tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66193224006906013172024-03-14T03:02:07.619-04:00The Malignant NarcissistOften I may experience moments of grandiosity, and sometimes I may feel like the world owes me, but, come on, who doesn't?Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.comBlogger208125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-74014402588949827622010-07-01T03:52:00.003-04:002010-07-01T04:17:43.481-04:00What Sleep?I can't sleep. Again.<div><br /></div><div>I've tried but ended up watching yet another Nicolas Cage film (Lord of War, courtesy of Hulu). Despite his singular tone of voice, I find him compelling and convincing as an arms dealer. I think it's the hair. His eyes, too. He's got good actor's eyes.</div><div><br /></div><div>Closing my eyes does nothing but bring up terrible things, increases the awareness of memories I'd rather keep pushed as far back into the recesses of my messed up mind as I can. Fights with my family, mistakes I've made, old feelings of doubt and self-hatred that I thought had finally been conquered. Am I really that embarrassing? Had I really done so much to break your heart? Did I? Why couldn't I make mistakes without it coming off as the end of everything? Why did there have to always be a goddamn ultimatum? Why? Why was it always a case of 'have what we offer you or have nothing at all'?</div><div><br /></div><div>When I'm not cycling through my psyche and regurgitating my most glorious moments of mental self-abuse, I am suffering from images of myself being stabbed. I have been stabbed tonight repeatedly, from all sides, all angles, all places, from all sorts of pointy and wicked knives. Kitchen knives, pocket knives, even those stupid fucking over-sized four-pronged fantasy knives with the hand guard you find on the top shelf of one of those dimly lit 6-month rental shops in the corner of a mall with the faux asian name that has "lucky bamboo" lining the windows. With each stab I feel that part of my body. It's like it's being poked by a tiny finger. I don't know why. I want it to stop, and it only stops if I open my eyes.</div><div><br /></div><div>Staring hopelessly into the dark, counting down the remaining three hours until I have to get up to get ready for work...even that is better now than pretending to fall asleep as phantom fucking fingers nudge and prod me as my mind tries to convince itself that I'm really being stabbed to death by nothing.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am seriously fucked up. I am seriously tired. I am seriously fucking tired of being fucked up and reliving every bullshit failure moment of my existence over and over and over and over and over. Why can't I move on?! Why can't I just "get over it" like everyone else and just fucking move?</div><div><br /></div><div>A letter came in the mail today. It was a follow-up and thank-you letter from Anatomy Gifts Registry, the company through which mom's body was donated. They wanted to extend their condolences once more for the loss of "Mrs. Hill", but thank us again for her gracious donation to the advancement of medicine. At a couple points they called her "Lucy" to try and make it more personal, as though they knew her in some way. If this were the case, they would have said "Katherine," or "Kathy," but not "Lucy". Not that. That's what chilled me over for the rest of the letter, the one nagging thing I still can't get over. That same, automated effort that companies just can't quite perfect when trying to seem anything other than cold, automated, systematic, businesslike about death.</div><div><br /></div><div>At any rate, they went on to mention what research has been aided through mom. Spinal injury research was fitting, given her spinal injury from an accident many years before I was born. Her heart went toward studies into arterial matters. Diabetes research, given family history and what she was fighting against anyway, and so on. It was hard to read the letter - brutally hard. Mom's gone, and was now in fact in many separate places on top of this. I am happy that she was able to help one last time in a field that she so loved to work, but goddamnit it's hard to read that she's being used for studies, no matter how many years she's told you herself that she wanted to be donated.</div><div><br /></div><div>Christ...one day I'll be able to do this without having to fight back the tears and failing. I wonder how much longer until I can no longer cry, until I'm all dried up, and then new leaks spring up. Why are we made up of so much damned water?</div>Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-52112623866550807842010-06-04T01:05:00.002-04:002010-06-04T01:13:12.648-04:00An UpdateI guess it's time I try to do another update.