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| | Love is a four letter word. | | | Sunday, September 28, 2008 (6:19 PM)
(I'm feeling amused) | | This will be the longest blog you have ever read. Abort.
The subject of "love" has been rearing its fat ugly head quite a lot for me lately. I have no idea how a true functional relationship works. In fact, I'm hard pressed to even believe such a thing exists. I understand that I am young. This is not a 'woe-is-me-I'm-all-alone-the-walls-are-caving-in-on-me' blog. (or is it?) I just need to express my less than enthusiastic outlook on this universal perceived normalcy of some sort of mind blowing, all emcompassing, everlasting romantic love. Fuck that shit.
I've been accused on many occasions of putting up a "tough" facade.
Not to get all psych-major on you or anything, but I've begun to understand why I am the way I am on the "acting tough" front. My younger years were pretty hectic and constantly dramatic. But somehow I had a way of always feeling like nothing was wrong because the conflict seemed to always surround other people in my family, not me.
When I was really small the drama was between my parents. A fucking hideous relationship in every way. That right there is the underpinnings of all my misdoings on the subject of love I do believe. Past my dad leaving all I can remember is everything in the world revolving around my mom's miserable life. Everything was about her. She was the weepiest fucking sap of a human being I've ever seen, and my brother and I tended to her like a sick puppy. She was pathetic. And had men come in and out of the house like a motel. (poor example of love #2)
I could make this into a retarded memoir if I went on. But I'll summarize to the [worst] of my ability. My uncle living with us through my adolescence fucked me up. Which we'll call poor example of love #3.
And then Joey. Joey was my best friend. I never loved him, and I know that. Loved his obsession with me. Ate it up. I let him walk alll over me. And stayed with him because he loved me, and that was a scary thing to let go of.(#4)
When we broke up he told me that no one is going to care about me for the rest of my life like him. These were clearly just his stupid last words he had to get in. But I think the way that I am just forces me to believe it's true. And I know it's just a display of stupidly low self-esteem but somehow I can't rise above that.
I can do nothing now but laugh at the fact that I was in fake-love for almost 6 years. I let that go on for SIX YEARS. For what? Attention. And now I can't shake that notion--that polluted idea that love is nothing more than filling holes and craving attention. (Those are emotional/philopsophical holes but in retrospect the pun is intended)
And I think the fact that the most prominent people who had a hand in the way that I grew up all had some variety of addiction as well has made it so that I don't think my own issues are worth anyone else's time. My biggest problem is that I've always cowered behind other people's shit, and I don't ever let my own out. I don't know if that makes me noble or a coward. What I do know is that it makes me feel like shit.
I've just always had so much going on around me I've felt like I've been constantly in the background, and my problems would just annoy everybody who had bigger things going on. So I bottle an unbelievable amount inside of me. (hence why I dump it semi-anonymously into the abyss that is the internet--my apologies.)
There.
These are all introspections I've made only in the past few weeks. You'd think it would have been obvious.
Now the thing that just bugs the shit out of me reading all that back, is that it all just sounds like someone else's sad fucking story. Like it's been told hundreds of times out of someone else's sorry mouth. I don't want it anymore. But what are we if not just an eclectic storybook of ourselves? I think it's just too fucking scary to let go of our pathetic stories, cause they're what we hold onto to trick ourselves into believing we are interesting. Or that we have something to say. Everyone is their own biggest fan, sitting on years and years of piled up stories. No one else really wants to hear it.
That said, let's keep talking about me, shall we?
I do feel alone, but I don't feel sorry for myself. I am no more alone than any motherfucker who's lonely with another person. I can't tell if I love myself too much or hate myself just enough to never, ever, want part of this man-made concept of love.
This has been a quintessential, existential explanation of my inability to love or be loved. Consider this my personal ad.
:) | | | 211 Views | 26  Thumbs Up | 16 Comments |  |
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| | who stuck their fat finger in the frosting? | | | Tuesday, August 26, 2008 (9:05 AM)
(I'm feeling slappy) | | So it turns out my birthday is A LOT cooler on the internet than it is in real life.
