Devil Cards

http://velveteenflower.deviantart.com

I was recently gifted a deck of tarot cards. I have always thought them (and anything spiritual really) to be tomfoolery and nonsense.
However, the readings I received from my friend Darien nearly changed my mind.
If nothing else, I have yet another weird interest to pursue.

Clive Barker, get out of my dreams!

image courtesy: http://eastmonkey.deviantart.com/

Nightmares more like. I took Seth to school then went back to bed around eight thirty or so.
At first I couldn't get warm enough to sleep, but I was too tired to face the day, so I just laid there.
That's when it all began, one of the most lucid, freaky, and disturbing dreams of my life.
Gary, Kendra, and I went to Fairchild Airforce base to visit Haley. When we got there, only Eileen was around. She stood behind the kitchen sink watching us carefully. In the guest room, several Chucky sized dolls were lounging on dressers and shelves. I picked one up and the ribbons securing its hat together came apart. Something about the doll was creepy, so I had the urge to put it down.
Eileen screeched at me, "You fix his hat!"
"Okay," I said, "but where is Haley?"
She didn't answer, just kind of growled and went away. I searched the house for Haley, creepy doll cradled in my arms. Periodically I would attempt to put its hat to rights.
Finally I became frusterated with the strings and I told the doll, "Fuck you, I don't want to fix your stupid hat."
The thing smiled and its eyes glowed with an unholy yellow light.
"Okay, sorry! I'll fix your hat!"
Then it opened its mouth in a vengeful grimace, revealing little pointed teeth.
I ran back to Eileen, " Can I do something else for you? I can't fix the doll hat."
"Sure honey, if you play with this one."
In her proferred hands a large beak nosed and sharp chinned clown doll sat.
The thing opened its garishly painted mouth and cackled a little.
Suddenly my hat situation seemed more tolerable.
"Nevermind! Don't worry about it.."
I ran back to the guest room and tried to get Gary to drive us away.
He stood with his back to me, staring at a wall. I prodded him and he turned.
An unearthly growling noise came from the back of his throat, I fled the room, throwing the creepy doll against the dresser.
I sprinted down the hall and fled through the front door. My feet were bare and I could feel the cool touch of the dewy grass. I pushed hard. My breath came out in gusts, my legs pumped...
But running, I realized I was dreaming.
"Wake up!" I yelled to myself.
I felt very heavy, my eyelids refused to open. I kept trying to wake up, but sleep dragged me down like an anchor.
Okay, I plotted, I can just dream about something good if I have to stay asleep.
I began to jerk off, laughing at whatever malicious spirit had trapped me in a nightmare.
Somehow, I turned into an even bustier caramel skinned woman who was completely nude.
Then a miniature hog, with burnished and gleaming tusks, descended from the ceiling. It was making awful squealing noises.
It landed by my downstairs and began gnawing giant chunks of flesh from my vag area. Swallowing them whole.
I screamed and writhed in pain, then grabbed the pig thing and crushed its skull in my hands.
"WAKE UP!" I yelled at myself, to no avail.
Next I looked out my window at a hideous old woman wrapped in a cloak, her eyes were milky white with blindness, but she was staring right at me.
I had had quite enough, I felt around for my eyelids, and pulled them apart. I still felt like I was drowning in an ocean of warm sand, but I caught a glimpse of the room through my slitted eye.
WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP! It was my mantra as I tried to shake off the dreams.
Finally, my room came into focus. I then sat in my bed screaming for several minutes.
I rolled over eventually and called Alec, eager to report my nightmare to him.
"Hello?" Alec answered brightly.
" Are you real?" I asked, not quite believing my good fortune.
"Yeah, I'm real...why?"
I then explained the whole nightmare to him in detail.
The nightmare made a perfect replication of his voice.
I hung up with him, then Nick walked in the door. And RaeAnne. And several people I didn't know. They had the inspired idea of hooking up eight or ten wagons and riding them through the streets.
I thought the idea was stupid, so I wandered off alone.
The scene was a ghastly greenish yellow, the sole illumination coming from the street lights. I caught sight of an orange cat.
His fur looked like a myspace picture with the saturation turned up too high.
I followed him down the lane and through a velvet curtained alley.
It led to an odd hallway with a large cage at the end.
A tag read, "Thanks to the humane society, we are saving animal life."
Inside the cage writhed a miniature menagerie. A mouse, mother and child, were fighting off a tiny goat that wanted to devour the baby.
On the upper level of the cage, two kitten sized horses squirmed about. One had the others thigh lodged deep in its throat. It looked very uncomfortable.I watched this cage, transfixed, until it started to hurt my stomach to look at.
I then returned home with the orange cat in tow.
On the way into the house I reconvened with Nick, another cat, and RaeAnne.
Once we let the stray cats into our home, they transformed into large Mexican boys who were flea ridden.
"Oh." I said. "You can use the shower...if you'd like."
I saw one of the boys scratch and a black thing catapulted to the floor.
"Thanks!" He grinned, then sat on my bed.
Yuck. I cringed inwardly, feeling loathe to do laundry before I got to sleep in my bed.
I left the room and returned, (A big feat since our house is only one room) to find it devoid of all my belongings.
What?
"What happened?" I queried Nick.
"We were robbed." He informed me calmly.
"Who did this?"
He shrugged.
Then I woke up, for real this time. I feel like I have run some marathon.
Weird.