<br /><br />I read and read and re-read that last statement I made to you, for you...for anyone... It still tugs on my heart. Every time. Every week.<br /><br />I can still feel, strong as ever, the emotions that came with writing it. I hurt. I get angry. Even though I swell up with fury and want to scream a blood-curdling scream to try and console myself in some way, I still feel hollow. Deep down inside, there is a growing emptiness, as though I'm fading away from within. No matter what it is I feel, it will soon go, back into the recesses of my fucked up mind, lying in wait, just waiting for the next time I read it again. For the<br />next time I spend just a little too much time thinking about you.<br /><br />Not a day goes by where I don't wish I could ask you something, anything. What was it that you put in your squash casserole that made it taste just...perfect? Dad made it the other day. It wasn't yours. You used cheese. It was still good, but it wasn't yours. Even if I made it, exactly word-for-word as you made it, still not the same. Not even close. I miss your hands. Seeing them work away making little kitchen miracles, flower miracles. Just making things work and keeping them working. But in the end you couldn't even help yourself. There were no miracles for you. There was nothing I could do, but stay in denial. I could keep telling you "See? The doctors lied again, you don't have cancer! It'll be okay. Even if you're sick for a little while, you'll be home at least. We'll be fine, then. You'll be home..."<br /><br />I haven't been to the graves since I put the flowers out. I took some photos...they came out good. Strange to be taking pictures of the graves, maybe, but I guess it was just a token to keep. Something to say "Hey, I did this on my own. I can actually do something on my own. I can do things for you still." I'm hoping they'll still be there when I go back soon. June already...I don't know what flowers make for good summer decorations, but I'll put some out soon. Another<br />promise for you.<br /><br />Work has been going good. I've managed to get myself two jobs, now. I'm sure you'd be proud, seeing me work hard, plugging along from one place to another, all responsible-like. When you died I was basically fired from my last job, no longer needed since Christmas was over. What an unceremonious departure that was. So cold, so...business-like. It still makes me angry. The couple of times I've been back, I can't even look Joe in the face, when it should be him who shies<br />away...not me. I gave everything I could for them, and he picks the other guy to keep on, simple as that.<br /><br />I'm sorry...no ranting. It's strange to try and talk to you now, when we never had the best communications. I never really opened up and spoke with my true voice, my regular and natural style, for either of you. I still can't with dad, and it's worse now. We hardly talk, even though he's home now more than he ever was. Apparently I'm not responsible enough and can't handle simple tasks around the house well. I don't know.<br /><br />It's been a year...since me and Kate have been a couple. A year and a few days. I know you never liked her, and it came to the point where you basically hated her, and I still can't see why. I honestly, truly, wholeheartedly swear to you I have no idea why. I have no intentions of rubbing anything in your face, any plans to go "Ha! I've proven you wrong!" or anything. All I wanted was your unconditional love, and unconditional support, and Kate's love and support. I loved all of you...still do. It still doesn't make sense to me that I could not have it all. No matter what I go over in my mind, the pieces just don't fit. That will never leave me. Maybe if I can find all the pieces and put them together, maybe I'll see what I'm missing. Maybe I can find my peace with it all.<br /><br />You're always on my mind. I don't want to forget, but I hate having to remember every day. Every day, just about, I feel bad and then good, or utterly useless and then like I could do anything in the world. There are very few days when I can truly be one set mood. Saturday...Sunday...one of the two happened to be one of those days. I honestly don't know when I've felt like that. One solid, unchanging mood throughout the entire day. It was wonderful. It was so peaceful. Kate thought I was acting strange, but I couldn't really explain it...<br /><br />I can pretend that every day is like that for you, now. I know for a fact that you're gone, gone for good and there will be no traces of you anymore, except for memory and a few fleeting photos. Almost no audio. Nothing for your grandchildren to listen to...almost no video for them to see you smiling, moving around. But I still pretend, despite knowing better, that you're in a better place, happier and smiling down on me like the caring, loving, attentive mother you were. It's moments like these that make me wish I were dead, just so I could stop crying again. It's selfish and unfair to think and wish that, but dammit...