I just feel like I owe one giant collective thank you to everyone who made a video, sent me a gift, or just wished me a happy birthday.
In Summary:
Erica funked that freaky sh!t and got all Jungle Book wit it, X licked her flilthy filthy paws at me, Blanch made sexy faces, Chig did some gardening in his birthday suit, Jessicapeanut and SillyLeslie took eleventy shots in the quickest tag response in LV history, Sara, Rams and the monkeys wished me a peachy beachy birthday, Joe smashed shit, Elvanda talked dirty to me, Buliwif produced an epic rendition of LOLKats, SlickJimmy sucks, Deuciedoo wiggled his vocal chords to the tune of some Sublime, SpaceMonkey sent me a saucy private vid with birthday messages sprawled across his buttcheeks*, Syd gave me a heartwarming shoutout, and Hatter tweaked his nipple. What more could I ask for?
And of course the MagicTown party was nothing short of magic. Thanks to booze, the company of fellow numbnuts who also have nothing better to do on a Saturday night, and a fanfuckingtastical prank call by the master of random unwanted calls, THE PrincessErica.
But really, thanks. I'm definitely the type to play my birthday down and not make a production about it in real life (which I did) but It is kind of overwhelming to find out the number of people who care about me. Ya'll put a huge smile on my face for like 3 straight days. (I'm back to frowning--quick someone give me some attention)
A very special fuck you goes out to MasterOfThe control, who decided to let me wake up on my birthday to yet another rendition of his n00dz. Except this time they got progressively weirder throughout the day, as he's got this new thing where he rips the heads of Ken dolls and sticks his big fingers in the neck holes. Really Doug?
Happy Birthday to me!
<3
Kat
**no buttcheeks were actually involved in the making of SpaceMonkey's private vid. Wishful thinking. The MOTC part, sadly, is true. | | | | 194 Views | 24 Thumbs Up | 12 Comments | |
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| | Blog Saget | | | | Wednesday, August 6, 2008 (4:52 PM) | | I'll be east coastin' for a few days, followed by a couple weeks crammed full of work and various busy details involved in getting shit together to move, among other things. I'm starting to feel myself weakening into panic mode and letting myself get anxious over trivial shit.
But chin up Charlie! I'll be kicking it with the extended .Ballou family in Maryland this weekend, which will undoubtedly be one soaked in booze and belly laughs. My family is chock full of questionable characters, so I will most likely be impelled to illustrate these quirks in video form. (not to mention the possibility of my first ever motorcycle vlog =D )
I'm aware yalls don't need a play by play update of why my blinkie doesn't say 'online now', but I felt like writing a blog so suck it.
keep it venereal.
stay fresh.
<3
kat | | | | 192 Views | 20 Thumbs Up | 12 Comments | |
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| | soggy blog-too long. | | | | Tuesday, July 29, 2008 (3:13 PM) | | Every family has that uncle.
That uncle lived with us for the better part of my younger years. No one else ever let him stay for long.
Because he moved into our little house, my brother and I had to share a room.
Me and my brother had a secret understanding that I would allow him to tease me with his friends and act tough like an older brother should. I remember those older boys used to pin me down, one sitting on each of my arms and legs and one on my chest, and hold their nasty sneaker over my nose and mouth. They'd have me run around and serve them things while they played. Cups of lemonade when they played football in the yard. Sticks and grass when they set out to build a dam in the creek. I was always happy as long as they let me be around them. I can still see my brother standing shirtless, ribs probing the tanned skin on his scrawny chest with one hand on his hip, the other pointing at me, always telling his friends, "make the girl do it!"
But at night when we snuggled into bed in our room, I wasn't "the girl". I was Punch. A name he derived from what my mom called me when I was a baby: "paczki"--which for you non polish folk is pronounced "pawnchkee" and is a delecltable polish doughnut. I was a baby of serious business fat rolls.