Post #70 (We're tired of having 69)

http://hoschie.deviantart.com/

I am plagued by sleepless nights. I lie in bed, feeling sardined by the sandpaper-y wall, countless pillows, and Nick.
The comforter, a gift from Grandma Collins, weighs about fifty pounds. I always feel that it is constricting me like a giant flowery-rectangular snake. (If snakes were flat I suppose.)
Add three kitties to that mess, purring, licking my face, occasionally biting or scratching.
Anyhow, it's a wonder I ever sleep in this bed at all.
I am not a heavy sleeper. I do not fall asleep easily or quickly. Even as a child I found it nearly impossible to nap.
So, my troubles with insomnia are growing.
I just researched the condition online and found out some of the culprits to my trouble with sleep.
1. I am a woman.
(Women are twice as likely to suffer from insomnia.)
2. I had two cups of coffee around seven p.m.
3. I smoked several cigarettes tonight. The nicotine is apparently a stimulant.
Great.
One of the reasons I can do nothing about, short from seeking a sex change.
The other two are my favorite vices. How can the Mayo clinic expect me to give those up?
My dad was being quite hilarious tonight, petting my sleeve to make his over sized black lab whine with jealous rage. Father kept saying, "Good Ariel!", very loudly. It was very demeaning.
He then began calling people "bastards" and "sons of bitches."
We ate meatloaf and browsed Ebay.
Nick and I went to Winco. I wore stripper heels and towered over him. I read him Chapter 8 of Eclipse. I am really getting the whiny Bella voice down.
Well I best be getting off to bed. Though I don't really want to relive any of my nightmares from this morning. I was sodomized by Eminem AKA The Real Slim Shady in front of some gangsta thugs and Alec.
He pretended to be really straight so the ghetto gangsters wouldn't kill him.
Next some random man and I were going on a vacation.
I said, "What are we going to do with the cats?"
He said, "Don't worry about it."
He went outside for a couple minutes with the kitties. He came back in without them.
"What did you do with them?" I inquired.
"Haha, they're having fun in the drainpipe." The man said ominously.
I jumped off my bed and ran outside, found a sewer grate in my mom's driveway and ripped off it's cover.
Bartholomew swam pitifully to me, but Charlie and Firenze were not there. I pulled Bartholomew out and reached my fingers into the slimy dark water, my hand ran into two soggy furry lumps.
I pulled out my kittens and began performing CPR on them, though it was obvious that they were dead.
I'm sure if the dream had continued it would have featured me returning to the house and slitting that man's throat with a kitchen knife.
On that happy note, goodnight loyal readers and friends. :]

Fever Dreams

image courtesy of: http://paranoyiqzz.deviantart.com/

It's been an odd week. Nick was absent for most of it, I visited Spokane, delivered court papers, met new people, and (as always) cleaned up cat shit. Haley and I enjoyed New Moon, coffee, and the Haunted Airman. We were conned into running around the tube/play thing at the Fairchild Airforce Base's "Funspot." Natalie had an insatiable need to plummet carelessly through the sticky plastic tunnels. We ran after her again and again trying to prevent head injuries and broken limbs. Kayden bashed Haley in the nose. Rob and his faithful companion Roberts had abandoned us to go bowling.
Funspot indeed. I drove home through torrents of snow on Sunday. It was rather nerve racking. But I made it.
I hung out with Laurren on Monday, going on an epic death march that lasted three hours.
On Tuesday I stopped in at my Dad's house and we watched "Tommy Knockers." It was tremendously creepy. We also hung around the Walgreen's Redbox late at night and watched the cracked out apartment dwellers sulk about. My dad commented, "Looks like I need to bring a gun down here, Walgreen's is turning into a ghetto!"
Wednesday I spent hours with Gary, watching half a movie, conning pharmacy techs, and buying more sub-par Roaster's coffee. We had a great time, and I realized how much I missed spending time with him. I left at around nine p.m. to catch up with Alec.
I thought it was weird that he hadn't called, and I had been checking my cell phone religiously, waiting.
At ten, he and Lauren came over.
I'll admit it, I was miffed.
Okay, I was genuinely irritated.
Wasn't I important anymore? I had just read a heartfelt entry in our shared notebook about the importance of our friendship...
And then they came over.
Lauren, very uncharacteristically, was quietly staring off into space. I queried her, fearing something had gone terribly wrong.
She giggled.
Ahhh, you're high, aren't you?
Suddenly the night made more sense to me.
We got in the car and drove to the sweet sounds of, "You're full of Stuffing Mr. Femur." A mix that I had burned just for Alec's return.
After about an hour of Rae's house, where the inhabitants also got stoned, I drove us home. Lauren claimed that she needed to be home.
Awkwardness followed, but I'll sum it up with, they left my house and lied to me to smoke more dank weed.
I'm over it.
And really? It's at least partially my fault that everyone gets so evasive when they want to do illegal and exciting teenage things.
My tone is so condemning.
Anyhow, I still hung out with Alec the next day. (After the Thanksgiving festivities.)
On said holiday, I found myself delivering court papers decreeing divorce to my soon to be ex-stepdad. I can't say I enjoyed it, but when you're poor, fifty dollars can be very enticing bait. I then journeyed to my father's to spend the majority of Thanksgiving with him.
My dad's house was relatively normal, as I was accustomed to his wife's relatives and her four children. I mostly hung out with Gary.
My head started throbbing midway through. The noise level was startling. I suppose life as a hermit hasn't prepared me for the sound of screaming babies and over-excited adults.
My brother, if anything far more reclusive, felt much the same way. We left and stopped by my mother's house to make the rounds.
The impending divorce left her weepy and drunk.
I spent about an hour there. It felt like a long time.
I called Alec once I had escaped.
And I met his new car, a prissy looking fancy thing with leather interior. I have no doubts that my Buick could eat its face off.
We smoked, which was odd, I am so used to hearing him cough on each tiny drag. This time he blew the smoke out in gusts, without a single hacking cough.
The times are a changing.
We had a blast. I won't chronicle it any further because he already has.
And Friday was the dance party.
I cleaned the house as soon as I woke, and set out to install my christmas surprise for Nick. Alec helped and we migrated to DQ and then the Shiloh inn to hang with DJ Ricochet. It was lame and hilarious.
Lauren and Alec spent the night, I slept on the floor. The dance was rather fantastic as I lost another pound or so with my freakish moves. I rock at dancing.
In the morning Lauren left and Alec watched me fight with Nick over the phone. Sad, considering that Charlie was finally coming home that day and I had tried so hard to make the house beautiful and full of Christmas spirit.
But when my love (and fiancee)came home I hugged him and we made up.
He even went to New Moon with Alec and co. I was grateful, sitting in the darkened theater, that two people I loved could overcome the awkwardness and enmity to spend time with me. I didn't take it for granted at all.
I cried because New Moon's audience was ridiculous and kept gasping about the rather fugly wolf dudes overworked chest. I find muscles vaguely repulsive. I prefer men with slighty less obviousness.
All the shiny pecks and deltoids on the planet could not make said actor's voice sound more grown up though.
Anyway, I tried to continue hanging out with Alec, but as we drove around oogling the mostly dark houses that occasionally were dotted with one glowing strand of x-mas lights, I began to feel rather awful.
Alec and Rachel were trying to one up each other with the scandulous story hour, and Nick cringed every time Alec mentioned a dude's name. I sipped sparkling cider from the glass bottle.
Then the cider exploded all over my hat, lap, coat, and thermal.
I decided to call it a night after that.
When we got home my condition had worsened. I was shaking with imagined cold, and my forehead burned.
It was awful. I dreamt of Edward Cullen, and combined his story with Peter Pan's in my dreamy head.
Clap to summon Mr. Cullen the succubus.
Clap if you believe in fairies.

