*pouts and keens* Wahh, I wanna play! Party party before I study! Pleeeease?
Phooey. Nobody's on AIM. *sulks and babbles without meaning*
I like visiting my mom's house. It always feels homey, like I'm never the lone occupant -- even when I am. I'm not sure if it's the dog, the friendly neighbors, the sun setting over the open backyard, or something else entirely. I jus know that I like it. It feels protective somehow.
When I'm alone at my own house for a few days, I get strange. I'll try to put that off since I had to write a semi-formal essay on that for my composition class; I'll post it once I'm on my own computer again. I don't have a copy of the essay with me.
FEH! Wanna PLAY! I wish I had money. I'm aching for a GameCube with Super Smash Bros. Melee and Mortal Kombat: Deadly Alliance. I rock as Sonya and I'm getting good as Nitara, an initially locked character. Nitara uses a lot of cross-style combos, which are buggers, but I'm getting better at them all.
Like anybody cares. I could light my hair on fire and it'd just wake and irritate my mother. I cut it a few days ago. I didn't "get it cut". I cut it myself, which probably means that it looks unholy and wholly ugly. Feh.
So this is how it is. I hate this. I'm alone. It's better here than at my house, although I still can't determine why that's so. I wish mom and I could go shopping or something. I don't need anything clothes or anything, so it's kind of silly.
I want to connect. Dammit! I want to talk to people instead of AT them. I want to actually communicate, and I don't know how. *curses*
I wanna have friends. Dammit. I'd really like to make friends in the real world, so they could hug me if I let them, and go with me to movies, and I could do my feeble best to cook them dinner sometime. Sucks to be me, because I don't have much of a clue how to deal with people without computers as intermediaries. I will, rarely, note a certain tilt of eyebrow or angle of wrist, but I can only wonder what it means. My ideas tend to be wrong where physical proximity and position are concerned. I'm told I carry myself as though I'm a victim and I suppose that shows, too. Figures.
How to fix this . . . I have no real idea. Counseling, I guess. It's been soooo effective thus far.
Sin thinks I need to keep going to counseling, even though it hasn't done anything for me outside of making me feel good that I'm trying to improve myself. Feh. That's not progress, that's just faint joy over an attempt to attain real happiness.
Sin says -- bloody hell! Why do I even listen to him, anyway?! *curses some more* He thinks he knows everyfuckingthing, and heading his list of what's wrong with me is his cock-assed concept that I have low regard for human life because I sometimes need to see myself bleed, to make my brain release endorphins it normally denies me.
Hey you! Reader! Yeah, you, each and every one of you. Do you know what it's like to never be able to think clearly without feeling guilty? I have to make my brain concentrate on outside pain sometimes, or it gets too caught up within itself to do anything useful. And every time I do what I need to do to get by, I feel that I'm a horrible person because my method of survival isn't good enough for anybody around me who knows what that method is. I can never really be happy, because the only way I've been able to lift my spirits, the only way I know to make my brain release the chemicals it's supposed to, is a way that makes me feel guilty and bleak.
I know some readers know how that feels, but some don't. That's my life. I have never been truly happy and I don't think I ever will be.
I've been thinking lately about romance, too. I would love for some wonderful man to sweep me off my feet and make me feel better, but that won't happen. It's shameful of me to even think that anyone could or would devote their life to making me feel better. People look out for themselves, not others. I'm in no shape to be in a relationship anyway. I'm broken, shattered, and scarred. While it's a guilty pleasure to envision a man who would heal me of these things by loving me, it won't happen. A relationship takes two, and I'm simply not equipped to return the kind of strong, unyielding love that I'm seeking.
So love might make me feel better, but I need to actually be better before I can keep love. Catch-22, my old foe, we meet again.
