Just Another Little Girl in a Pornstar World

I’ve been in the worst mood all day. I started a fight with Eric (it was NOT all my fault.. it never ever is), felt like crap, and was mostly bored all day. I played a lot of Guitar Hero. Man, that game sucks. Cause like, you can’t stop playing it even when you want to.
I *am* a Guitar Hero though. For real.

I didn’t start this with anything particular to say. I can’t sleep. Eric’s on his mom’s computer and I’m on mine.
I like to think that I have enough people reading this that I don’t feel like I’m talking to myself.. but.. ah hell who am I kidding, if there’s no one to listen, I will talk to myself.
Sometimes I talk to Eric when I know he’s not listening, and that’s kind of the same as talking to myself, too.

I hate panelled walls.
I hate 3 am.
I hate feeling bad.
“Girl stuff.”
I hate that too.

Oh. And I hate being touched on my feet.
I hate being tickled.
Those are sort of the same, but one’s more specific.
I hate bleu cheese salad dressing.
But I like bleu cheese. Especially on a hamburger.

I hate for anything to be close to/cover my face.
I hate it when people use God as an excuse to do mean things.
I hate it when people use the devil as an excuse to do mean things.
I hate it when people use humor as an excuse to do mean things.
Well. Unless it’s super funny.

I hate it when people say “I hate people who..” instead of saying “I hate it when people…”

I hate tomatoes on sandwiches.
Now that tomatoes make people sick, I don’t have to ask McDonald’s to leave them off my hamburger.
I hate the color orange.
I hate orange and grape flavored candy.
I like oranges and grapes.
I hate having to wait.
But I hate it when people are impatient.

I hate it when people forget how to relate to each other on a basic human level because of all the bullshit/politics/drama we drown in every day.

I hate not being able to sleep.

We’ve been gone for a few days to see Eric’s family.  We were building a swing set for his cousin’s son (and unborn child).  We’re going back next weekend for a family reunion and that should be fun as long as I don’t get any more sunburned.  Allen got sunburned on the tops of his feet, and his feet and ankles swelled up and it’s pretty bad.  I just got burned on the back of my neck above my collar (ugh, what an awful tan line THAT’S going to be) and on my face.

I had the craziest dream…

Just kidding, I’m not going to start blogging about my dreams.  People think I’m weird enough as it is.

While we were at Robin’s, a groundhog had crawled under a desk on the porch of an old lady’s apartment, and we were all looking at it.  Picture it.  A crowd of adults piled together staring at this poor little creature who probably wanted to run away, but was trapped in by us.  It probably just wanted to get cool, but no, there it was with all eyes upon it.  I thought (therefore I said), “It would be funny if it jumped up and started to sing.”  Like the frog from the Warner Brothers cartoon?  Anybody?  No?  Yeah that’s pretty much the reaction I got from them, too.  I can’t help it that I was born with an extremely active imagination.

Then I told everyone that whenever I see people, I make up stories in my head about them.  I create a whole scenario about who they are, what they’re waiting for, what’s waiting for them.  Sometimes I name people in my head.  If you ever introduce yourself and I seem surprised, it’s because I thought your name was Kate, or Geoff, or something else.  I’m never right.  It never stops me, either.

When I say “People think I’m strange,” I’m not being a 17-year-old wanna-be antisocialite.  I have an artistic nature in the midst of a large group of very practical people.  I’m a little whimsical, a little offbeat, and I think it’s funny to say things that will make people question whether or not I’ve been doing drugs (which, lately, is usually “No.”)
My own family is very artistic too, so until I moved away, I didn’t realize that it was even anything strange.  I’m pretty normal in my family, maybe even a little boring.  Now.. well.. you know.  I’m sort of obvious.

I’m going to start writing about my imaginary friends and pretending they’re real.

We’ll see who’s laughing then.

.danger.

I got this from someone else..  She got it from someone else..etc. The idea is to write random memories, leaving out names.. I cried reading hers, and I don’t even know what most of them meant.

Writing my own, I’ve laughed, cried, stared off into space as I fill in the blanks that I’m leaving out on purpose.  What an emotional rollercoaster.  I barely scratched the surface.

I couldn’t tell if the boy beside me looked like a cartoon, with his saxophone and hooked nose that looked like a beak, or if I was just imagining it.  I spent most of the day looking at the clouds anyway.

I snuck the phone into my room so I could talk to him, knowing I could get in trouble but not realizing the consequences for both of us.

I landed on my arm and it hurt, but I hardly cried and was surprised when the doctor said it was broken.

I knew what would happen that night if I went, and I’ve never been sorry. But I was still surprised when that guy yelled “Switch!”  And I always laugh when I think about it.

I knew when I made him cry that I was going to leave him.

You were mad that I wouldn’t pull my panties down.

I tore a page out of the book, the one that wasn’t the Bible but it was about the bible, and as I set it on fire, the lightning struck nearby, and the old black man came out of the woods singing in the dark, and I thought I was going to die.

“You put mayonnaise in my hair!!”

She stood so that we would pass by each other when we danced, and she pinched me every time.

He was screaming at me, calling me a WHORE, calling me a BITCH, and I knew he would act later like nothing ever happened.

I was crying while I threw up, and I knew nothing in my life would ever be the same. And it wasn’t.

I didn’t think we would fall in love when I met you.  I wasn’t ready for it.

I felt really shy the first time you came to my house, because you were so pretty and everybody was so excited to see you.

The guy kept trying to make me kiss you, and he just couldn’t understand why we wouldn’t.

She told me the only way to be in the club was to have sex with your boyfriend, but I knew she hadn’t when she told me I could be in the club anyway.

