Day 3

May. 21st, 2017 05:01 pm
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Two, because they're easy
 
3.  A song that reminds you of summer.
Two Cure songs, both rife with memories from college years.  Love Cats and Just Like Heaven
 
4.  A song that reminds you of someone you'd rather forget about
Asshat - Stuck Between Stations by The Hold Steady.  Haven't listened to this song since 2009.
I'm never quite sure if I want to forget (about) Lesson.  I'd definitely like to never think of him again, which is maybe the same thing?  He gets Your Ex Lover is Dead by Stars.  Possibly a little heavyhanded on the alanis morrisette irony to pick a song for this with the lyrics "I'm not sorry I met you / I'm not sorry it's over / I'm not sorry there's nothing to say".

 
 

day 2

May. 20th, 2017 05:42 pm
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2. A song you like with a number in the title

7 Stones by Lindsay Mac



honorable mention:
 84,000 Different Delusions by Shawn Colvin and 100 Games of Solitaire by Concrete Blonde


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Snagging this one beause I think it's adorable and because I appreciate the opportunity to go digging around in my music collection.  (let's see how many of them end up being Kris Delmhorst and Peter Mulvey songs)

1.A song you like with a colour in the title

Yellow Brick Road by Kris Delmhorst

Honorable mentions: 
Beautiful Red Dress by Laurie Anderson and Black Feather Wings by Monique Ortiz

The list )
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Finished listening to None of the Above by I.W. Gregorio a couple days ago. The book is about an intersex 18yo girl who has just discovered she's intersex.  She's a high school senior, a competitive runner, and just got voted Homecoming Queen when this all comes out.  (the incident that sends her to an obgyn is attempting to have sex for the first time with her awful boyfriend).

Everything that happens for a little while is awful.  She tells a couple people in confidence,  the secret doesn't get kept, she gets dumped, bullied (both cyber and not), she gets suspended from the track team, etc.  She spends a lot of time trying to keep things from her dad, because years ago her mother died of cervical cancer and he's never really recovered.

The part that really struck me is that while I'm cisgender, some of the places where I've seen a little bit of my menopause story reflected back at me is in trans and (now) intersex narratives.   In this book in particular, the protagonist undergoes a gonadectomy and then "forgets" to take her estrogen supplements, and essentially hits menopause and her experience of hot flashes sparked that sick feeling under my breastbone that empathy sometimes creates.  I don't want to co-opt anything, that's not my intent.  Part of my discomfort with the stories I do hear about mastectomies and oopherectomies is because those are Cancer Stories and I did not/do not have cancer, I just had fear and statistics motivating my surgeries.  And I'll straight up admit that I don't feel like I know enough to talk about what it must be like to transition or to be intersex.

But there was some thread here, something that has popped up a couple times in a couple different places, something I want to tease out.

I didn't love the book.  I'm not even sure I liked it.  She's kind of a twit and surrounded by mostly incompetent adults and it's possible that true love saves her.   But it did get a fishhook into my brain somewhere.


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 Yesterday, after a couple different "you don't know so-and-so" comments at Intention's house, I exclaimed "I'm basically a shut-in".  

I see my partners, the cohabiting and the not, I see Intention and their family, I see Hips and Hands, and everyone else I'm pretty much forgotten how to be friends/be social/return emails in a timely fashion/leave the house  (or at least that is how it feels).  Then shame and exhaustion incline me to continue not taking action and the next thing I know I haven't talked to someone for months, and I'm too scared they think I'm a shitty person to reach out. And I hope that I've wandered through the part of my life where I make friends because I know I can serve some need they have and that will cause them to attach to me (it's a little less mercantile than that) but I'm not sure I've wandered into the next part either.  
 
Maybe I'm turning over a new leaf now that I'm going to be a lady of leisure.  Maybe I have exactly the right amount of social in my life already. Maybe it's time to figure out how volunteer meaningfully without getting into a service relationship with an organization. Maybe what I really want is more people to talk to on the internet. Maybe it's time to learn to be still more often. Maybe it's time to cultivate some truly epic pinterest boards. (maybe it's time to learn to only use one space after a period.)
 
