that song made me feel.                    

      

                 I don’t feel like I’m living to my fullest potential when I’m not singing. Tonight at work some guy drove by in his big “I’m compensating for something” truck. He was playing that song “Baby, lock the door and turn the lights down low...” I don’t feel like using the internet to look up the song. I sang the rest that verse in the parking lot. Noah, my coworker was out there smoking a cigarette with me, I wasn’t singing to him. He was just there. I felt better just singing. Its like I breathe in all the time, but the only time I ever truly, completely, exhale is when I sing.

                I have moments, moments when a normal person would want to cry, or smile, or laugh. I want to sing, I want to dance. I want to spin, round and round, until I’m dizzy and breathless. Just to feel something because no words I could ever come up with would describe the way I’m feeling. No ordinary gesture could express my happiness, or my sorrow.

                 I’m having an emo night. I’m sitting alone in my room listening to Ryan Adams. There are people in my living room laughing and enjoying each other’s company. I am satisfied just listening. I don’t want them to share it with me, I want them to keep it for themselves and let me sulk in my room. I missed all of the fireworks tonight. Its probably for the best, I would’ve thought too much about past years. Independence Days gone by, holding hands and swimming and singing with families that weren’t mine. Sitting on blankets, playing with cousins who aren’t involved with my family anymore. Talking to cousins who have grown up just like me.  Sitting on the ground in Okmulgee, before my parents got divorced, seeing the copper colored sparks and saying “pennies”, I believed money was falling from the sky. Holidays lose their magic when you get older. The booms of firecrackers make you nervous instead of filling you with awe and wonder. Its so bittersweet. The colors are still just as wondrous, but the fire trucks that continuously pass by make you weary. That was someone’s house, or someone’s yard, or someone’s thumb, or someone’s eyebrows.

                All I wanted to do was to sit on a tailgate or a porch or in a yard. Let the deep low booms fill in as the bass line of the evening. The sips of beer act as the descant. Chirps of crickets and the drone of conversations I’m not involved in carry on as an endless melody.

Come Home by Ryan Adams

I am the saddest whore puppy.

I like to identify myself as a lot of things.

Sometimes I like to identify myself as a girl. I do my make up, and hair and spend too much time deciding on if I want to wear matching undergarments. Cute underwear make you feel confident all day. Not a girl and don’t believe me? Tell me you don’t have one pair of boxer briefs that make you feel superior, even if that’s your only pair without holes, that’s still your “cute pair of panties.”

Sometimes I like to identify myself as a hard ass. I can tell mean jokes, and brag about out drinking a 26 year old, Catholic, Irishman. I can ask my roommate to punch me in the face, and drive off with diesel trucks that belong to people I don’t know very well. I can get really weird voicemails that completely make me lose my train of thought. Like so weird that even rereading what I have written will not put me back on track. The voicemail: I got a call from a guy that I met at Pride; I was giving my number out pretty freely there. I bought a really weird button from him. Don’t know what I did with the button, he sells buttons, that’s his thing. So I ignore the call because he is a little creepy. The voicemail goes: “Hey this is Ian; I make buttons and sell them at bars. I was just hanging out at my house alone, making buttons and I decided I would call everyone in my phone that I’ve never called before and see if they wanted to hang out while I’m making buttons.”  It really ran on like that, like no pauses or comas or anything, it was remarkable.

Sometimes I like to identify myself as a writer, with the drinking and the smoking and the writing.

Sometimes I like to identify myself as seamstress, but that’s only when I’m alone and I want to try to follow this DIY tutorial I found on Pinterest.

Most recently I have been flirting with the idea of indentifying myself as a musician. I have gone with the whole music major thing; I have been an avid lover of music. I have been pretentious as all get out, but I’ve never been a musician. I’ve never stepped back, to look within myself, and pull out something like music. The boys from the audition liked my voice, they liked my passion for music, they liked my stories (maybe, I don’t think I ever shut up. I was nervous.) But they want me to write, I want to write, but I’m not a writer of music. I’m a singer, a vessel for other’s words and melodies. It took a teacher I had a small crush on telling me I should get my work published to even look at myself as a decent writer. My sister is the writer, I’m not.  But now I write, and I enjoy it.  Sometimes people say nice things about it. It makes me feel good and I like it.

But musician? 

