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| | The day I wasn't raped and killed | | | | Friday, July 25, 2008 (5:54 PM) | | Every day when I get home from work, I ride me 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 relaized 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.
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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. | | | | 60 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. | | | | 69 Views | 11 Thumbs Up | 8 Comments | |
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| | floc·ci·nau·ci·ni·hil·i·pil·i·fi·ca·tion | | | Tuesday, June 3, 2008 (5:37 PM)
(I'm feeling ironicalistic) | |
floccinaucinihilipilification [flok-suh-naw-suh-nahy-hil-uh-pil-uh-fi-key-shuhn]
noun: an act or of judging something to be worthless or trivial | | | | 70 Views | 10 Thumbs Up | 7 Comments | |
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| | sol·ip·sism | | | | Sunday, June 1, 2008 (1:27 PM) | | sol·ip·sism
1. Philosophy. the theory that only the self exists, or can be proved to exist.
2. extreme preoccupation with and indulgence of one's feelings, desires, etc.; egoistic self-absorption.
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I
When in good humor,
Give grass its green
Blazon sky blue, and endow the sun
With gold;
Yet, in my wintriest moods, I hold
Absolute power
To boycott any color and forbid any flower
To be.
[from "Soliloquy of the Solipsist" by Sylvia Plath]
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Recently my mother pointed out that I have no direction in life, am sloppy, have no friends, and spend too much time on my "goddamn computer doing gaawd knows what". She put on a stupid voice for the last bit of the sentence and really dragged out the word 'god' to insinuate I must be doing something perverted or something. I probably am half the time. I should include here that my mom, among several others in our flock, is a person living with mental illness. Although I can let most of most of her personal attacks roll off my back because I know she is neurotic and miserable and just wants to bring me down, (excuse my condescending language, I do understand the complexities of mental illness, but when it comes to my mother sometimes it is hard to be forgiving) the last part really got under my skin.
I think the majority of the ‘real me’ resides in my own head. I’ve always been an outgoing person, and have had close groups of friends (although I never seems to keep the same ones for too long) but I find myself more and more preferring to spend time alone. And I don’t have a problem with this, nor do I see it as a bad thing. But when people start putting it in your face, it’s hard not to question your condition.
I spend too much time in my own head. I think so much that sometimes it scares me. I don’t mean to say that there is anything particularly paramount about my thoughts compared to others, but when I spend too much time wallowing in my own mind, I tend to start to become less appreciative and even more critical of the perspective of others. Maybe it’s the cynic in me. I just don’t want to get too far down that path when I lose perspective altogether and resent everyone excluding myself.
LiveVideo is like a refuge for me. I might only be speaking for myself here, but I truly do believe that people are happiest when they are creating things. I originally posted videos on here because the appeal of talking into a vast unknown land of static and in return hearing an echo of people who heard what you said was exhilarating. But my time on here has opened up a new form of self expression for me that only you people can understand. So thanks.
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| | good readinz | | | Wednesday, May 21, 2008 (5:58 PM)
(I'm feeling mellow) | | harro errbody.
I decided I've let my mind drift on cruise control for a while now, and methinks it's time for the ol' noggin to get to joggin.
Translation: I need some good books to read.
I posted a bulletin about a month ago, asking if anyone had any winners in mind, and got a few responses from you silly citizens of livevideoland. However, as I've made it a habit as of late to make plans from a sitting position, I never quite got off my arse and followed up on suggestions.
SO, this is me asking for some feedback once more. Now that my corporate cherry has been popped, the 9-5 life has left me feeling like I reside in an overscheduled, repetitive vacuum.
Advice to self: If your mind is itchin', quit'chur'bitchin and git'cher ass in position for soul enrichin'.
Translation : Shut up and read a book
Here's my amazon wish list so far:
The Raw Shark Texts by Steven Hall (as suggested by SpaceMonkey1310)
The Glass Castle: A Memoir by Jeannette Walls (as suggested by anotherbrianne and jessicapeanut)
The Road by Cormac McCarthy (as suggested by dreamcatcher)
Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex by Mary Roach
Because I love another Novel of her's (Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers). She takes a gruesome, scientific subject and delivers it in comedic yet informative light
Rant: An Oral Biography of Buster Casey
-and-
Fugitives and Refugees: A Walk in Portland, Oregon
by Chuck Palahniuk
Because Chuck is the m effing man, and I would like to live in, or at least travel to, Portland one day.
Bright Shiny Morning by James Frey
Because I loved his book A Million Little Pieces and don't give a funk that he lied about it being a true story.
Clown Girl: A Novel by Monica Drake
Because the intro is written by Chuck Palahniuk, and he is the m effing man.