<br /><br />So, here I am again, near blind with tears and choking back the sobs and snot and being a miserable wreck. Dad's asleep, still, hopefully so. It's 4am and I'm crying<br />like a little kid again.<br /><br />I love you.Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-27154302876052871872010-03-16T21:31:00.002-04:002010-03-16T21:48:54.338-04:00MissSoon it will be two months since you died.<br /><br />Even on the day you died, I could say it with a straight face, and felt like I could accept it. I don't know why it was so easy so soon for me. I guess I had to take care of dad that day, and the days that followed. He was no longer able to take care of me. I haven't done as good a job at that lately, and the tension between us is pretty much back to where it used to be. Though it's probably just me thinking there's tension - he wants us to have a good relationship, but it's so easy to be irritated at him.<br /><br />The day before yesterday I cut my thumb while cleaning a knife I used to cut up some onions. Not a bad cut, just...you know, enough to bleed a little. Dad got some anti-biotic stuff and a bandaid, and fumbled through the wrapping and eventually tore the bandaid. Even little things like that make me think of you, and how you could get the damn thing open with one hand pretty much, and be squeezing out some ointment with the other. It was like you were a walking medical station. Now I can't even get a damned bandaid on without messing things up.<br /><br />It's getting so much harder to think about you. Every day I have to fight off wave after wave of emotion. Sometimes I feel OK, and I know I have to move on. Other times I don't want to get out of bed, just waiting and hoping that I'll hear you downstairs frying bacon and calling me down for breakfast. You haven't yet.<br /><br />I can barely see as I'm typing this, but I just have to do something...say something or else I'm going to scream and pull out my hair. This probably isn't going to help anything, but I can't bottle up my feelings anymore. It's become too toxic.<br /><br />I miss you so much. Dad isn't himself, even though he's doing the same old routine we were used to. He's gone overboard with the Easter decorations, and I'm terrified to think what he'll have prepared for Easter Day. He's trying to keep the house cheerful and lively, but it doesn't do much good when 4.5 days of the week there's only one of us here.<br /><br />I was going to Bennettsville tomorrow to put out the flowers, but the landscapers are coming back to finish what they didn't get done today. I'll get the flowers out there, though, I promise. The graves will look as pretty as ever.<br /><br />I've got to go. SorryHitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-54947983630775691702009-12-15T01:42:00.002-05:002009-12-15T01:48:53.030-05:00NowI am still restless. My eyes hurt, and my head is swimming, and my body is begging me to try and sleep...but I just can't.<br /><br />My mom's aunt...which I guess makes her my great aunt...died Sunday morning. After being in the hospital for two weeks, after being put there by negligent staff at physical therapy. They let her fall. That is NOT supposed to happen, and if anything, they should be sued to the point that the facility has to fucking shut down.<br /><br />She was perfectly healthy and was trying to build up muscle strength in one foot.<br /><br />Read that again.<br /><br />One foot. Just a little weak and was beginning to drag a little, so she went to build it back up in strength. And now she's fucking dead. That is beyond appalling.<br /><br />The funeral is Wednesday, and I am a pallbearer. I've never done this before, and I don't know if I will again.<br /><br />I'm nervous as hell. I'm upset at a lot of my family (not parents for once). My mind is just swimming.<br /><br />Now, here I am. Without you, awake. I need to drink myself out of this week.Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-28042098659091673812009-12-01T01:11:00.002-05:002009-12-01T01:14:16.777-05:00Right...Did that last post seem typical and emo-y of me?<br /><br />Probably.<br /><br />Am I going to keep that post to remind myself yet again of things that need doing?<br /><br />Yes.<br /><br />Is there anything else I have to say on the subject right now?<br /><br />No.<br /><br />Is that unusual?<br /><br />No.<br /><br />Why am I still asking questions?<br /><br />No clue, but I don't seem capable of stopping.<br /><br />Will I stop now?