That’s just such a heavy word. I mean, say it “myu-zi-shin” its heavy, it makes your mouth move, lips and tongue and teeth. I have a few moments that made me feel lots of emotions, emotions that make me think I could write a good, honest, moving song. But its so personal, and intimate, and hard. I’m procrastinating. This post is full of procrastination. With every word I could be avidly trying to write something. Instead, I’m blogging, like a fucking hipster, talking about identity, like a fucking hipster. Shoot me.

I had this plan. It involved blank notebook paper, a half empty bottle of rum, The Devil’s Advocate, and a very beautifully painful memory. I went back-roading instead. There ain’t nothing like an open container to start the procrastination train. I want to be all Damien Rice circa “O” and make everyone want to cry with my songs because that’s the kind of music I like. Its real, its honest, it reflects on feelings to which everyone can relate. And if you’ve never had your heart broken, come see me. I have a baseball bat, a big porcelain pot, and a few hills I can roll you down.

The Beginning of the Catch Up

Just to get you caught up. I was without my laptop for about 3 months. The power cord died, and I just dealt with the lack of technology. Now, my typing has gone to shit, and I have 3 blogless months I need to catch you guys up on.

First off, I quit my first relatively big kid job. I worked at a hotel, I enjoyed it even. I like meeting new people. I don’t like working for inconsistent bitches, who talk bad about the owners of said hotel. And I don’t like people that go out of their way to make you feel inadequate. They really get under my skin, I know I am a mediocre person, I don’t celebrate it, I just acknowledge it.  So I found myself a new job, took all of my uniforms up to the hotel at like 9 at night, and said I was finished, I had found another calling, and some other really eloquent bullshit. Then I got drunk with Sarah, got over Friday night’s hangover, and drank with Cameron and some of our mutual friends on Saturday(St. Patrick’s Day). Some of my Ada friends made a cameo appearance, and that was nice, but I was drunk and they didn’t know anyone else. So I understand the lame. That Monday I started a new job. I work at a gas station, still get to meet a lot of interesting people, but it’s the meth interesting, not foreign country interesting.

So big story, first day, my boss (who is 23 and AWESOME!) decided it would be fun to hook me up with someone who works with her husband. That should have been a big no. A, he is a friend of hers so if I fuck up, I really fuck up. B, she is married and happy, and I am easily influenced. So we text, he isn’t an idiot. We talk, he doesn’t sound like a girl. We meet, he makes me feel all giggly and uncomfortable, I for some reason found this to be a good sign of the things to come. I spent the first 5 times we hung out trashed. He had a lot of really good qualities, but I started a relationship wearing marriage colored glasses and that is not what I want, not right now. Security? Maybe. Marriage? No.

Now, I could reminisce and tell you all the cute stories I can remember, or tell you about his pretty car, but I would rather tell you about the night we broke up. To set the stage, we have been together for all of a month, I was getting restless and we fought a fair amount. I met him at his parents’ house, where he still lived at the age of 22, and we talked everything out. It was all gumdrops and rain, and the he said he loved me. I kissed him out of lack of response. It was gross and terrifying and mildly wonderful. So that was a Wednesday, I think. Thursday is irrelevant, and Friday was date night. So he picks me up and I cry; I want so badly to rip his face off. I can appreciate a good beard just as much as the next girl, if not more, not the case with novelty facial hair, however. He had cut his beard into a Lemmy beard.

This is Lemmy Kilmister of Motorhead, for whom the beard is named.

This guy can pull off the beard, he can also rock that really gross growth on his face because he doesn’t give a fuck and he is famous. The guy I was seeing could not. He had a gap in between his two front teeth, which I found quite endearing at first; he also had a butt chin. It was just too much. Too much of a shock, too much ridiculous. We went out to dinner, which was good, then a movie. I was mildly irritated after dinner, although I can’t remember why now; we meet Cam and his old roommate Jayson at the theatre in Bixby. We are going to see The Avengers. I am filled with nerdy excitement; the guy I was seeing is not. We go outside to chat with Cam and Jayson, and also to smoke. Cam and Jayson go off on some crazy awesome comic related tangent. A lot of it is over my head, but I still have witty commentary. The guy I was seeing did not. We go inside to save some seats. NOW HERE IS THE BIG PART OF THE BREAK UP.  We walk into the theatre; I trip because I’m really awesome at walking. Someone is super witty and does the whole Nelson laugh from The Simpson’s, I laugh because that’s fucking hilarious and we walk upstairs to find a seat. Half way up the staircase he asks me if I know the guy who laughed at me.