I woke up and felt a little better.
Am I dying? I've been sick for three to four months.
This is getting out of hand.
Well it has been a lovely week. And I have about three school days left of fall quarter. So here I come winter vacation...

We suck young blood.

I wish I could still walk around outside at night.
Ever since my brief encounter with that cross eyed sex offender, I feel nervous and rabbit-like whenever I try to walk the night.
It used to be my favorite solitary activity. The streets fall silent, my feet scrape the pave, and the eerie glow of streetlights guide me nowhere.
I used to journey too far, with just the company of my thoughts.
I haven't been eating this weekend.
I had half a donut this morning and a few strips of beef jerky for dinner.
It's easy to slip back into this life, the life where I am alone. Without Nick, I get strange.
It's only been three days.
But he keeps me in the real world, in the saner kinder part of my head.
Alone, I revert to my old habits, the chain smoking, the vague listless days and the wandering nights.
I go on random and endless drives to nowhere.
I look in the pantry and think about cooking something, then get too tired to follow through.
Instead I lie in my bed with all my clothes listening to mournful music.
Instead I smoke and smoke and smoke. As much as Robert Pattinson in "the Haunted Airman."
I hope Nick comes home soon.

Musings on secrecy

I love Craigslist.
Treasures lurk in its confines, in its bandwidth. Desperate (and ofttimes illiterate) pleas for money, sex, companionship, artifacts, and lost pets populate it. I check "missed connections" every day. It is probably the most voyeuristic thing I do.
I just read one about a man named Tim. Probably unknowingly, he is the secret desire of his male co-worker.
The man, who did not name himself, set out an elaborate plot to gain Tim's affections.
It involved code words so the office remained in the dark on the situation...
The internet is really not a private venue.
Those who believe so are foolish, myself among them. I have written out pieces of my life to this impersonal blog, seeking what?
There are pieces of my soul I have revealed to no person alive.
Things I probably won't reveal.
But still, I have sacrificed great portions of my personal doings to this blog, when I have many empty notebooks waiting around for me to spill secrets into. Places more fitting for heartbreak and ugly deeds.
So why the public venue?
Why do millions of people expose their most intimate moments as fodder for countless strangers to peer into?
I don't know myself.
Maybe it is a form of purging, of catholic confession, something we humans have been doing for as long as we have been self aware.
Maybe it is a ploy for attentions. Maybe it is the weak person's way of talking to the people they quarrel with, so they need not speak it aloud and to someone's face.
We want to be absolved of our sins, to admit to our worst actions, and still be loved by the ones around us. To be forgiven. To be known in fullness.
Yet, does the full story ever really pass from our lips?
Can we relive every searing detail through the retelling? To say the worst of what we are in front of someone who could judge, ostracize, or be disgusted by us?
Another thing I have yet to accomplish.
The man who posted for Tim...
Did he give in to some obsessive siren call?
The level of secrecy enacted in his advertisement, his plotting, suggests that he is ashamed to own his affection. Instead seeking the anonymous protection of the massive impersonal internet.
Good luck I guess..

Ariel Alexandra...Lowery

Not sure if my soon-to-be last name really rolls off of the tongue.