 

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 The mood, it has not been ideal.   The thought "you're ruining everything" keeps popping up in my head and it's almost impossible to shout down.  And there's some sort of weird synergy going on, because normally that thought makes me cry, but Abudance and Light and I all went to Guardians of the Galaxy today, and I was crying about the movie at the end, and all of a sudden, in super-stark clarity my brain provided the "you're ruining everything."  So not only do I cry when I think it, when I cry I think it.

Clear as mud.

Need to make oatcakes for the Beltaine ritual tomorrow.  Need to wash dishes, make a grocery list, cook food, brush cats, read books, journal, cross-stitch, figure out how to integrate all the stuff I brought home from the office into the house.  Need to sort out the month, need to find the appointment reminder that tells me when my appointment with my psychopharm is tomorrow.  

Need to calm down.


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In my personal journal, sometimes I just type "just keep starting" a handful of times to remind myself to spring back from the "failure" of not writing daily.   

Work is weird, I have eight more days of work and I suspect they're just going to get weirder.  My boss has asked me to write a document detailing all the things I do which is pretty much feels impossible.  I do a lot of complicated things without support, there is no one in the Center who knows how to do most of my job, including my boss and it's hard to write instructions without knowing how much excel/beast-specific software experience someone has (if the answer to both is none, my instructions will just be pages of maniacal laughter).

I'd forgotten when we moved offices and had to get rid of a lot of our old books and magazines that I salvaged an entire box of old dictionaries and nat geo maps for craft purposes, so it's been interesting to re-discover those. I have grand intentions to make a canopy for my canopy bed by stringing fake flower petals on wire, and the test strip looks a lot like I want it to, but now I'm tempted to make some sort of bunting out of old maps.

Went to a dog show with Hips, had an awesome time.   Went to Indie Bookstore Day and got 2 postcard coloring books and a Jenny Lawsonprint.   Therapy three times a week sometimes means three bouts of weeping (which is different than crying.  Crying I can talk through, weeping is mostly trying not to make those awkward high keening noises and gasping instead) which means my eyes always feel tired.  Listening to Bone Witch, reading The Immortals.   Possibly have to drive to Lowell for jury duty on Tuesday.
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Giving notice tomorrow,  if I don't lose my nerve.  giving three weeks.

selected and purchased two CSA from two differnet farms, one predominantly veggies and one exclusively fruit.  Hoping that my status as a lady of leisure will translate into me preparing strange veggies in interesting ways.  One of my projects is going to be to use every spice in my cabinet once.  If I manage to do this, I can start purchasing strange-to-me spices from the russian store.

Every morning, I sit with my growlight,  read the two news aggregators I subscribe to (Skimm and CNN's five things) and eat a cookie from the aforementioned russian store that I dip in my tea.  they are now known as news cookies in my household.

Didn't march, again.  Light's girlfriend marched and I know it's not a competition, but it made me feel even more like I was failing at something. 

I have a page in my bullet journal I'm titling "costume" and I'm keeping track of which eyeshadows and which perfumes I'm wearing.  Still trying to find something I like as much as I like Ava Luxe's Milk perfume, which Abundance hates.  Still haven't found one.   BPAL makes me smell like baby powder, play dough or  potpourri gone moldy.  Possets has a couple things I love, but the retour hasn't come around yet.  (nom nom nom, fires of hell).

I'm contemplating trying to get into/onto facebook again, pare down the list to the fourteen people I like in the world and try to stay in touch with those people.

So, you know.  Things. 
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 This post is brought to you by a combination of 

a) picking up the final framed cross stitch I spent this year making for Tank's little sister yesterday
b) seeing a picture posted to facebook of Mech's happy family
c) a text Mech hasn't answered
d) a lot of feelings which have lead to 
e) crying in my office


Since I'm not going to send this letter to my little brother, I'm going to post it here.  I'm a little ashamed, I'm a little concerned the parents in the audience are going to tell me the ways in which I'm wrong, but posting feels like getting to say a thing, even if it's not saying it to the person I want to say it to.  