 “No, why?”

“Just curious, I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“Just go find us a seat, baby. I’m going to kick this guy’s ass.”

“What?! No you aren’t. Come sit down.”

So that was irritating, fighting really bothers me. We watch the movie, I totally nerd out and he only laughs at the dumb obvious humor. We drive home, and fight, and I break up with him in the drive way of my house. I forgot that his door didn’t open from the inside,  that was awkward. I got a fair amount of shit from a few people for breaking up with him, because they really liked him, but it’s my life, my vagina, and my heart, they can go suck a bag of dicks.

I still live with Cameron. I still get drunk and make an ass of myself. I also got drunk on whiskey one night at the house with just me and Cam and I totally asked him to punch me in the face. I had never experienced a punch in the face, it was interesting. Whiskey makes me make bad decisions. I love whiskey though. I had a tiny emotional breakdown at one point. I’m at a pretty stable point right now. I know where I stand, and people know what to expect from me. I went to Pride by myself. I have an audition for a band tomorrow and I know more line dances than I should, considering I learn them all when I’m drunk. I’m content and at a good place to grow and expand. I have cut off a few loose ends, but I’m weaving in new strands every day. I’m thinking about going to cosmetology school. I have a sun burn on my shin. And I have a tree tattoo on my wrist.

February Adventures

I’ve been distant, and for that I apologize.

We’ve missed all of February, and I even had an extra day. Shame on me.  I have taken a lot of steps on my own this month. I went to a bar by myself. I mean I had a book, and a pack of cigarettes, but I was alone. It was one of the most empowering things I have ever done. That’s a little ridiculous, but really. I was reading The Catcher in the Rye (a book a really need to return to the library) at work, I really REALLY wanted a gin and tonic, so I went. I got off work, Cameron wasn’t home to talk me out of it, changed, and took my happy ass to Fat Daddy’s. I sat in a corner booth and didn’t talk to anyone until after my second beer. It was wonderful.

Valentine’s Day was equally amusing. I almost convinced a very good friend to drive from Conway, AR to have a few drinks with me, just to leave at like 6 in the morning. She responsibly declined. Ended up drinking with a friend I didn’t know very well, and learned something very important about myself. Not everything is a challenge. Example: if someone says they have never really been drunk, never blacked out, never thrown up, ITS NOT A CHALLENGE. I mean, I won, but it wasn’t a challenge. Sorry again, Zack.

This was also the beginning of birthday week, it should be noted that the two previous stories happened right after each other. Two nights in the same bar. That Friday, I helped an old friend celebrate his birthday, learned a thing or two about the power of greasy cheeseburgers, and realized that I will always be awesome at directions. Even whilst intoxicated I can direct you out of downtown. Saturday I made some new friends and discovered Drunken Opera Leah. One of my most favorite alter egos.

Sunday I made a last minute decision to go to Kansas City with my wonderful sister in law. We talked the entire trip up there, and I really felt good about the whole thing. It was very refreshing. I was privileged enough to get to say at her parents‘house. It was a very warm and inviting environment, and her father has a workshop of wonders. It was awesome.  Monday (my actual birthday) I spent most of the afternoon with an amazing girl. A girl I hadn’t seen in 8 years, she bought me a balloon and took me to downtown for coffee. One of my most favorite moments involved Flarp. Yes, Flarp the fart putty. We stumble in the back door of this coffee house. She makes a fart noise, we giggle, she runs to the bathroom. I go in after her, and she stands outside making awful fart noises. The barista was starting to get a little nauseous. I guess he really thought someone was shitting their pants back there. There was no shit, only joy. After coffee she walked me all around downtown Kansas City, a part I never really got to explore when I lived there. I had the most wonderful time. I mean, it’s very rare to just pick up with someone like that. 8 years, that’s more than enough time to lose everything you had in common with a childhood friend.