Ah well, women are always making sacrifices. Bleeding for twelve weeks out of every year, birthing giant babies out of smallish holes...etc. etc.
My future in-laws are pretty interesting. But I can't say a word if Nick is going to take on my huge Captain Insano family.
(That I love dearly :])
Our families are overwhelmingly supportive of the union. Financially and emotionally. My sisters are all going to be bridesmaids, and Christy is helping me put it together. It's all quite strange, since we are only nineteen.
Crazy world.
Well, I'm off to watch Hellsing again.

Hellsing = Awesome

Thanks to Darien, Nick and I have discovered this fantastic show.
Nick is off fetching us the next disk from Hastings as I type.
I'm sitting with my back to my bed, toasting my feet by our tiny personal heating unit.
The heater decided to break in time for November.
I don't think the landlord (my mother) is going to get around to fixing it anytime soon either. Shame, really.
Other current events, I got a 14 out of 50 on my latest statistics test. Am I cut out for college?
Also, I am now officially engaged to Mr. Charles Nicolas Lowery.
It's weird to settle down at nineteen, but I like the life we're making for ourselves. I'm glad that my life doesn't include random sex partners I hooked up with while drugged out. I'm happy to exclude those experiences. For me, it is much more fulfilling to forge on with my love, even if he is exasperating at times. It is really quite rewarding to sleep next to someone who really loves you.
Well, on to Hellsing vol.2!

Aunt Ayo's Great Ambitions

Ambition.
It's something I have in abundance. My dreams always sound grandiose when I share them with others.
"I'm going to be a published author, a moderately famous musician, a painter and photographer."
I always feel slightly abashed when I reveal the plan.
Why should I though?
Isn't it admirable to even attempt such things?

The women in the picture are performing another stage adaption to the Shakespeare play The Tempest. It's called Ariel, after the fairy in the original play.
I could, quite possibly, have just purchased the same face powder as them.
At Walgreens today I bought Airspun face powder. They've been making it since 1935.
I feel like I'm living some great tradition every time I put my face on.
I know, tangents are my specialty.
I want to start working harder on the things I dream of. I want to paint giant canvases and record "Forgive my Intrusion."
I want to collaborate with models, photographers, artists, writers, musicians...
I need a muse.
Or at least some work ethic.
Today was quite fantastic.
We were paid eighty dollars for the last gig at Casa Vino...
I've now made more than a hundred dollars on my music career.
I just want to tell the world, LIVE. Don't just be a boring waste of space.
Well, back to my book.

Things I Hate: A List

1. Texting
2. Saying Goodbye
3. Dying of the plague
4. Insomnia
5. Zits that don't pop
6. Statistics
7. Library Fines
8. Mold
9. Smelly litter boxes
10. College
11. People who like to shit on other people's faces and/or dreams
12. My singing voice
13. Job hunting

I could go on.

Spokane, Fuck you.

I am most distressed that Spokane will soon be stealing away my sister, and even more upset that I cannot visit her.
She is a loyal and fantastic companion, and sadly it took us until relatively recently to become this close.
You see, I was the perpetually annoying younger sister.
We bonded over coffee, cigarettes, vampires, writing, and bollywood dancing.
We share a dark sense of humor that most do not appreciate.
I will miss her proximity to my house.
I will miss her early morning phone calls dragging me out into the world.
I will miss the bookworm, even though it stinks of the asian food that is fried next door.
I will miss dyeing our hair together.
I will miss the random drives and the long conversations.
I will miss drawing characters for her books. And talking about those characters for hours...
I hope Spokane has a late night coffee shop. (That doesn't taste like 'Roasters.')

Don't worry Haley, I'll take the train if the snow gets too bad.
I just called Amtrak and it only costs $20 one way.

Flattering...

Napoleon Dynamite...?
But truly it's really quite flattering to be drawn by a stranger.
He did a good job too.

Bartholomew and Charlie!

Here is Charlie, Bartholomew doesn't trust me enough to pose yet.

I just realized that I am on the right track to becoming a crazy cat lady...

The Perks of Being a Hermit

1. The house is in shambles, but no one complains. I haven't done dishes in at least a week.
2. I can play whatever music at whatever volume that I desire. Whenever.
3. The isolation stimulates my urges to write, read, paint and play music.
4. Being naked around the house.
5. Singing badly and feeling no shame.

There are drawbacks of course, but overall it's a good deal.
After much deliberation, I am postponing my escape from the Tri-Cities until March.
It's only September.
March is so very far away.
But it provides me much time to accrue finances and employment.
Currently I have no idea how to live on my own and file tax returns.
I guess I had better learn. I won't be receiving a scholarship. Haha.

Today I nearly chopped off all of my hair.
Don't know why.
I started on my bangs and progressed to the split ends. Then I held the scissors poised to snip off my orangey-blonde-red locks. To my chin.
I think it's madness as opposed to an attempt to be trendy. Sometimes I look at a day and become horrified that it is exactly like all of the others. Sometimes I feel like my reflection should change, should reflect something behind the mask of skin, teeth, hair.
It never really does.
So I, driven by boredom, attack my hair with scissors or bottles of dye.
Maybe I'm just trying to change myself.
Maybe it's like the guy in Silence of the Lambs who is sewing a woman suit. He thinks he is a transsexual, but really he just hates himself so intensely that any change seems preferable. But even if he managed to become a woman, he would still loathe the person inside of packaging.
What a useless struggle.
How many hours are wasted away longing for a better body, a different color of eyes, a more sultry voice?
When the things we can actually change (maybe) are just solidifying with every passing year.
Until our faults and hatreds are embedded so deeply into our personalities that it is nearly a lost cause.
That said,
I'm really resisting the urge to cut off my hair still.
If I just keep typing and prattling on...I'll keep the demon at bay.
But I'm running out of material.
I finished Perks of Being a Wallflower again today.
I love that book so fucking much.