<br /><br />Sure.Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-85353728702946299982009-12-01T00:55:00.002-05:002009-12-01T01:06:15.452-05:00Long Times AgainIt's another restless night where I don't know what it is I need to say, or should say. Anything would do at this point, but nothing comes out, as usual. I want to talk to you, and I do to an extent. Still, even then my words feel so empty and routine.<br /><br />It's the same old story, though. The same lines, the same pattern, the same go-around that we always do and it ends the same way: me sorry and you irritated because I've yet again done nothing to change things for the better.<br /><br />You're dozing off now, looking quite content. You said you were tired, and you flopped over on the bed so that it looked like the weight of the whole day had come down with you. I can't stop watching you, wishing so much to hold you again, to kiss you and tell you I love you as we both happily drifted asleep.<br /><br />I can say these things, sure, but it's just flattery and adoration, things I always throw your way. But why can't I go on about other things, keep our talks lively and...I don't know, be here the way you need.<br /><br />But now, here we are, these long times again being spent in silence, only adding tension. Only taking away from our time.Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-20069767099680885292009-11-22T03:50:00.001-05:002009-11-22T03:52:26.513-05:00Just need the space<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jLgaIGrDCEY/Swj7w5uL6iI/AAAAAAAAADQ/RgixzbQkLvA/s1600/Req+Grid.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 189px; height: 288px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jLgaIGrDCEY/Swj7w5uL6iI/AAAAAAAAADQ/RgixzbQkLvA/s400/Req+Grid.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406848170205112866" /></a>Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-67944712453185496362009-10-01T21:36:00.002-04:002009-10-01T21:40:45.661-04:00Huh...Seems the recent FDA ban on flavored dip also included a ban on flavored cigs.<br /><br />Bye-bye cloves. I barely knew thee, but our brief affair so long ago was so sweet, so delicious.<br /><br />Seems I do have something in common with the raving redneck on youtube.<br /><br />I do actually believe people have the right to smoke or chew if they please, and even this kind of limitation is overstepping the boundaries of government regulation, in my mind.<br /><br />-sighs- The next step is to put a ban on flavored cigars, cigarillos, and anything else delicious. I may have to join the picket-lines yet...Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-76306408549468648942009-09-28T15:35:00.003-04:002009-09-28T15:38:24.925-04:00HolaAnyone seen the trailer for the Nightmare on Elm Street remake?<br /><br />Krueger is played by the guy who played Rorschach in Watchmen, which is just awesome.<br /><br />The other awesome part is this film actually takes on a serious tone, with the question of whether or not Krueger molested children being a prominent part of the plot.<br /><br />I'm glad to see it's going to be super scary and wicked, but I'm hoping the movie doesn't end with the children trying to apologize and the parents see the error of their ways and Krueger forgives them and fades into a white light, or some stupid shit like that.<br /><br />I want blood, and lots of it, but done artistically and as evilly as possible. I hope the parents get what's coming to them, too.Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-41833821300044650372009-09-22T02:02:00.001-04:002009-09-22T02:02:27.947-04:00Fuck me and my big fucking mouth.Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-84173923645287253942009-09-22T00:58:00.001-04:002009-09-22T00:58:36.123-04:00-sighs-Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-53378035533544374632009-09-15T22:05:00.002-04:002009-09-15T22:07:44.101-04:00A WhileIt's been a while since I've posted on here, yet again.<br /><br />I've been semi-kinda-sorta busy-ish with my other blog, in that I keep going to it but failing to write something in it.<br /><br />Um...let's see. I have two guitars now. One acoustic and one electric. Got them both for about $40. They may be cheap, but perfect for learning as far as I'm concerned.<br /><br />Still no luck with the work world, but one day, some day, maybe.<br /><br />Coo-coo kachoo.Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-78505113238150142612009-09-05T02:08:00.002-04:002009-09-05T02:11:05.282-04:00The FestivalThere was a free festival at Market Commons today. It's going on tomorrow, too.<br /><br />There's BBQ, car shows, and great music.<br /><br />So far, I've taken a ton of pictures and plan to take even more tomorrow. It's going to take me forever to get all of them posted, but I will get it done.