I went to dinner with the sister in law and some mutual friends of her and my brother. It was ho hum to say the least. They didn’t laugh at my jokes, and I was kind of uncomfortable. I enjoyed Elaine’s company, but she kind of agreed that it was lame. After that I met up with Jenni (the childhood friend) and we went out for drinks. This is where it should be noted, I had just had a shot on an empty stomach and a Long Island Iced Tea with dinner. This was not part of my original birthday plan. We went to a gay bar in downtown called Missy B’s. We played pool, well she played and I cheated. Then we went out to smoke, I finished two mini pitchers of beer before I remember the difference in alcohol content. This would have been a fantastic time for me to stop drinking; at that point I was drunk. I should have stopped. AGAIN: I should have not continued to drink. They had shots at the beginning of the drag show, I had one, and I had Jenni’s as well. We made friends and they bought me a shot and refilled my beer. Then I got drug up on stage, embarrassed myself. AND HAD ANOTHER SHOT. I managed to get extremely intoxicated and to make a huge ass out of myself. I did not handle myself in the most ladylike manner, and very possibly shat on a beautiful friendship. She has not expressed any hard feelings towards me, but I like feelings, and I am stuck on the guilt train. I enjoyed myself, don’t get me wrong, it was one of the best birthdays I’ve ever had. Minus my mother calling me and asking how I managed to gain so much weight. But alas, I just know that I did not shine the most attractive light on myself.

Since then, I have gotten a nasty cold, brought to me by the week of alcohol and no sleep, I’m sure. I now know what Leah looks like with a drinking problem, it’s not cheap. It’s not pretty. It’s not even that fun. I’ve explored parts of my life that I had never considered before, and met a few interesting people along the way. I’ve had all of this week to reflect on it, my work schedule has been a bit wonky. I’ve cleaned my house and my room, and hopefully my liver.

Tonight I painted a self portrait. It’s a canvas mostly covered with black construction paper, pages from a cheesy romance novel, and sheet music from two of my most favorite arias, Non so piu cosa son from Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro and Assisa  A’ pie d’un salice from Rossini’s Otello. My profile is in the corner with a purple/brown streak for my eyes and a red streak for my mouth. I’m no good at painting with any kind of definition, but also the things that I see and say are very rarely defined.

I know I always feel better after I write, even if it’s not about anything too emotional or deep. It just gives me an opportunity to organize my head, and I’m an open book anyway. So why not let people read it?

                                            Bad iPad Photo of said painting

Non so piu cosa son

Assisa a pie d'un salice

Both of the links above are performed by the amazing Cecilia Bartoli

ALSO, I got a new tattoo this month.

Sonus est qui vivi in illa. Its from a quote from House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski.

"Spreta latet silvis pudibundaque frondibus ora protegit et solis ex illo vivit in antris; sed tamen haeret amor crescitique dolore repulsae; extenuant vigiles corpus miserabile curae adducitque cutem macies et in aera succus supersunt; vox manet , ossa ferunt lapidids traxisse figurame. Inde latet silvis nulloque in monte videtur, omnibus auditur: sonus est, qui vivit in illa."

“So she was turned away
To hide her face, her lips, her guilt among the trees,
Even their leaves, to haunt caves of the forest,
To feed her love on melancholy sorrow
Which, sleepless, turned her body to a shade,
First pale and wrinkled, then a sheet of air,
Then bones, which some say turned to thin-worn rocks;
And last her voice remained. Vanished in forest,
Far from her usual walks on hills and valleys,
She’s heard by all who call; her voice has life."

The literal translation is "The sound is of the one who still lives in her"

My Fairy Tale

Disney movies make me hate my life. I know they are supposed to be all happy and good, but they upset me. Being a girl and being raised on princess movies you get pretty disappointed when you look at your life and see you are absolutely prince-less, and you aren’t really a princess either. They build up really high expectations, for everyone really. I mean, no thief is going to end up with a princess, or even a Kardashian. The guy who is in and out of jail for the bad things he does is going to end up marrying a meth head; there is no princess for him. A woman who was raised to do everything right is not going to suddenly fall for a felon. But apparently that’s not too farfetched for Disney movies.

                Give me a movie where they upstanding gentleman falls for the rule breaking female? The little girl in UP is kind of weird and free spirited, and that’s probably why she died first. Ariel totally sold her voice to a witch, which I guess is bad, and she got a prince. But she also had to leave her entire family and way of life to be with her prince charming. So there are 2 movies that I can think of off the top of my head. And those are kind of weak examples of crazy girls. If I were to watch a movie where the gorgeous, kind prince falls for the street rat girl, I would probably not be three sobs away from a panic attack right now.

