Habits

I was jonesing for the blog until I resuscitated it. Lately I've been too busy.

Doing what? you may ask. I'm learning the tarot. I made two pairs of pants. I'm addicted to Bravo reality shows. I finished Neil Gaiman's 'Fragile Things.' I'm writing a book... that can only be described as a wanna-be Neil Gaiman story.... with vampires. For a long time I've wanted to make a comic book about vampires that was funny. A comic about people who happened to be vampires. Then I realized I'm too damn lazy to ever finish more than 3 consecutive pages of a comic. So I'm writing a 'novel.' If I could spend as much time writing as I do blogging, I could write a book in a year or two I think. I really want to write about immortality as a realistic condition, without it being full of the angst common to a lot of vampire work. The main character is in love with life and finding new ways to enjoy it after 700 years. His best friend and roommate is a new vampire, only 30 years immortal, and he is reaching the 'angsty' phase. During the course of the story, my main character will create a vampire and she will have to start from zero. I'm not going for the 'vampire as a blood disorder' angle either - there will still be a little fantasy, without focusing on fantasy.

Action, romance, comedy, with as little drama and morality as possible.

I spend too much time falling in love with my characters and tend to forget the purpose of plot. I'm trying not to get fatalistic and say things like "i'll let you read the draft when it's finished sometime between 1 year and never."

I feel good about this life right now. I had a little bit of post-traumatic stress after the ..situation. I'm not letting it consume my life. I feel like all the negatives in my life (mid-level anxiety, no cash for coffee tomorrow, 5 pounds excess weight in the thigh region) could all be solved by one simple thing.

A man.

Heh. Stiiiill waiting on that train. I've been sitting in this station for nearly a year, you know just reading. Running down the tracks waving my arms didn't do any good. Where's that FUCKING train!!?!?!


I had a really depressing dream the other day. Two men jumped me while I was getting into my car one night and they shoved me in the back of a van. I had a cell phone. I sat there staring at it. It all went too fast, I wouldn't be able to describe the truck to the police and I didn't know where they were heading. It wouldn't do any good. I considered calling my mom. I had to anguish over the decision to call her and tell her I love her one last time, which would upset her and make her feel utterly helpless and terrified. Then again, there would be a finality for my family if they knew I was dead without having desperate and ultimately disappointing hope. I ended up calling Jeff because .... I don't really know but it seemed like a good idea to call a man. He didn't believe that I was actually about to die, because he would surely not be the person I would call if I was dying. He had a point. After I hung up with him I only had 5 minutes before the truck stopped. I never got the chance to call my mom. The two men pulled me out of the truck in a long three sided concrete garage (like a truck receiving bay) with a chair and rope in the corner. I broke free for a moment and ran, but was caught. I struggled hopelessly, desperately, like a trapped animal. And then I just cried. I wasn't ready to die. It was all very realistic. It made me uncomfortable for two days afterwards.

Processing dreams are no fun. Where's the good escapist dreams?

Where's my dark-haired dream lover?

And, seriously, where's that damn train..... I've checked my watch 786 times this year, but it doesn't seem to be coming.

Rebirth

What is it that they say in airports? Threat level has been raised to code orange, please report any suspicious activities or persons to airport security. This is orange. Last week it was red. High alert.

Thanks to those who were concerned. If you missed it, there's a drug addict psychopath whose been planning my demise for six years in ways that cannot be described here. Sick twisted fuck. He's being watched. If he moves, well... he won't.

In the mean time, I'm undergoing the process to get licenced to carry. It's something I've been meaning to do for a while. Then Darren can feel free to come and get me.

It's been driving me crazy all this shit going on. I want to tell everyone and at the same time I don't want to talk about it. I just want people to acknowledge this is really fucked up. And then that's all. I don't want people to worry about me. I'm a valkyrie, I can shoot to kill. My dad's sending me poetry about fear and ... I swear to God I wanted to scream. Biting my tongue until it bleeds because he's paying my registration fees .... and likely sending me one of his 38's. I have to be nice. I am not a damsel in distress.

On the flip side... I have never been closer to my real dad, Andy. It's funny. He's the only one who understands this part of me. My mom is a girl. She can't help that. She is a damsel in distress with a baby. My dad expects me to be the same way. He was shocked when I told him I wanted my CCW. And honestly it was Andy's idea. Andy understands my paranoia, which is an obsession with being ready for the worst. He understands my capability to protect life by taking another's. He talks about our Choctaw heritage, which he describes as "nice, but do not FUCK with us" and he emphasizes FUCK. He talks about his misguided anger and frustration at life, suicidal depression, and a desire to live forever all in the same sentance. And I understand exactly what he means.

I never saw that coming. That dumb bitch in elementary school was right when she said "someday you're gonna want to know about your real dad." And I retorted with the elementary equivalent of 'fuck off': "Whatever. I doubt it."