Dear Mech,
 
I feel like you and Teach are doing a shitty thing to me and in turn a shitty thing to Tank.
 
I suspect you both have problems with how I do things that you've chosen not to tell me about, but even with that, I'm an awesome aunt.  I love Tank deeply, I provided awesome free childcare, I took him to awesome classes and would continue to do so if it was possible.  

However I'm fairly certain that remaining seriously attached to someone controlled by people who can't be trusted to treat me decently is not a good plan for me.  
 
I'm going to try to stop begging for the opportunity to see him.  If the choices you make for him involve not being able to accomodate me in his life, then I'll abide by that (it's not like I've got a choice). But I believe if you can plan preschool and play dates, you can plan for me to have a presence in his life.  If you don't want to plan for that, I'd prefer you tell me that rather than pretend it's impossible to do so.  

Maybe you're not sending secret messages by not responding to my emails, texts and phone calls.  But the unsecret one, of not being someone you make time to respond to, is pretty clear.
 
I suspect you believe I can't actually understand either of your feelings because I'm not a parent, and that being a parent exempts you from treating me like I matter, because it is only Tank and his baby sister that actually matter.   Neither of us will ever know that, you can't say I don't understand your feelings and I can't say I do. But I suspect that your parent-feelings don't actually preclude making space for me in Tank's life, it's not that kind of either-or unless you decide it is.
 
Don't teach your kids that people who love them will leave them mysteriously. 

love
-omnia
 
 

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 Start with short bursts of information, work up to longer posts. Or at least that's what I'm telling myself.

I keep a journal almost every day, I start each entry with eating, wearing, reading and coveting.   It's pleasant to give myself the space to just want objects. 

I just got back from the Virgin Islands, where I vacationed with Light and Hands and Hips, where we spent as much time snorkeling as our bodies would allow.  I saw all the fish, and many non-fish-shaped things (turtles, rays, pelicans, hummingbirds, donkeys, goats).  

I just finished Mira Grant's Final Girls and it was the kind of engaging where I completely stopped registering the passage of time until I was done.   I continue to try to remind myself to refer to all authors by their first and last names, because I occasionally find myself referring to female-identified authors by first names and male-identified authors by last names and it pisses me off when I notice.   I'm listening to Ghost Talkers by Mary Robinette Kowal, and it's interesting, but there's something off that I can't identify, the same uneasy feeling that her Glamourist series gave me, something in the combination of period piece and gender roles that I don't like.  Which is strange, because I often see her saying many things I agree with about happenings in fandom.  

(Yes, sometimes like a scab I can't leave unpicked, I read about bad things happening at sff/literary type conventions.  Despite what Abundance tells me about trying to get into service relationships with organizations (ie: Don't), I sometimes feel like it's a way to be useful, a way to find community that I should try again, but then I remember the moderate haze I left under and the burnout and the discomfort)

in other news: I'm trying to convince myself that if I/we can afford to have me quit my job, I don't need a better reason than being exhausted and feeling lost to quit.  

's

Mar. 28th, 2017 09:17 pm
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Why is it so hard to write some days?   I've been shit at even keeping my own journal, unwilling to look at anything with too much focus, instead playing picross and petting cats and crying.   So much crying.

Today was therapy, which involved crying about Tank, and how my regularly scheduled Wednesdays with him are over, and exactly how unfriendly his mom is (I thought this was going to be my last week with him, but at the end of my visit last week she informed me that that they had other plans this week).   And I wondered how Tank's mom (my sister-in-law) had turned into my parents in my head and all I want to know is what I did wrong and how I can change so that they/she'll like me and stop cutting my access off to something I want.

I don't know how people do this.  I can draw a line in the sand, tell her that I don't appreciate this, but then I'm even less likely to get access to my nephew.  I can just give up, stop seeing my nephew and I will pine so very, very much, but eventually there will be an end to the pining.  I can chase my little brother, nag him into the occasional weekend date with him and my nephew (and maybe my niece and maybe sister-in-law). Now, it's not that I think it's somehow my sister-in-law's fault, and not my baby brother's.  It's his too, all of his excuses about her being an ass involve explanations about motherhood. 