                It’s upsetting to look back on your life and be completely disappointed with everything. It’s really, really disappointing. I’m not going to write a list of all my disappointments because that would make me sad; I only like to think about one at a time. I can maybe handle two, but that would be a lot of tears. And I know that no one wants to hear about how fucking sad my life is, it’s not really even that bad. I just have a bunch of disappointing stories. I have good ones too, but I am sad and I want to vent without everyone thinking I’m a sad piece of shit.

                But back to the fairy tale bull shit. Give me a story where the girl who falls from glory, makes bad choices, is foul mouthed, and is maybe a little fat, meets a guy and who is not a total ass clown, maybe even a gentleman and he pursues her. He sees her as a free spirit, an adventure. Someone to explore life with and someone who has the potential to be a great wife and mother. Someone with mistakes a plenty and a little bit of a trashy streak, but someone with a kind heart and good intentions. I know one is expected to be a lady to snag a gentleman, but I want to be an exception. I want to be this crazy thing I am right now, and not be disrespected by my love interests and/or their friends. I want to be able to joke around with the guys and still have my voice heard. Maybe I am just hanging out with a bad crowd.

I want to have a fairy tale; I want to have that fluttery feeling in my stomach again one day. Maybe I need to feel more of this enveloping darkness to appreciate any kind of light. Maybe I need to feel cold and lonely to understand warmth. Maybe I just need to run away and start over. Maybe I just needed a good cry. Maybe I am just insane, I did just weep while watching Tangled. 

Painted Dreams

Just because I might have an unfortunate reader who isn't friends with me on Facebook.
I had a dream.
It was strange and colorful.
I felt inclined to paint it.

Spooky Jookie

                I have been working on this whole idea of “new beginnings” for a while now. Reinventing myself, or discovering myself for the first time. I am learning more about my voice, about my body, about my mind, about my character. Learning new things about yourself is both fascinating and terrifying, as are most things in life. But opening my mouth to sing and hearing and feeling things come out that have never existed before? I don’t even know how to describe that. It’s like knowing someone with a stove but never knowing they could cook.

                There are other things that have bothered me a bit. Apparently I get mean when I’m drunk. I mean, I am a naturally brash person, but I, in no way mean to come across as abrasive. I’m working on that. On a side note, I make decisions that shock me from time to time. Tonight, I went to downtown Tulsa, to a guy’s house. A guy who I have never met, who I know almost nothing about, and who I met on Craigslist. It was in response to an ad he posted looking for people interested in a musical collaboration. I guess it’s not too outrageous for me to have been concerned, that might even be normal. I did the smart thing, gave Cam all the information I had on the guy: name, phone number, directions to his house, and I made sure he had my tag number. Also, I borrowed his pocket knife. It’s the knife that bothers me. I like to think I am a peaceful person, but I also know that neither rape nor murder, sound like very much fun. But still, I am the kind of person that if I caught you stealing from me, I would look at you with disappointed eyes and probably give you whatever it was you wanted. Not saying that I would just give it up to a potential rapist, but I don’t think I would be able to stab anyone. Eh, who knows, maybe I am just over thinking it because the people I met are some of the most genuinely nice people I have ever been around. Like really these people were wonderful, I hope I made enough of an impression on them that potential music happens. I miss performing, and we all know I could use a good solid creative outlet. I get dumb when I’m bored.

                All in all I think this year is headed in a positive direction, I have a possible promotion heading my way, I am getting serious about singing again. And I can do things independently, a little. I’m still a codependent bitch, but I feel like I can go be by myself. And I would actually enjoy it. Like tonight in Downtown. That was all me, and I had a really good time. I have a lot of positive influences in my life right now; this is both a good thing and a bad thing. I need to guard both my heart any my character. I am very easily manipulated and influenced. So it’s good that they are positive influences, but I know that ultimately, it’s me that gets into bed with me every night, and me that wakes up with me every morning. If I am comfortable meeting strangers in unfamiliar places, good for me, as long as I have the cognizance to think of my safety checklist, we are good.

                So as for my most present bit of future, music. Art. Honesty. Beauty. Self discovery. This is what I want out of life. I want to perform, I want to sew and paint and dance. I want to discover new ways to make myself feel beautiful, both inside and out. I want to know the inmost secrets of myself. It bothers me that I’m 21 and I’m still learning new things about myself, but then again. I would love to still be finding things out when I’m 50.

Spooky Jookie - Man Man