Shrunken Heads and Depression

http://mortuussoul.deviantart.com/

Well, here's to another Thursday.
I have to finish my college application today, send my transcript.
Lately I haven't been feeling too bad about my physical appearance. No, I didn't grow self esteem, I just have a class with a little head man in it.
It breaks my heart to look at him; I can't imagine living with such an obvious deformity. People look at freaks more than beautiful specimens. So lately I've thought things like, "Jesus, I am really getting obese..." or "Fuck, look at the tumor growing on my face..." but these thoughts are followed with the simple image of this grown man with a tiny head.
Then the biology nerd inside me asks things like, how is this mutation carried on? Would his fore bearers have been able to reproduce with any willing member of the opposite sex? Did they just form a colony of little head people? I wish that were the case, but they seem really rare. So I concluded that it was a birth defect not caused by lingering genetic material...an accident.
Okay, I've spent way too much time on him in today's blog, but I feel his influence in my life now.
Back to the main point, college.
I am not what anyone would call a social butterfly. Not even a social moth...I'm more like a spider.
Hiding in little corners and only meeting people when they catch me between places. Normally resulting in my spider legs disconnectedly twitching and my body a pulp of brownish juices.
So I find the concept of moving to a new community with new people more than intimidating.
Apparently some people do not have this challenge.
And apparently moving on to new faces is just a part of life's great scheme.
Excuse me for forgetting my lines.
I don't want new people. I liked the old ones just fine.
And even after they are gone, hours away, being cool and making buddies, I refuse to relinquish the hold that they had on me.

So I'm caught up in this confusing pile of emotion.
Leave, stay, leave, stay, leave...?
Stay and compost?
Leave and be lonely?
I can't decide.
I can't keep up my cardboard smiles much longer either, I'm sad.
Just driving down the road, the places in between the songs on the CD, the stifling quiet of nighttime, trying to sleep, thinking about old phone calls, listening to the crazy parts of my head that I used to try to ignore,my unfinished painting, so many small things I can't explain.
I'm bordering on the ridiculous. But that's just me.

Caverns and Craters

Someone has really got it out for me up there. I know I told God to "Smite me" the other day, but I didn't mean for him to take such a long time at it. Bad luck doesn't come in threes. Or twos. It comes pouring out in torrents, shitting all over the semblance of peace I managed to create since the last hurricane.
Dramatic? Well, yes.
I know it can get worse.
It began with Alec's departure. It was something I had been dreading for months. I never expected myself to feel quite this way about it though.
As a rule, I don't miss people very much.
He's been away in my dream town for about three days.
The Tri-Cities feels so empty.
I looked at all the things I love to do, my painting, my book, my guitar, my camera...I couldn't bring myself to even touch them. I laid in bed for two days.
I suppose that is the definition of depression. Not wanting to do the things you love, feeling like getting out of bed is a great and awful chore, not bothering to eat, letting the dishes in the sink mold again (I poured some bleach on them for the smell), crying about nothing.
I can't bring myself to think about Haley's impending departure.

I don't want to remember my Great Grandmother gasping for breath while drunken fuck jobs cried about gypsies.

I feel like an outsider to the whole world. Like I'm running in circles while everyone else goes marching ahead.

Woke up and wished that I was dead
With an aching in my head
I lay motionless in bed
I thought of you and where you'd gone
and let the world spin madly on

The Weepies

Now I'm sitting on my bed in Jack's smoking robe. Trying to play my guitar. And I've listened to this song "World Spins Madly On" about ninety times now.
I hate CBC.
I hate Statistics.

I wish I had a job. A purpose. Or maybe even just a healthy dose of serotonin.
I'm so unhappy, I feel like my plants may wither and die from being forced to endure my toxic aura.
Well that's all folks.

Calling and Coming

And the Laws of Physics were suspended

Gravity hill.
Myth or legend? Or fact?
Though I have been there twice in less than twenty four hours, I am by no means an expert.
In layman's terms, it works like this:
1. Find the thing. (You are on an unmarked road surrounded by lots of corn and no people.)
2. Pull your car/truck/minivan up to the convenient graffiti that proclaims, "Start!"
3. Put car in neutral
4. Your vehicle rolls UPHILL.

Last night Nick, Brett and I (who gives a fuck about an oxford comma?) went to Gravity Hill. I was doped up on "Nite time" (the generic NyQuil) and slept through most of it. Brett saw mice, Nick saw deer and I peed in a handy plastic cup. Nick tried to urinate as well, but he heard "creepy noises" and decided to hold it.

We rolled up the hill twice, but Nick and Brett were not impressed. I went back to sleep.
The next day I set out to Gravity Hill again with Alec in tow. He funded the journey because I'm a loser with no job or money. (Sorry Alec)
The winding country roads, the golden corn, the blue sky dotted with wispy white clouds and the curious smell of overripe grapes; it was glorious.
We listened to Sondre Lerche and I drove too fast.
And gravity hill worked again!
My brakes went out as we coasted down the road, I was alternating between slamming down my e-brake and the regular fucked up ones. I managed to stop the car, which had been going fifty, and began a cautious descent just as a redneck in a truck came flying up the road at sixty.
Near death experiences are fantastic.
After we left that enchanted countryside, we explored Prosser, WA.
I was impressed. We found a record store, Jazz cafe/bars, cute houses and a vine covered high school.
Tired and sweaty, we drove home like zombies.
All in all, a great day.
I love leaving the city limits.

