Tsunami Beginnings

Days like this can't seem to get any more... different. It's the strangest feeling, knowing that you're breathing and they're breathing and everyone's breathing but at the same time no one is. That white haze that drops and settles  in from wherever it was before, most likely hovering just below the atmosphere in perfect aerial-striking position. Detachment and retreat into the mind are two main characteristics of the fog, rolling in over the sleeping harbor while gulls rustle and turn over in their nests. It's amazing how similar the mind is to the sea. Hard and glassy on the surface with barely a ripple; no naked eye could even begin to look below to the mysteries teeming underneath. Until a wind starts to pick up, that is - snaking its tendrils to lap at the surface and causing waves to roil and disrupt the previous peace; people coming in on their tiny lifeboats and bonding with the water, or cutting through in massive gaudy yachts and polluting the blue with black shiny oil that burns. My mind is hard and glassy now. I feel the blankness of it myself, and even I can't penetrate it. It's a disturbing feeling, not being able to connect.

Callouses and scars

I love callouses and scars. On my feet, on my hands, on my elbows, on my shoulders, on my knees. They mean I've used my limbs and my energy to do things. They're little reminders that I've worked and played and danced and prayed. The balls of my feet and my toes and heels say I can dance and run and step on rocks and sand. My second toe is longer than my first and bears a little callous on the tips from dancing on my toes and hitting them on the ground and jumping around in clogging and ballet and running. The sides of my feet show all the times I've worn high heels and ripped through the skin to get blisters until they hardened to protect me from my own fashion stupidity. The skin that should be soft on the ball of my feet aren't from marching band and blistering them beyond recognition with two-inch blisters a half-inch thick, and then marching on top of that anyway, all bandaged and padded. My knees are scarred and calloused from kneeling on cement and concrete and dirt to plant and weed and pray and help little kids tie their shoes or powerslide and fall. My shoulders are calloused from holding drums and hiking backpacks for miles. My hands have callouses from using shovels and axes and moving hay bales and digging trenches and mucking stalls. My elbows have army crawled through dirt and sand and carpet to play army games with little kids and cousins and friends, or sneak up and prank someone in their tent or sleep. I have scars on my ankles from the first time shaving and whipping them through weeds while running. I have a raised scar on my chest and neck from chickenpox, and sevenon my fingers from hot glue guns and splinters and knifes. I have one on my back from being rubbed raw, and so many on my knees from falling in track and gym burns from speedball and basketball or skidding on ice or kneeling on legos and puncture vines. My shins have experienced jumping onto a concrete block, missing, and ripping them open on the edge. The side of my thumbs are scarred from stressfully tearing at them with my teeth over and over again, and my left calf has a tire mark scar from my foot slipping off the pedal and getting the skin burned off by the back tire of my bike going down a hill. My arms have scars from cuts and mosquito bites when I was little and when a hot-poker got set on one of them. I can remember each incident with clarity, but only because I have reminders. They're not pretty and other people might think I'm weird for it, but I love my callouses and scars.

Texting

I was thinking today about why I'm so emotionally drained and mixed up all the time. But then, as I was replying to the hordes of texts I receive, I realized that that's it. Because I have to be something different in each conversation, give something that that person needs. Like today. All at the same time, I had nine different conversations going. I had to be funny, or flirty, or sympathetic, or serious, or deep, or reprimanding, or uplifting. And it's tough. I wonder how it would be if I got rid of texting now. Or if the world did. Would it have any effect? If Daniel, Quentin, Krystal, Brandon, Jackie, Ashlyn, Ben, Loren, and Roger couldn't text me, all needing different things because they're all different people all needing a different part of me, would my down time be more relaxing? Probably, just because I could veg out and not care. But that's not really me. I like caring and helping. I love it when people text me with their problems and want help. I wish I could help more. But does texting really do anything, connect at all? I wish I could split myself and go and talk to them in person. I should invent that. Maybe if I had my entire self available for one person at a time, it would be more than that half-baked feeling I get. You know, when you have to go back and read the previous texts because you can't remember what you were talking about? I feel horrible about that sometimes. But then I'm to tired to care at others.