It was routine that each night, as soon as I came close to slumber, he would repeat this name over and over. I'd always hear it , but try to tune it out until he got so loud that I couldn't pretend to be sleeping any longer. "WHAT." I'd whisper.
"Are you awake?"
"No."
"Can I come sleep with you?"
I wasn't supposed to tell anyone that my brother was afraid of the dark.
I always acted like it was this great big inconvenience, but I guess I could make room. The truth is that on those nights that he wore himself out enough to pass out in his own bed, I always had a hard time falling asleep with out him. My bed felt too big.
My uncle spent most of the time on the couch. My mom was always rolling her eyes at him and telling him not to do this and that around the kids. But me and my brother thought he was the coolest thing on earth. Mom eventually gave up on trying to get us to sit down at the table for dinner "like a real family" because we wanted to eat off a tray like Uncle Phil did.
I stopped thinking he was cool around the age of eight. My brother never stopped.
Last year uncle Phil hung himself in his small apartment in Maryland.
My brother has been swapping one addiction for another since he was 15 years old. Since Uncle Phil died his condition has accelerated to a scary place. I don't know him any way now other than drinking, drunk, or hungover. He has become an unrecognizable asshole and it takes everything I have to keep from saying I almost don't give a shit anymore.
But I do.
I'm scared shitless to leave. I'm moving back to Boston in September and I am terrified of what might happen to him when I'm gone. I know he is an adult and it isn't my problem to solve, but I can't help it.
Sometimes when I turn off the blaring TV and he's curled into a fetal position on the couch, he looks like the big brother I knew back then. And it's in these moments that he won't remember in the morning that he calls me Punch again and I can't imagine leaving him behind.
end note: I was almost tempted to, once again, do the cautionary foreword that I don't like posting dramatic "irl" stuff like this. But that's silly. I wrote it, and nothing good can come from it unless I put it out there for some advice. I don't have the right people to talk to for help with this little detail. I just have a feeling a lot people on here can relate in one way or another. | | | | 192 Views | 26 Thumbs Up | 14 Comments | |
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| | The day I wasn't raped and killed | | | | Saturday, July 26, 2008 (12:59 AM) | | Every day when I get home from work, I ride my bike to a 3/4 mile trail near my house, which ends at a pond. I don't usually see other people there.
So again today I rode to my pond without coming into contact with anyone. I laid my bike down, climbed my tree and relaxed. (childlike? Yes. Feeding into the "hippie" label I've received on this site? Yes. lol) When I came down, there was a man across the pond. For some reason my heart jumped when I saw him. I hadn't heard him or even noticed he was there when I was in the tree. I looked around and my first thought was there is absolutely no one else around. The trail goes back deep into the woods. We were alone.
In my mind I was as good as raped and killed. I could try to kick him in the nuts but from what I could see from across the water he was much bigger, and certainly stonger than me. My head was racing with all the awful things he could do to me. Things were not looking good. I kept my eye on him while pretending to sift through the grass. He didn't have a fishing pole, no bike. Did he follow me here? Then I realized he was looking at me. Right at me. He started to walk my way. I picked up my bike and fumbled in the pouch behind the seat, to make it look like I was getting out my cell phone, which I hadn't actually brought with me. I wanted to get on my bike and race to the opening of the trail, but there was no point as it was between he and I, and he would surely get there first. I waited. As he came within 10 feet of me he spoke.
"Beautiful out here, isn't it?"
yeah.
"I used to come out here with my wife"
So as it turns out, they guy's wife died a few years back, and his daughter, who he said was around my age, moved out of state with her much older boyfriend and doesn't call. Sounds like it could be a sob story to tell your rape victim in order to butter her up. But it wasn't. We talked casually for something like 10 minutes, and I said I was going to go. Mostly because I was getting feasted on by mosquitos--possibly a fate worse than an evening homicide at the pond.