I'm off to a tropical island at the end of this week, and hopefully some quality time stalking sea turtles will even me out a little bit, and then I'll be able to start thinking about what I'm feeling again, and quit my job, and take up hobbies and get a dog.   So, you know.  Things.  
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 Once again, stoned on my migraine meds.  Full of the best intentions, Abundance and I ran a bunch of errands, and then he went off to an Ostara ritual, Light went off to his date and realizing my complete lack of desire to take my sunglasses off was in fact because I was having a migraine.

I'm still really bad at as-needed medication, I always imagine that I'm just being dramatic, that there's something much worse around the corner and this is just a headache, just a little bit of distress, and I shouldn''t get used to the relief because if I avail myself too often, it'll stop working or I'll need it all the time or something.

I think I'm quitting my job after we get back from vacation.  I'm never going to look back at my life and think "I really wish I'd spent more time at the Beast."  I may not be able to figure out what I want to do, I may cringe a little inside every time I can't keep myself from crying, I may fear that I'll never get another job because I give horrible interview, I may not even be able to talk about it here, it feels like too much privilege, too much dependence, too much weakness.  But I think I'm going to try this, get a wrist tattoo, get a dog, see if going to the gym regularly has any effect on my mood or my sleep habits.   For a little while, at least.

And just typing this makes me cry, again, but I also can't feel my cheeks (that's the imitrex), I dropped off Niecelet's cross-stitch (the pirate ship) to be professionally framed and it feels like so good to have finished, I finally bought more hangers (a relatively simple thing I've been coveting for a while now) and a room of my own. 

But now I've lost part of my charger, and so  may just not get to have nice things ever again, or at least use my computer for the forseeable future.    blargh.



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 If you were going to compile a list of all the books you'd ever read, would you include plays?
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I have a room of my own now, after living here for about a decade, we re-arranged the world so that Light's games and D&D books are upstairs in what was initially the master bedroom and the third bedroom is mine all mine mwahahaha.  (the second bedroom being Abundance's).

Now, the naming of rooms is a difficult matter, because they're all mine.  Sort of.  I sleep  in each of them, sometimes.  And part of the initial impetus for this was after Abundance moved in, I was having a hard time feeling like I had a place in the house, like I was going from Abundance's room to Light's room and back again.

But now, I have a canopy bed, (no canopy yet, though I intend to make one out the disassembled petals of fake flowers) half full of squishables, purple walls that Abundance painted in August when Light and I were at his sister's, bird silhouettes that Delight helped me put up, and a bunch of art up.  (Hips' chickadee painting, an encaustic from a kickstarter I funded, a Maya Stein quote, the quick sketch from the poetry brothel, two pieces of tea art (one a letterpress quote, one a stasiab print), the print I bought at a sheep festival with Chile (I believe) for two dollars, then professionally framed a great many years ago that shows two women walking down a seaside path with the handwritten label "The Marginal Way, Perkins Cove, Ogunquit ME"

There's a set of poems, photocopied or typed out next to the closet.  Brooks Haxton's Dialogue of Soul and Stone. The black sheep monologue from Karen Finley's Theory of Total Blame, Judy Grahn's Detroit Annie, Seamus Heaney's At the Wellhead, Muriel Rukeyser's Myth and Alta's Euridice.  I don't know how long these have all been following me around.   Haxton and Heaney were acquired in highschool, back when I earnestly read the New Yorkers lying around my english teacher's house.  I think Rukeyser and Finley's were acquired in college, and for the life of me, I can't remember when I met Grahn, though my obsession with her was definitely in full swing in 1998, because I remember buying an old copy of The Work of a Common Woman in Florence, MA after one of my first temp job paychecks from the mortgage department of the local savings bank.