So I obviously have no idea what this whole post is about. Just mashed up feelings I guess.

how should I phrase this?

Has anyone noticed how angsty some teenagers are? I mean... I'm not a completely level-headed person all the days but I mean REALLY. I try to fix things before they get to the point of "OH MY GOSH MY WORLD IS FALLING APART BOYS BOYS BOYS SEX SEX SEX BROKEN NAILS ARE AKIN TO RAZORS BEING DRAGGED ACROSS MY FRAGILE SKIN AND I HATE JUSTIN BIEBER BECAUSE EVERYONE ELSE IN THE WORLD SAYS THEY DO MORE BOYS BOYS BOYS KISSING KISSING KISSING DESPERATE DESPERATE DESPERATE SOMEONE LOVE ME AND FAWN OVER ME BECAUSE I HAVE TO SHOVE IT IN EVERYONE'S FACES THAT BOYS WANT ME FOR MY *coughslutcough* BODY AND I HAVE SO MANY PROBLEMS I'M AN EMOTIONAL WRECK I NEED A BOY TO SAVE ME FROM THE DARK BUTTERFLIES THAT ENVELOPE MY HEAD AND NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ME AND THEY NEVER WILL BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH

I hate girls that call themselves real when they're TOTALLY NOT AT ALL.

Fancy Feast

Has anyone watched those fancy feast videos on youtube? the ones about the couple who fall in love and get married and advertise fancy feast? Yeah. They make me cry. Both from "awww that's just so perfect and cuuute" and "frik why isn't my life that perfect and cute!" I must be pathetic. But I really miss that kind of thing in my life. I want to get married and have babies already. And now I need a fluffy white cat as well, to whom I can feed perfect little tins of fancy feast to. I can see that going awry.

Here's a scenario.

Husband: Good evening wife. I see you're cooking me dinner with your heels and pearls on. There's a good girl. It's very correct to come home from the office in my dark blue suit and leather briefcase to the smell of roast beef. Where's our children?

Me: Playing quietly in the nursery upstairs, darling. Just like every evening. *Dazzling smile* Would you like a drink? Perhaps some bourbon? I have the newspaper right here for you. Sit down, put your expensively-clad feet up. Ah, here's our cat now, just like clockwork. Coming to sit on her master's lap. Remember how romantic it was when you used her as a kitten to propose?

Husband: Yes, yes. You said something about a drink? Fetch it while I stroke the cat and read the paper, would you? There's a good girl.

Me: Yes darling. Please remove your shoes before entering the dining room for dinner; I just had the white carpets cleaned today.

Husband: That drink, dear.

Me: Yes darling. It's just... you don't always remove your shoes and I spend so much time cleaning that it's really quite annoy-

Husband: *clears throat, rustles newspaper, looks meaningfully at the sparkling crystal bottle that the liquor is stored in*

Me: Yes darling. Come kitty, we'll get you your Fancy Feast after I make your master a drink. I cleaned your crystal bowl out for this special day: my wedding anniversary. You must remember the wedding?

Cat: *looking balefully out of perfect green eyes* Mrow.

Me: Yes darling. *pours drink, hands off to husband, opens a can of Fancy Feast chosen from the neat stacks of tins in the cupboard* Here you go kitty. *walks into kitchen* Husband dear, dinner's ready. I made it just the way you like it. The children have already eaten; we'll have this special dinner I prepared for hours all by ourselves.

Husband: Frankly my dear, I'd rather eat Fancy Feast with the cat.

Me: Suit yourself. *Takes a tin of FF, rips open Husband's mouth, and shoves it deep down his throat until the screams become gargles of blood and finally fall silent* Come kitty. You can eat in the dining room with me. *picks up cat and crystal bowl of FF and walks into the next room*.

The end.

whatevah.

*sigh*

I hate that I'm still not over it and that you hate me.

Maternity Shoot Strikes Again.

I hope I'm this cool when I'm pregnant.