Am I trained as a female to mistrust all men? I think it's sad that within the context of the world I know, I am conditioned to expect the worst. Is it worth the conscious effort to see the good in humanity, or is such an outlook just another weakness to be preyed upon?
On the ride back, I took more notice than before of the swampy creek that lines the trail.
Perfect place to stash a body.
| | | | 236 Views | 44 Thumbs Up | 26 Comments | |
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| | fra·gil·i·ty | | | Monday, June 30, 2008 (7:23 PM)
(I'm feeling nostalgic) | | frag·ile
1. easily broken, shattered, or damaged; delicate
Forgive me for being cheesy. This is another childhood memory blog. I had a flashback to childhood the other morning while rushing to get to work on time. Random memories are not something to be taken for granted. So this is more for me than you anyway. Fuck off :)
I'm chasing a fluttering white moth around the yard one summer, little knees smeared in dirt with hints of fresh speckled blood peeking through. I'm cupping my tiny outstretched hands that are raw from climbing trees that aren't trees but castles with endless spiral staircases into the sky. I'm wearing my favorite worn out frilly once-white dress, now decorated with mud and grass stains. My bony legs stick straight out of clunky black boots caked with a layer of grayish brown. Torn fairy wings are strapped loosely around each bare, tanned little shoulder, one side slinks halfway down to my elbow. I'm happy. I'm dressed with that whole-faced smile that can only come from not giving a fuck about anything in the world other than this stupid freaking moth. It lands delicate as a floating fuzz on the chub of my thumb and both hands clasp together to capture the frail creature. Fingers part to reveal my tiny treasure; there it is, a crushed smear of sparking white powder. A once fluttering waif of life snuffed out and reduced to a pile of fairy dust in my palm. I stare wide-eyed and bewildered at the shimmery remains, at my life crushing hands. For a moment like a lifetime I reflect in this moment of enlightenment for the fragility of life before smearing my victim to a grassy grave and running to catch up with Daniel for some frog hunting.
Here I am just short of 20 years old, knuckles tense on the steering wheel. Hundreds of tiny lives are ending one splat at a time on my windshield while I'm worrying about being late to work. A quick swish of blue fluid and their tiny tragedies are wiped away and forgotten while I barrel on at 80 miles per hour.
Life ends. Life goes on. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Everything an endless cycle. | | | | 206 Views | 12 Thumbs Up | 9 Comments | |
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| | calling out MOTC | | | Monday, June 16, 2008 (10:03 PM)
(I'm feeling sillypants) | | My good friend Douglas Michael The Third, otherwise known as MasterOfTheControl, has made a steady habit out of commenting on blogs without utilizing the option of the friendly 'thumbs up'.
I assure you that this is no accident.
I'm sure, if given the oppportunity, he has a long winded explanation on hand defending the rightness of his anti-thumb principle. I can vividly imagine Doug's gruff exposition on the matter, arguing the pointlessness of the feature. From what I've gathered of our friendly neighborhood comedic short guru, he gains personal satisfaction out of displaying contemptuous mockery of the motives of "the majority". Thus, I can picture him sitting in front of his PC and smugly jeering at all the silly puppet people who feel the need to convey their recongnition of a well written blog by checking the bubble next to the option of one or two little thumb graphics.
**sidenote: The one and two thumb option does seem silly. There isn't a "almost a hit" option on videos. In my opinion, one thumb stings more than none at all. It's like "yeah, this blog was alright I guess" "**
Under any normal circumstances, Doug's ruthless disdain (often converted into entertainment at the unknowing expense of others) would be the definitive reason that I feel compelled to call him my pal. It is a trait that we share on a very basic level.
HOWEVER, the thumb thing...Doug. I have no carnal need for thumbular validation. But it's just a little friendly "well done". Sure, the ball players on the bench could give a lengthy comment complimenting their teammate's homerun, but it's that endearing pat on the ass that adds that personal HOORAH. Would it kill you?
Give me two, I dare you. | | | | 226 Views | 11 Thumbs Up | 8 Comments | |
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