<br /><br />The weather's been so nice, and the music so much fun. I got my picture with the last surviving original member of The Tams. I got many great pictures of them playing...well...four pictures...I ran out of film. But they're all great, I'm sure!<br /><br />I'm almost out of money, though, so I gotta find a way to make $6 last an entire day.Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-17877618058916345922009-08-25T21:58:00.002-04:002009-08-25T22:02:45.438-04:00Hay Gais!Knock Knock.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Who's there?</span><br /><br /><a href="http://crooksandliars.com/david-neiwert/now-birthers-are-demanding-know-was">Obama's-penis-wasn't-circumsized-maybe-we-don't-know-so-he's-a-secret-muslin-terrorist!</a><br /><br />Whargarblagragraarblgarbl!<br /><br />The last time the Republican Party was serious was...like the late 1800's, right?<br /><br />Ever? Anyone? Anyone?Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-30188638609428126012009-08-19T23:36:00.000-04:002009-08-19T23:37:14.839-04:00yeahso much for that.Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-24783813050873491832009-08-19T21:50:00.001-04:002009-08-19T21:51:34.558-04:00Lotto NightI had a dream the other night about having the winning lottery numbers. I have used those numbers for the draw tonight.<br /><br />Here's hoping.Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-81309413239103872952009-08-08T12:55:00.003-04:002009-08-08T13:04:38.562-04:00Right..."...up there all the time...all he does now....-incoherent muttering-...and I jump up out of bed at 7:30 in the morning to see..."<br /><br />It's so lovely when I come upstairs to take some more time to myself to avoid being around them. I check my mail to see if I've heard back from any of the places I've applied to. I'll dick around on the Internet and find games to play, or look at obscure news articles about topics that generally don't pertain to any aspect of my life.<br /><br />Once in a while I may call you. I'll feel happy, hearing your voice and knowing you're happy to hear from me too.<br /><br />But because I call at night, or sometimes you might call, I'm the villain. I'm "not right", doing things that are "sick" and they "don't understand".<br /><br />The reason I'm upstairs right now is because I was going to write down some recipes I found and throw away the ugly promotional cards they came on. I was also going to put on shoes. Instead, I'm writing this now because the quote at the top is the kind of bullshit I hear every single time I go upstairs. It doesn't matter if they know I can hear them, they'll just say it to my face and go on about their day, probably asking me five minutes later what I'd like for dinner. As though assaulting me is just part of the everyday experience now.<br /><br />I come upstairs and they talk about me, as though I'm some rebellious problem child that is violently out of control. And they wonder why I stay up here? If I'm such a fucking problem, maybe I should stay up here, and get out of their hair. If I hate them so much, if I'm so fucking disrespectful, maybe I should just stay up here, away from them, so I can't be hateful, so I can't act like I "don't owe (them) anything at all".<br /><br />They have yet to see rebellious. They have yet to see violent, angry, and all the things they act like I'm being.<br /><br />This is goddamn ridiculous.<br /><br />I wish i could laugh it off, like you do, but I can't. I'm sad that things are like this, because they simply don't accept how I want to do certain things.<br /><br />Maybe I can leave soon. Hopefully soon.<br /><br />Oh look...they're talking about how messy I am now...Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-76812004184265900802009-08-07T20:15:00.002-04:002009-08-07T20:23:28.122-04:00Yeah..."I don't think you care about us...me and Bryan. I don't know what the deal is. You don't listen to what we say...- It's like you do what you want, and your stuff is first priority."<br /><br />This really is the most damning thing that has been said to me by my family. I do not know why mom insists upon such...complete nonsense. Because I hesitate to listen to her continually complain about dad, and how when I tell her that he does not listen to me (after complaining that I do not help her get the point through his thick skull) I am once again somehow siding with him, and for an added touch of flavor, hate her.<br /><br />Because I try once in a while to leave the house just to be by myself, exploring the town as though I actually lived here and could have any hopes of enjoying any of it.<br /><br />Because I do not immediately do chores around the house.