Dermaphoria by Craig Clevenger
Because it popped up in Amazon's suggestions based on the other books in my wishlist, and San Fran Magazine said, "This is a sometimes brilliant, heavily stylized novel whose psychedelic prose and labrynthe story line will enthrall some readers and enrage others." (The highlighted words light a fire in my eyes, or ass, or whatever the phrase is. And within the enthrall/engage dichotomy, I usually reside on the enthrall side.
(wishlist)
I generally gravitate more towards anything satirical with a twisted sense of humor.
Any additional comments and/or recommendations on the subject, or any other subject for that matter, are welcomed and encouraged.
Tank you and Gud Nai,
Kat(dot ballou) | | | | 77 Views | 16 Thumbs Up | 11 Comments | |
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| | my momma | | | | Sunday, May 11, 2008 (9:13 PM) | | tried to avoid the predictability of posting anything mother's day today...
but alas! 12:12am!
It's not today anymore. It's tomorrow.
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| | holy TL;DR | | | Saturday, May 10, 2008 (6:04 PM)
(I'm feeling blank) | | "What I want is to be needed. What I need is to be indispensable to somebody. Who I need is somebody that will eat up all my free time, my ego, my attention. Somebody addicted to me. A mutual addiction." -Chuck Palahniuk
This is an issue relevant in my rampant mind just about every day, but I've never shared it on here.
About five months ago, I ended a five and a half year relationship with someone I care about very much. Five and a half years may not seem like much to most people, but mind you I am only 19. He was all I've ever known.
The funny thing is, I don't think I was ever "in love" with him. I knew it all along too. One might assume that would make it easier to let someone go, knowing you were never in love in the first place. The exact opposite turns out to be true. I realize I sound selfish. Let me explain.
We were best friends from the age of 10. Inseperable. People knew us as a package deal. Things weren't exactly smooth as butta in my household, and when I'd get scared, or just felt like I needed to escape, I would run to his house. He had this little room in the backyard of his house disconnected from the rest with a punching bag. He'd always lead me straight there and tell me to have at it. He was the only person I'd ever cry in front of, and he'd just sit nearby and let me. Then we'd stay up all night and talk about anything and everything but bad news.
We skipped school, sat through countless detentions together, and made sure not one teacher ever liked us. He taught me that nothing is as serious as you think it is. We got drunk together, the first time for both of us, at the age of 13. He fell backward off the couch and accidentally kicked me in the face in the process. We laughed til we nearly puked brainstorming ridiculous stories we could tell my mom to explain the fat lip.
He was my favorite person in the whole world, my constant. I never thought of him as a boy. But eventually things started to change, and everyone but me seemed to know how much he liked me. I was oblivious to the fact, naive as hell. I don't remember him asking me to be his girlfriend, but he sure didn't ask me not to. I didn't want things between us to change like that, but it did. And I didn't dare object out of fear of losing my best friend.
I think it was that same passive attitude that kept me by his side through high school. He cheated on me, more than once. He dropped out of school before he could fail out, sold drugs, got arrested, a mother's nightmare. But he loved me. We stuck it out. He went away to rehab. [this all sounds much more dramatic written out than i've ever considered it to be]. I missed him so much it hurt my chest to think about. When he came back, it felt like the first time I actually believed I might be in love with him. But what I had missed was his attention, the feeling of being needed so badly by another person. I didn't love him.
As soon as high school ended, it didn't take long for me to part ways with the flock of friends who I'd always known I was disposable to. I went to community college, spent all of my free time by his side, even moved in with his family for months at a time when home wasn't somewhere I wanted to be. I felt like we matured 20 years in the transition between high school and college. We were the most stable we'd ever been as a couple. It looked promising. But I didn't love him.
His addiction to me kept me hooked. My insecurities kept me from making any decisions on my own.
I moved to Boston. Our relationship turned unbearingly mean. That's the only way I can describe it. It brought me down. I was in a new city, surrounded by new people. People who hadn't grown up with us, accepting us as a package deal. They didn't understand why I couldn't just let him go. I did. He said he saw it coming. Said I wouldn't find anyone to care about me again.
I looked for it. Found nothing but a lot of let down.
Still, I felt oddly lighter, happier without him. But I've quickly come to the realization that the reason it was so easy to put him out of my mind is because no one there knew him, or us. And I could pretend it didn't exist.
I don't like being home. He is all I had here. And I don't have him anymore. Every single thing in my hometown is marked by him. I've always known that I wasn't in love with him the way he was with me. But we needed eachother, and we just worked together. Sometimes the void where he once took up such a substantial part of me feels like hollow space, other times it feels too heavy to deal with.
I need to keep reminding myself that he is not what I want. He's just there. It's just so easy to ignore my head when he's so closeby, and constantly pressing me to be with him. He's got sisters...always been the wishy washy type. He's a constant supply of flattery, and telling me how much he cares. Do you know how hard that is to resist?
The more I write, the more I start to feel like a carbon copy of every girl who's ever blogged about a stupid ex.
Fuck.
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