When I grow up

Chagall

My world is chalk full of nonbelievers.
"What are you going to do?" asks a concerned relation or friend of relation.
"I'm going to write." I reply.
"But what are you going to do?" the asshole inquires.
I woke up early and watched Girl, Interrupted. I loved the book (by Susanna Kaysen.) The movie was good also, I especially enjoyed Winona Ryder. Anyways, Susanna is asked the same inane question about her career.
"I'm going to write."
"But what are you going to do?"
Apparently this conspiracy against the arts has been going on for a long time.
Are people really so attached to their jobs slaughtering cows and skinning carcasses?
Are people really so proud of filing paperwork for hours on end, while their brains are liquefying inside their skulls?
I don't know.
But it seems like no one has believed in me.
I don't even believe in me.
Art, literature, fantasy...the best reasons I can find to keep on breathing. Without music and art we would be just like the animals.
Breed, breathe, eat, sleep, kill each other for our resources.
The very best attributes of mankind are found outside that. In art.
But "smart" people don't pursue art as a career. They'd rather work the nine to five and invest their money in good stocks. They'd rather have security than freedom. They'd rather take a giant shit on my face than dream something of their own.
Maybe I'll die poor, but at least I tried.

My Will and Testament

If I am to perish from my swiftly worsening disease, I thought it might be prudent to compose a list of beneficiaries in the event of my death.
I write to you all wearing my rabbit fur coat and shivering desperately. I do not know how many hours, or minutes I have left on the firm soil. My first request is to be cremated, to go out in the smoke of flame and glory. Preferably viking style, you know flaming arrows launched at my raft full of kindling? And I would go sailing down the Columbia river, oh what a sight to behold!
Haley,
You were a wonderful friend and sister; I know I borrowed beverages and cigarettes too often. So I am leaving you about fifteen camel no. 9's (100's) and the five dollars and forty seven cents in my checking/savings account. Please get yourself a venti pumpkin spice latte and enjoy every last ounce.
Nick,
Please dear most-of-the-time lover, know that I loved you dearly. I leave you the recording equipment and the clown painting. I know how much you love it. (Hah.) Also, you can have my laptop. Since you did give it to me originally. Make sure to delete or at least hide any racy photos you find. That would be most appreciated.
Alec,
Please take the remainder of all of my paintings. Unless you are going to keep them in another goddamn closet, in which case, don't bother. You also inherit all of my stories and my much loved black leather notebook filled with Isabelle Sands.
Gary,
You get my nylon string guitar. And my Dreamcast.
Dad,
Use my college money to go somewhere fantastic. You deserve it.

At my funeral please play, "Asleep."
And don't cry dear friends and relations. I'll be in a better place.
Or if Christianity is correct...Hell's fiery inferno.

Trials and Tribulations of Ms. Collins on a Tuesday morning.

Photo is me, dressed like a freak, taken by Darien Revel http://silvergrey.deviantart.com/

So I have a scale that, honest to god, adds ten pounds to whatever a person may happen to weigh. And on top of that, each time one steps on it the weight changes radically.
For example: At 10:38 a.m I weighed 135 pounds. (Disgusting, I know)
Then at 10:39 a.m. I weighed 140!!! pounds. (AAAAAHHHHHH)
So I choose to believe that the scale is intrinsically flawed.

This really interferes with my plans to make my blog like Bridgette Jone's Diary and record my weight/fags/and other interesting fact (to replace alcohol units since I rarely drink so much as a spoonful of cough syrup.)

I made coffee with my BRAND new coffee pot. (Hand me down from Dad, but it's still new to me.)
Sadly, yesterday's coffee was so strong that I made it much too weak this morning. Ah well. I'm sure I'll get it right by this afternoon.

I even applied for a job already today! But Nick informed me that it was in fact a dirty and vulgar scam. That if I was involved I would attend training I didn't get paid for to sell knives to people.
Does anyone even want a bunch of crappy Vector Market-ed knives? That kind of put a damper on my spirits. Making me feel not only like an idiot but also that the world was full to the brim with knife-wielding scoundrels.

Sad times. And still I am lounging in my pajamas trying to reinvigorate my lost tolerance to job hunting.

Ooooh.

I just decided to fuck job hunting for a while!
Instead I will be taking the ANATOMIST pictures!!!

Expect some visual treats today!

Pumpkin Season

I was smoking in front of Nick's log cabin when I witnessed the first leaves floating down. I stared in quiet disbelief; it was 95 degrees a day ago. The temperatures have plummeted, the wind is back with vengeance, and I wore a flannel all day today.
But here is the clincher, the real reason that summer is on its deathbed gasping for air, Starbucks brought back the pumpkin spice latte.

And in the spirit of the season, I got my hair dyed pumpkin orange to match!
Okay, not actually intentionally, but I am growing quite fond of this hair color.

Nothing else really happened today. I wished Nick a hearty "Bon Voyage" when he set off to see Modest Mouse in Spokane. He then will attend a riotous and drunken birthday party in what used to be the #1 party college in America. Pullman's own WSU.
If we remember correctly the partying didn't go so hot last time. (Beluga whale sex and all) But I say, "Go ahead, I wish you would, Go Ahead!" Okay, maybe Rilo Kiley's lead singer Jenny Lewis says that.