I have the featherworked briefcase Iceberg gave me in college, I have a rolltop desk from my parents' house, I have a new craft table and a new sewing machine.   I have makeup and perfume samples scattered around the room, almost entirely glittery things from Colourpop for my eyes and dessert-scented things from various indie perfumeries.

Skitterypoof has decided not only is my bedroom her safe space, but that it becomes safe enough that she will willingly climb on my chest, hunker down and either fall asleep, or loll about trying to make biscuits and drooling. Considering most the time she flees in abject terror when a person walks by her on their way somewhere else, this is pretty amazing.

Now I feel like I have to create something in this room, do something grand, or at least make a grand effort at something.  Haven't figured out what that is yet, though.

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 Kid-saga.
 
Yesterday, I spoke directly with my little brother, who was very sorry that I’d cried and been freaked out and reassured me that it very much wasn’t about me in any way, that it’s all about Tank and Tank’s needs (and some of his wife’s).  And he assured me that he loved me and wanted me in Tank’s life and maybe we could start doing weekends and when I apologized for getting my feelings all over him he told me I never needed to apologize for my
 
So, I calmed.  And Valentine’s Day was a bit of clusterfuck, but also lovely. Good food, two of my partners, adorable cards exchanged, TV watched.
 
And then Teach texted me at 7am today to tell me that she had to cancel my time with Tank today, he was unwell and hadn’t napped at daycare the prrevious day.  So I spent the day alternating sulking and cleaning, and then took two of the four cats to the vet for their annual.  (I hate driving and it remains the bomb all at once.)

There’s a person in the area who hosts an optionally-anonymous valentine's day lj confessional.  In it there are usually interesting threads that allow for glimpses into other people's lives.  These are balanced out by local people all confessing crushes on one another.   I anonymously confessed a crush a handful of years ago, got directly called out on it by the crushee, and proceeded to have a lot of intense feelings (being outsmarted is always hot), which culminated in said crushee telling me in the span of a few weeks that I was lovely, and if they had the time/space/energy/situation to date me, they would but they didn’t so they wouldn’t.  (Abundance said pretty much the same thing in about the same two week period.)  I know the chances of seeing my name in it are extremely low, I don’t move in those circles and for the most part, I don’t think I want to, except for the part of the time when I totally do want to. Is it an ego thing? A feeling of invisibility? I’m a grown-ass woman with a full dance card, what am I hoping for?  Why can’t I just tell myself not to read it?
 
Oh, stuff.  

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 I babysit my nephew one day a week.  Son of my youngest brother, turned 2 last September.
 
My sister-in-law just informed me that I’m no longer going to have a regular day with him, starting in the summer (though actually basically starting mid-april, as she’s decided to sign him up for a playgroup on the day that we traditionally hang out.  He’ll be going to preschool 3 days a week, she’ll be taking him and his little sister to the beach one day a week and her mother will take over the last day.   Maybe she won’t be going back to work at all.  Maybe maybe maybe.
 
I’m absolutely heartbroken.
 
I’m still in the over-reacting phase (I hear my couples' counselor tell me that there's no such thing as over or under reacting, there's only reacting), where I’m telling myself I shouldn’t have cared so much, shouldn’t care so much, especially about matters that other people have all the control over.  And maybe I should just flounce, cancel altogether, write everyone off, give up on trying to be someone that any member of my genetic family is pleased with.  I was of use, and now I’m not, over and over again.
 
I want to know what I did wrong, I think I’m being punished, that I wasn’t good enough.  And of course, it’s probably not at all about me, it’s about her, and him, and the family as a whole.  I want my little brother to call me and actually talk to me, not have this news conveyed by email and text with a woman that I don’t necessarily like or know how to talk to. 
 
And I love Tank, and maybe I’ll still get to see him weekly, or maybe I’ll stop seeing him altogether and I’ll find a way to be fine with that.  But for the moment, I feel so fucking invalidated.  
 