<br /><br />Because I want to talk to whoever the hell I want to talk to.<br /><br />Because I am no longer a child and can and do make decisions for myself.<br /><br />Because she cannot get over herself, and if I were to ever say that, she would cry and really believe I hate her.<br /><br />Because my life has apparently consisted of nothing more than making one "poor choice" after another, despite finding myself to be somewhat happy and enjoying the things I've done for myself.<br /><br />Because I don't live in fucking bizzaro world and don't know what the fuck she is talking about anymore.<br /><br />Because I exist, probably.<br /><br />Bullshit.<br /><br />It's all bullshit.Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-12042414348441669852009-08-06T23:06:00.000-04:002009-08-06T23:07:09.214-04:00Good News"you have to be practical about irrational fears, otherwise you are neurotic."<br /><br />Thanks, Samantha.Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-77291070060179645142009-08-06T20:08:00.000-04:002009-08-06T20:09:11.691-04:00NevermindNevermind. Twitter's alive again.<br /><br />Gracias por dios!Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-4986400768633248252009-08-06T20:02:00.001-04:002009-08-06T20:03:54.500-04:00Twitter Addiction is RealI'm addicted to Twitter, apparently. It was attacked by hackers today, and I cannot access my account. Furthermore, my Tweetdeck is all sorts of fucked, so I'm kinda spazzing out right now.<br /><br />Damn you, Interwebs...damn you...Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-91873869950087606772009-07-28T04:47:00.001-04:002009-07-28T04:48:48.745-04:00Word of Advice, (Take As You Will)Peanuts.Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-42943397713311166402009-07-25T02:11:00.003-04:002009-07-25T02:53:05.835-04:00A Space That Shouldn't Have Been Left EmptyIt's 2:11am right now, and I'm sitting here...well, laying here, in bed, wondering what I should be doing aside from sleeping.<br /><br />I feel more and more restles. I figure it's the fact that I'm still jobless, and that my efforts to secure a job seem paltry at best. It's probably the fact that I always feel inadequate around you, and no matter how many times you tell me "it's OK" and that I shouldn't, I still will. You say it's because I do not have enough confidence in myself, and that I need to believe in myself or else how can I believe in anything, even you.<br /><br />Tonight was not a good night. I'm alone, rather than softly muttering into the phone and having to repeat myself and grinning because I know you want to talk to me despite my ways.<br /><br />I'm stubborn, I'm brash. I'm foolish.<br /><br />You should know that I do have motivation, that I do put forth effort. I don't believe I have "all the time in the world"...I never have. I simply don't act, and that has caused more problems than good, for myself and for us, for everyone I've ever dealt with it feels like.<br /><br />But now, here I am, 7 minutes later, still in the dark, still alone, typing on a dirty laptop with a dead fruit-fly staining the corner of my screen. Has this gotten me anywhere? Does typing this out do anything for me? Maybe. All I can see is that when I actually create the words, when I can get them out of my head and on to something more...real...or at least more visible than from within my head, I don't feel as pressured. I don't feel like I'm being so easily crushed into a little ball.<br /><br />But why should I feel so pressured, like I'm stuck in a compactor with no way out? Am I holding myself down to a lower standard and not allowing myself to achieve something? Am I simply resigning to the notion that there is nothing I can do in this world that makes a difference and I should just give up? I don't think I am, because I probably would have actually said that a million times by now. I doubt I'd bother writing about it, because that would only accentuate the futility of the whole thing. I think.<br /><br />There's not much to this post. I'm just rambling to empty out my head a bit for other words to eventually take the place of the ones put here. It was time for me to make room I guess.<br /><br />Looking back on the past few years, especially the college ones, I can find nothing that has struck me as truly fascinating work. I'd like to dabble in music in some form, despite my apparent inability to carry a tune. I want to go around taking photos for my own personal pleasure, but I feel that I do have an eye for visual media. Having no formal training, this would be a tough field for me to enter just yet. I am an English major, and yet I am afraid to write. It's a wonder I can even post anything, but that's probably because there is absolutely NO creative merit to any of them.