It's funny how I think that I am somehow immune to the passage of time. Fall really caught me off guard. I have three weeks to apply for college. Again. CBC starts in two weeks. And Alec is leaving in about fifteen days.
That is a really stiff blow to my intestines.
Then Haley is moving to Spokane.
We are best friend-sisters and the separation will be awful.
At least she'll have internet again and I can read her blogs.

It just keeps hitting me. I'm turning purple and black from all these blows. So many things grinding to a halt. An endless number of days, weeks, months, years that I've wasted. I'm turning twenty next April.
Time really freaks me out.

Suicide Blonde

http://renrox.deviantart.com

Oh, hair dye! What an awful and appealing product. You see, I was born with this glorious red hair. Old ladies tried to touch it, random Baptist women dyed theirs to match, my mother took me to her hair appointments: "Make mine look like hers", boys noticed and adored it...etc.
What did I do?
I dyed it Malaysian Cherry.
"At least it's temporary," I consoled myself.
A couple weeks went by. It wouldn't wash out quickly enough.
So I scrounged up the paltry sum of $ 10.45 and purchased "Born Blonde"
I am an idiot.
First my roots turned yellow. Then my hair turned a god awful Malaysian Orange.
I have multi-colored hair.
I look like a neon glowing rainbow.
Now I know why it is called, "suicide blonde."

Oh. my. God. Leavenworth

Alec already wrote us a novel about the trip, so here are some pictures. This one is my very first cigarette break of the journey. It is also the last picture of those sunglasses. I left them behind at Wanapum dam...

A horrid critter. This is actually by Leslie groves, but it seemed to fit in...

Wanapum dam again. Alec always makes the best faces.

It was very windy.

More of the windy dam.

Aren't we...something?

The flying toaster graffiti in Leavenworth. Back alleys are where it's at.

I begin to look progressively uglier as the trip goes on.

Alec also does a rather smashing "epic explorer" face.

Mermaid of the Wenatchee river.

A fairy painting in some overpriced shop that I enjoyed.

The hills are alive with the sound of MUSIC.

Medium sized Billy Goat Gruff.

Interpretative dance? Or Billy Elliot?

Camping really took its toll on our hot-ness.

Mission to Marzipan and Dawdling in the Doldrums...

weight-growing rapidly
cigarettes-1 (I am very poor)
mood-unpleasant
bank account- dwindling.

picture by: http://tioandria.deviantart.com/

Another day of my life consumed by boredom and sleepy moping.
I know, how melodramatic, as it is only noon currently.
So far my phone has only rung to inquire about calculators. (Mother)

Sadly it was not a happy business man saying, "Hey, you want a job?"

Not even a dear friend or tolerable acquaintance asking me to swim in the river or photograph them.

And yes, I am very aware of how ridiculous I am.
I can't go fill out applications for minimum wage employment because I currently hate my fading orange-red-brown "Malaysian cherry" hair. I can't bear to look in the mirror because my hideously fatter-than-it-was body repulses me.
How can I withstand the degradation of job hunting in this fragile frame of mind?
Isn't that a bit much to ask?

So instead I reread an awful piece of literature which I am too ashamed to acknowledge, and ate Nick's entire carton of Ben and Jerry's icecream.
"Mission to Marzipan"
It was very delectable but leaves a strange aftertaste in my mouth.

So here I am in the doldrums. There are so many things to be done, but no motivation.

And not even a pack of smokes.

Yay, Godspell!

Tonight I went to church. To see a MUSICAL. Though I was thoroughly inundated with Jesus, I really appreciated the show. As Alec predicted, "By my Side" was the loveliest song in the performance. It inspired me to learn how to harmonize.
Let's rewind a bit.
I arrived fifty minutes early to Bethel Church. (The venue for the musical.) Smoking in my knee high leather boots as I read Definitely Dead in my car, I waited for the show to begin.

Churches make me uneasy.
I probably have too much Satan in me to feel comfortable in them.
However, I make a point to attend all of Alec's plays. So I trudged in with my game face on.
Actually, I apparently did not. After the show I was informed (by Alec, who was reporting the observations of the cast) that I looked "pissed, angry, or cantankerous" for the duration.
When I left the house I was going for sex pot.
Something must have gone awry.

Back to the main topic, the show's cast was incredible.
Between Emily?, Lauren Smith, Melissa, Andy, girl with feather boa, many more that I do not know the names of, and of course Alec, the parts were more than filled. I loved watching the mannerisms of the actors. They are so good at plastering cheery/depressed/seductive/tortured expressions on their faces.

I had to rein in my laughter when "Jesus" sang "Oh God, I'm dead.." in a voice that was reminiscent of David Bowie.

I'm sorry Jesus, I have this awful habit of laughing at you in church productions.

Now I prepare myself for a lonely and quiet evening with my book. And my new pet fly, Brady.
Brady is on my shit list right now, he wakes me up with his tickle-ly feelers and buzzing wings.


Okay. That's all folks.

P.s.
Alec you were fantastic, and I think God was so proud. I know I was.

Solitary Confinement (Self Imposed)

"I'd rather be lonely, I'd rather be free, I'm as sure as the moon rolls around the sea...That I could be happy."

Thank you Jenny Lewis. I love your words and your beautiful voice. You always find words that slice into me and fit in a perfectly poignant way.