And I had a weird and shitty Sunday, unable to keep my mood above the waterline, sinking into tears every time I stopped actively trying to suppress them.  Light had a sleep-over date with the woman he’s seeing, Abundance was at the last day of his all-weekend hackathon.   I wrote angry journal entries I then deleted, Skitterypoof managed to be chill enough to be cried on for a bit, I eventually sobbed on Abundance and it was a little bit cathartic, but there was the internal critic reminding me that if I was a better person I wouldn’t make him (or anyone) feel bad because I couldn’t wrangle my own emotions better.
 
What's the difference between self-soothing and hiding under the bed pretending the monsters can't get me?
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My reading intentions (different than my habits) come in fits and starts.  I have all these books I haven't read that I really should, before I let myself buy any more. Or maybe I should discard all my unread and set myself free. Some of them I really want to read, but for some reason they never come to hand when I'm trying to pick my  next book.

I used to claim the weight of my books kept me real, kept me safe, kept me tethered, but I eventually started to weed, and then when Abundance moved in and I got my own room, I moved some of the books in here, and a bunch more into storage.

I'm crap at reading nonfiction, my mind skitters off the surface, finds something more interesting to chew on and I read the same chapter more than once and am convinced either I never was all that smart and just have (and have had) enough people fooled that it has had the same result or I didn't quit drinking early enough, or 20 years of antidepressants have turned me to mush.

Same issue with reading the news, I find predigestesd stippets, I read my two news aggregator emails in the morning, and then catch the rest through social media, or the occasional random deep dive into something in particular.  

I've been chipping away at some of the low-hanging fruit of my unread book collection, namely my absurd collection of indie RPGs.  I don't play RPGs almost ever, but I love the ways people create worlds, or how people prompt other people to create worlds.  (that and I think Brave Sparrow may have saved me at one point). I love everything Meguey Baker touches, anything that talks about how people relate to each other, any world where the players create a shared world in addition to characters, or where the world is a character.

I'm going to a day of PAX East and I'm sure I'll acquire a few more.  Hopefully one of these years, they'll pass from aspirational to actual.  I desperately want to manage a game of Ribbon Drive with Abundance and Delight some day.

MIT has declared a snowday, but for the moment the Beast is holding out.  I suspect I'll be taking a personal day, even if we don't close for the day.



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Sometimes, I hate that I can hold onto missing someone for so very long and that the ache can be triggered by such random things (skimming someone’s lj in this case who has no similarity to Teach but reminded me of him). When I'm lucky (or patient or diligent or kind) I can remember the good things, the way I grew, what I learned and/or took away from the relationship, what I might have given. Other times all I can remember is the being judged unworthy, unimportant, discardable.

I met Teach in October of '98.  I'd just moved out of my parents' house and into my own apartment and before the move I'd tried to make friends the only way I really knew how (online, a couple was asking for a third, I corresponded).   The first night in Northampton, I drove to a party the couple were having.  I remember the house as lightly sinister, that I wasn't certain if my alarm was just aaargh-strangers or something else.  I also remember getting lost on my way back home that night, driving in ever-increasing panic until I recognized the rental agency office and could track my way home from there.

I'd go back to that house at least once, the following May, with my-then partner, and we had awkward uninteresting sex in the woods in the back because that's what you do on Beltane, right?  (I have never in my life had sex with the intention of reproducing, and am now physically incapable of it, and have a healthier if more distant relationship to that set of high holidays)

But from that autumnal evening, I remember meeting this large but lightly frail-looking, fey blonde boy, and feeling like he saw me in some important way and asking him if he was happy, as if that was just the first thing you asked strangers, some conversational gambit.  (It's hard to talk about the woo bits of my past, I'm both judgmental and wistful about them.  I'd like a better relationship with spirituality, but feel stuck as to where to begin, how to start, where to go.  I envy people called by their gods as much as I envy people called by their professions, the knowing must be glorious, if also a burden).  But my relationship with Teach started with a lot of woo.

Over the following seven years, we had a lot of ups and downs, and when I'm lucky I remember the joy, I remember snuggling and reading poetry to each other long into the night, I remember the rare occasion that I slept over and woke up with him (I think I had a crush on him, but we were both very open about me not being his type), I remember meat lovers pizza and the goth club, I remember feeling safe.  I remember getting him a low-paying job at the Awful company, being introduced to Unexpected, him being the first person I saw as I woke up swinging from the sedation for my wisdom teeth surgery,  his girlfriend trying to correct me on the pronunciation of my tattoo.  