And I could never be a mother, not the kind of mother a child needs or deserves to have. My mother is a wonderful woman, and I'll never be half the wife that she was, or mother that she is. My mood swings are horrible enough now. Add pregnancy and I'd belong in the loony bin. I couldn't be on most (if any) anti-depressants while pregnant or nursing. What a face for any child of mine to see in his or her first months on Earth! And if I had more than one child, the eldest would get to see mommy break down all the time, all over again. My children would inherit genetic predisposition for violent temper, heart disease, depression, and other mental disorders. I can't do that to some innocent child, curse them with my genes just because I want a baby to love me as its mommy. That's the wrong reason to have a child anyway, but it's still a reason I wish I could be a mother. I'm already in my twenties. Old classmates are married with two or three kids, and I'm alone, struggling once again to earn the courage to fuel up my car by myself.
I suppose nobody likes to talk to me on AIM anymore. I drove Jack away from me, if not from Pro, with my incessant whining. I just -- I seem to lack drive. Whatever some people have inside them that tells them that they have worth, whatever people say? I don't have that. I need constant reassurance from other people because my brain won't supply it for me.
Some days, I think my brain is designed by some cruel trickster, and he's taking bets on how long I'll live before I kill myself to end the pain and emotional distance from all life.
And I want to get involved in life. I just don't know how. Sin, in his imagined omniscience, invites me to go with him to gay bars in the cities. Somehow, I doubt being hit on by dykes all night, unable to go home until Sin comes back from his latest fuckbuddy's apartment, is quite the kind of social interaction I need. There are some very cute dykes out there, mind, but I'm not really interested. Curious, maybe, but I don't care enough to act on it. Besides, I have that plumbing myself. There's no mystery! I really am that ignorant/repressed/innocent. Take your word of choice on that one. Heh.
The local roleplaying game association have summer game days, but the folks there tend to rub me the wrong way. There are a few too many adults in what's a college group on paper. One member had moved away a year ago and is reportedly returning to town. He's in his late thirties or so, although I think he looks older. He had two daughters in grade or middle school. And he likes to date freshman co-eds. *shudders* I have other issues with this particular fellow, but he's a good example of the guys who creep me out in the gaming group. The unoffical leader is repressing his homosexuality so deep that God might have trouble finding it again, and his brother thinks that grabbing my hands and holding them is a good way to make me realize that he, a man in his thirties or forties, thinks I am cute. *shudders again*
I have trouble with my dad's new woman and there's not a big gap there. I'm in my early twenties. High school kids are too young for me, although a few are worth a lingering glance. Once you're past about 25-27, that's too old for me (but I will always melt for Harrison Ford and Sean Connery).
Do I need to tattoo something on me saying "I castrate old pervs" or something?
Anyway. I hate bars and the gaming chapter is full people who just make my skin crawl. I suck at sports and will almost always refuse to play. Cute men cannot persuade me to get all sweaty and exhausted alongside them unless they have in mind something more to the point that moving a leather sphere about rectangluar area. Feh.
What to do, what to do . . .
I suppose getting back into "real" classes this fall will help, if I can pull my religions grade out of the hole. Hole? More like well. Or crack of hell. I need to seriously get my assignments divinely inspired in that class, because Taoism is beating me like a redheaded stepchild. It's hard, it's contradictory, and to speak of it is to not actually be speaking of it. And I can't just give up because I need the grade.
Excuse me while I assault a plush toy with a laundry basket.
Nevermind. I can't bring myself to hurt my Gretchen Bear. (Oh, shut up. She's adorable and she's been mine since I was three or so. *cradles Gretchen Bear on her lap*)
My brother TJ has a 4.0 grade point average. It's a perfect GPA for a perfect son. And my religions grade is so far below the cutoff for an F that I don't know if there's any redeeming it. *buries face in Gretchen Bear's bonnet*
*pokes around the online gradebook and whitens* Ouch. Yeah, that'll never be an A. It might never turn into a B, either. Bs sting, you know. *wilts at her own bad joke*
Oooh. *blushes and hides beneath an instructor comment* "I was impressed with your essay. It sounds like you have an interesting life--with all the books you read. You set great goals for yourself. If you need any help reaching your goals, please let me know. I hope that you get published someday!" *shyly* That's my composition professor. Wow. She obviously thinks I'm worth something. I think she likes me. It's an online class and I still managed to suck up to the teacher, without realizing it? *blinks*
I need to reply to some class threads. Later!