I've never felt particularly strong. But upon reflection, at least today, I feel like a warrior/champion/soldier of fortitude. I'm always ending up alone. We all do. The tired old saying, "We die alone" is simple fact.
But more importantly, we live alone. I don't care if a person is married and thriving. They are alone inside their heads. We all have to deal with the ugly sad parts of ourselves that others never see. We are all alone. We will always be alone.
Making "love" is not a fusion of spirit and mind and soul, just flesh. Feel free to have an opinion about this. Feel free to say, "Our divine souls conjoin in our marriage bed, we experience a mental mind fuck as well, and we are joined as one being."
In my earnest and frank opinion, this is a crockery of bullshit.

Let's just be honest.

I'm not trying to say that love is fictional.
Still, not one person can know another person completely.
We can love the parts that we get to see.
Tolerate the parts that we see and don't love so much.
But the human brain, that grey mass floating around in each person's skull, is impenetrable.
Obviously it doesn't help when the person won't say a goddamned complete sentence about the situation.
Well, as I said earlier, I feel strong today. I am made of wonderful. So I can persist. And you know what?
I think I'm going to embark on a love affair with me.

Art, anyone?

http://rhinofeeder.deviantart.com/

http://aacollins.daportfolio.com/

Those links will guide you to my photography collections.

Also, I need more models.
You won't get paid...but it'll be a blast?

Spooky Couch

As I write, Albert Hammond Jr. is playing a lovely song. I first heard it in Bellingham, riding around in a foreign town, dreaming about making a life there.
I was slumped in the driver's seat, letting the sound waves wash over and through me. I was driving down the highway, fantasizing about holding someone's hand.
The windows rolled down, a cigarette dying in my hand, my hair blowing around, the trees.

Love is so awful sometimes.


People keep informing me that I am so depressing. That I make them sad.
Well, sorry.
I am what I am. I've never lured a person into being my friend with false promises of how cheerful and upbeat my personality is.
You all know what you're getting yourselves into.
So just leave me.
So just stop calling.
I just don't fucking care.
I refuse to repent for my nature.

It seems like I'm at some pivotal point in my life.
If asked where I planned to be in six months, I would have no idea how to respond.
I've floated along all summer. But that has to end sometime. Right?

My head is throbbing. And this blog leaves much to be desired. Oh well. I just liked the picture Alec took of me today. It was perfect.

Living in a Plastic Bag

http://icanhascheezburger.com/

I know just how that fish feels.

What is wrong?

http://bohemian-me.deviantart.com

I haven't really cried in a long time.

It's unnatural for me, I've always been overly emotional. I cry at movies, books, etc...etc...
I sobbed hysterically once when I lost yarn thing for the thousandth time. I thought Sheri had vacuumed it up, and that it had been ripped to shreds in the belly of the beast.
At one 'o' clock in the morning I cut open the vacuum bag and dug through filth, pet hair, human hair, dandruff, skin flakes, pennies, etc.. until I found this yarn-ish material of the same hue. I was convinced that it was the corpse of my long loved Christmas present from 2006.
All that over a piece of yarn.
(I found it later.)
Now I lost the real thing. And I can't summon up the waterworks. Why?
Am I losing my humanity? Are my feelings numbing as I age? Is apathy an acquired skill?
I find myself wondering about these things in the small hours of the morning.
Maybe my brain is defective. Maybe that's why I'm never happy. Why I destroy the things I love quite systematically. Perhaps.
But...
I don't want to be summed up in electrical impulses and floating chemicals. I don't want to be a flesh-bag waiting to die and fertilize the rhododendrons.
I haven't thought about God in a while.
Maybe I have avoided the idea on purpose. After all, there are plenty of other things to keep me up at night.
I wish I could put the scrambled pieces of my life together and make a meaningful picture. I feel like those awful Picasso women with the hook noses and skewed eyeballs. The nose coming out of my chin and the teeth scattered everywhere.
Somehow I always come back to this ugly place in my head.
How do I fix myself when I don't know what's broken?
Is there really anything to do but survive?
The worst part.
The dream life, the three day a week bestselling author job, the gallery full of my paintings, Mr. Yellow's record breaking album,the thin 118 pound body, boobs that actually match, a straight nose, a strange and wonderful closet, the movie deal, the international travel, and all the cats...I'm not sure if that could be enough to make my life endurable. I don't know if everything I ever longed for/worked for could even fulfill this gnawing awful blackness inside my head.

What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?

My days as a hobo are coming to an end. (Temporarily)

http://misstouky.deviantart.com

So I got a job at Amazon.
Full-time unfortunately.
Oh well. I'll use my money, that I'll first see in three weeks from now, to do the things I have been longing for.
I'll hit the casino with an ever-growing list of lovely people on some balmy night in mid-August.
Alec, Haley, Janet, Eileen, Lauren, Sean, Alec's G-ma, Me...etc.
How thrilling. I'll smoke like a fiend and waste fifty dollars. (Maybe)
Dinosaur park. Here I fucking come.
Prepare yourselves for beautiful images of friendly stegosauri and brontosaurs.
Then, in September, watch out Vancouver!
I'll troll the art museums and theater things and food-ries. I'll find nature and hike through it. Adventures abound.
This is enough motivation to slug through a work week, right?
That and cigarettes.
And gasoline.
And maybe...even a meal?

Pin Up Girl

Miss Shepherd, don't make me remove those little shorts.