<br /><br />The idea of writing, be it scripting or poetry, story-lines or lyrics, scares me. When I used to write, in high-school, that's all I did almost every night before I went to sleep. I would be in bed, with my notebook and a book-light, squinting to see if I was still writing legibly. I could write forever. I once spent a good three hours writing in the dark like this. There was this feeling of accomplishment that came as soon as I finished a piece, but I would also later feel sick. Sick that I would write anything at all resembling what I saw on the paper, hating myself for expressing myself the way I did. It felt dark, it felt so wrong when I would revisit those lines scribbled in the night.<br /><br />My mood changed as I wrote, and as the writing increased so was my mood affected. I would be glad to have finished writing, but I ultimately felt weak, scared, alone. When I wrote I felt as though the words were branded on my body, with the most hateful and dark of them upon my forehead. Each word weighed me down, but I could not stop. I was suffocating but I had to continue or else feel like I would explode. Either way, I felt like I was losing myself.<br /><br />Thinking back on all that I have written, I feel sad, almost sorry for myself at that time. I feel that my writing did nothing but torture me, hold me hostage to feelings I did not want to have and force me to think in ways that scared me. <br /><br />Eventually, the feelings started to dissipate. The urgent need to write started to die down. I really don't know what I can attribute this to, but it was a welcomed relief. It's almost as though I willed myself out of writing, forced myself to write only when absolutely necessary, such as writing an essay for school. This was most easily done during college, when I could really occupy myself between class and sleep.<br /><br />When I think about sitting down and writing, I can't even come up with an idea of where to begin. I do miss how I used to be able to write endlessly, having new ideas all the time, but I do not miss the fact that my creativity was morbid, that it was destructive and bitter.<br /><br />That was a fun tangent, wasn't it kids?<br /><br />I guess I'm just doing all of this to fill a space that shouldn't have been left empty tonight. I'm sorry I don't talk more to you, and that when we do get together, I'm usually quiet. I still freeze up around you, even in the context in which we meet. It's like I'm still shy...-shrugs-<br /><br />Okay. My mind has emptied itself enough for now. Hopefully Saturday will turn out more positively.Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-23230323539810024842009-07-16T17:19:00.002-04:002009-07-16T17:31:11.185-04:00Harry Potter Strikes Again, But MissesThis was the first of the Harry Potter films I cared to see in theater. I was disappointed.<br /><br />The quidditch match, good. The special effects, just fine.<br /><br />The plot...missing. The acting...what acting?<br /><br />This was some weird kind of transition film, that to me, said "Here's all this random shit. Remember it for the next movie when it will make sense, maybe."<br /><br />I was bored out of my fucking mind during the movie. Thank GOD ALMIGHTY Dumbledore is dead, because the man playing him was shit. The wizard should not have been such a bumbling, stuttering retard. I was the only person in the crowded theater to cheer when Snape did him in, because at that point in the movie, something finally fucking happened.<br /><br />And just what in the hell is the Half-Blood Prince? It's Snape? That's good to fucking know. Now, I ask you...what the hell does that mean? He gave himself a fancy title in school to console himself during periods of loneliness and teenage angst? Whoop-dee-fucking-doo. I'm the King of Fanciful Chocolate Farts. Does that title mean anything? Fuck no. Does the Half-Blood Prince mean anything? Given what I've seen, fuck no.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.dangerousminds.net/index.php/site/comments/richard_metzgers_tell_it_like_it_is_review_of_harry_potter_and_the_half-blo/">Here's another review</a>. I agree on the part about the kids. Not one fucking child in the theater said a SINGLE word or reacted in any way. Some of them were asleep.<br /><br />If you hate holding on to money, go see the latest installment of the MOST FORGETTABLE movie of 2009.Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619322400690601317.post-75818310647235409832009-06-28T15:33:00.001-04:002009-06-28T15:33:51.636-04:00-sighs-Billy Mays died today, also age 50. That makes four, and Walter Cronkite is not expected to live much longer.<br /><br />What the fuck.Hitekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14402291727277256131noreply@blogger.com0