Our friendship ended badly, I regret that, but I think it was probably for the best.  I don't remember all the details, I know part of it was I was acting like a jealous partner and in order to deal with that, he was lying to me about where he'd been.  (I remember being so furious, not about the lying (though I was furious about that too) but about how badly he did it)  He chose his partners over me time and time again, and at the time I assumed that was the way of the world, friends of the gender you were attracted to would always fall second to romantic/sexual partners.  (yeah, there was a lot of unexamined heterocentrism and binary thinking in that)  And then he got involved with a woman that I thought was dangerous and horrid and I believe I drew some line in the sand.

He wrote me an email about me being a bad friend, I remember reading it at work.  Some time later, one of us extended an olive branch, and we hung out, once and when he went to hug me at the end of the evening, I recoiled, something somewhere in me glossing him as a threat.   We'd see each other occasionally in the following years, before I left the happy valley. We had mutual friends, exes of the aforementioned dangerous girl, and we'd have tv nights, and I tried both civility and pretending he didn't exist.  I read his livejournal once after we parted ways, saw myself vilified and haven't since. The last time I saw him was at Unexpected's wedding, with his very pregnant wife and after a great deal of internal turmoil, managed to congratulate him.    

I honestly hope he's happy and I honestly hope occasionally he misses me.
 
 
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I've been keeping a daily journal again, google docs that Abundance reads and can comment upon.  And I think this is part of why I’m finding it uncomfortable to figure out how to talk on livejournal, why the voice that composes and (roughly) anonymizes, the voice that distances, gives usenames, the voice that tries to do whatever it is I'm trying to do out here on the internet are rusty.
 
But I’ve got a giant mug of DavidsTea’s Salted Caramel tea, a snow day (even if there’s no snow yet), two still-sleeping partners and a SkitteryPoof of a cat that just helped me answer the eternal question of “does tea taste better when a cat dips her tail in it?”.
 
And I want to tell you about my mug, because it’s amazing and Hips got it for me at an artist convention she goes to and it’s covered in happy monsters.  And I want to tell you about how even if there’s no snow yet, there’s this feeling of anticipation, that the awful neighbors’ windchimes are whipping about in the wind, and the flashy blue light (that tells residents an Official Snow Emergency has been declared (so you can’t park on one side of the street) is on.
 
And I want to tell you about all the things I’ve been thinking about or struggling with. Like what appears to be so, so many people, I’m sad and frustrated and I want to Do Something.  But I don’t know what that something is, and I’ve been letting myself off the hook from standing protests (oh! The orthopedist said it was a bad bone bruise and a sprained ligament, and that in another month I should be mostly back to fully functional knee, which is awesome.  Someday I’ll need to unpack why exactly it feels like if it’s not serious, I should have known and not gone to the doctor.) and I’ve signed up for monthly donations (Light and I gave each other a $100 a month budget for charities and a $50 a month budget for Patreon for the winter holidays) and that’s important to me and I want to talk about it, the causes I chose, why it’s important to me to support creators and educators in lots of different spheres, but I choke myself, feeling like i’m not doing enough with my privilege and feeling like my feelings of inadequacy about creating or educating are old news.
 
But instead, I’m going to solve my problem of what to post by reviewing one of my January books. 
 
Kink vaguely discussed )
omnia_mutantur: (Default)
 Stayed home from work with a mgraine this morning, I know I got up and took a shower and ate trying to convince myself it wasn't a migraine, then admitted it, took meds, emailed work and went back to bed.  That was all about 4.5 hours ago, and while I was conscious for some of that time, I'm not really sure what I did with it.

Electric blankets are the bomb.

For reasons I'm not entirely clear on, but am going to run with anyway, I'm going on a replying to comments binge, and then commenting on old entries binge. 
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