I never felt cool enough around her, especially when she played her music or talked about her other friends.

Nobody ever believed we were just friends, but I’m glad nothing more ever happened.

She grabbed me by the hair and hit me in the face, and I was numb with shock and surprise because I hadn’t done anything.

He was so mad when he came home and saw that I’d gotten drunk with the boys and we had spraypainted graffitti in the attic.

I remember the first time you put the gun to your head.

We went camping, but we were in my family’s house.

“You’ll never be bad enough to make me stop loving you.”

I didn’t know what to do as I called the ambulance.  I felt too small, too weak, I felt swallowed up by everything that was happening, and I didn’t think I would be able to handle it.

I hid in the closet as they were yelling, trying to cover her tiny ears so she couldn’t hear.

We were talking about having a seance, when something fell in the closet by itself.  We never tried.

I checked to make sure the door was locked, and it wasn’t, and when I turned back around, for just a second it wasn’t my room.  I almost passed out.  I swore I’d never smoke pot again.

I held the radio close to my head, with the volume as low as I could turn it and still hear, terrified someone would catch me, but I just had to hear the music.

She read the same book to me over and over because it’s what I wanted.

He swung and missed, hitting me in the mouth, and I sat in the grass crying while people I barely knew came to comfort me.

She laid her head on my shoulder, devastated and exhausted, crying because it was so unfair.  I would have done anything to change it.

I drove past the house and they had painted it white, but it should have been yellow.

“You’re so pretty.” “No you’re so pretty!”

She told me the “facts of life” in the dark, filling in the details my mother had left out.

We sat in line for four hours just to get gas, and I bought a paper from the man standing on the side of the road, and when I saw the pictures I wept.

I stood on stage and I sang, and I knew it was beautiful, and I was so proud.

When you got back in the car and the cops left, and we started to laugh, I knew we were going to be good friends.

They called my name after every subject, and I was glad when another girl shared an award with me because I was embarrassed to win them all.

I felt my face burn with shame as my name was written on the board, even though it was just a misunderstanding.

I thought they wouldn’t notice even though it was infected.

My body was shaking as we knocked on the door of your father’s house to tell him you were dying.

“Truth,” he said, “with a capital T.”  And I cried and had to leave.

We passed around the Coke bottle like it was liquor, giggling like we were stoned, and we were all sober.

I grabbed your arm, made you look me in the eyes, and told you I was going to make you go home, and you stopped trying to fight the guy and kept dancing with me.

We all piled into the van and drove to New Orleans even though we had exams, ate beignets, and turned around and drove home.

I knew when you wanted to look at the rings in the magazine that you were going to ask me to marry you.

It usually takes me about two hours in the mornings to go through all my MySpace and e-mail reading and whatnot.  That includes copious amounts of distractions and usually breakfast preparation.  Today it only took about an hour.  INCLUDING leaving blog comments.

So you’re getting a blog that, at this point, has no pre-defined direction.

I went to my old livejournal page  and read  some old stuff.   It was  sort of depressing.. I  had to crawl into bed with Eric and wake him up and make him hug me.  I  went through a very dark time.

I asked Eric a few days ago how he was able to fall in love with me, when we first met.  Or, more  accurately,  how he was able to see through all of the bullshit and fall in love with the REAL me.  I was so broken, and once we were together and I started to clean up, I was still completely relient on him while I put myself together.  Now that I feel like myself again – a much wiser and stronger version – it’s amazing to me that he was able to see through everything I was going through, and see my true self, my true heart.

His answer was that he’s seen people go through what I went through, and he knew that “people aren’t who they are when they’re in a crisis like that.”

I cried.
Shut up.

It obviously wasn’t the self-pitying, self-destructive addict he loved, or he would left me.  Either that, or facilitated my self-destructiveness.  “No baby, you don’t need to be sober, I don’t like you when you think for yourself.  Here, let’s make that phone call and get that guy over here.”  Heehee.  He came up with that to make me giggle so I’d stop crying on him, I think.

One of my old livejournal posts mentions meeting Eric for the first time.  Apparently I got a drunk-dial text message from an ex (also named Eric) that same weekend asking me to marry him.  Haha, I’d forgotten about that.  In a way, I’m glad that my life was so fucked up that I didn’t even consider going back to him.  I’m sorry, I hate to admit it, but that boy was just too nice for me.  He wanted to be “in charge” of the relationship, but I ran him.  I just like bad boys.  I hear “nice guys” whine all the time about how they never get the girls.. Well, that sucks, dude.  I don’t even have any advice.  Some girls like the romantic complimentary sweetheart fellows.  Some girls don’t.  I don’t.  My friend  layla described what she wanted as “gentle brutality.”  I thought that was hot.

After I reread this, I felt like there needed to be some break here as a buffer between subject changes.  However, I didn’t feel like coming up with a smooth way to do it.  And now it’s done.

I like turning into an adult.  I love this transition into womanhood.  I love to cook.  I still hate to clean but I like for things to BE clean, which is I guess the way that usually works, from what I understand it.  I like making a decision that I feel is responsible.  I hate worrying about finances but I like the freedom that comes with making my own decisions.  I like setting my own priorities (and, okay, trying to set Eric’s).  I like getting topical humor.  I like being able to kiss my fiance.  I like watching other people’s kids get bigger and reflecting on my own childhood and thinking about having my own kids.  I like having a conversation and thinking, “When I was a kid, this was ‘adult’ talk.”
I know there’s stress, I know there’s drama, I know there are serious consequences to bad decisions.  But.
I. just. like it.

And that, my friends, is a glimpse of what my brain goes through in half an hour.  Maybe 45 minutes.  But I made breakfast.

~danger