This may be the first minute of the rest of my life. Wait. I mean– oh, screw it.

In half-an-hour, I’m leaving my house to go see “Saw” up in Summerlin. The sun has already begun to set, and it will be dark by the time I get to the movie theater, and it will be even darker by the time we get out of the movie, and this is seriously going to freak me out, but would you believe it, I SUGGESTED THAT WE SEE THIS MOVIE AT NIGHT. Because you can’t see a scary movie during the daytime, that’s such a pansy way to do things.

I don’t handle scary movies well, at all. I jump at the slightest thing and yes, I was one of those tormented souls who saw “The Ring” and went home in complete fear of not only her television, but her anything-resembling-a-television-screen, including the computer monitor and the windows and the mirrors. My boyfriend at the time thought I would be perfectly fine going home ALL BY MYSELF, that I would be able to fall asleep ALL BY MYSELF, as though it weren’t ridiculously obvious that the creepy chick COMES OUT TO KILL PEOPLE when they are ALL BY THEIRSELVES.

So I suppose it’s the sadistic side of me that said last night, “Hey! Let’s go see ‘Saw,’ but we have to do it when it’s dark!” I hate scary movies. I love them in theory, even though I also hate them in theory, but I really, really hate them in reality, even though I guess a little bit of me loves them, or maybe just loves hating them. It’s complicated. But the point is, I’m about to see what has been hailed as an exceptional scary movie, and this means I’m going to be huddled into the smallest ball I can make myself into, in the corner of the seat, every muscle in my body more tense than is probably healthy, for, like, an hour and forty minutes.

I may not make it out alive. Or sane. And it’s in Summerlin, which means there will be a long, solitary drive home after the movie, thirty minutes in which the invisible predator will have gleeful opportunity to hijack my car and pull me out and then cut me up into little itty bits, slowly, one limb at a time, and then probably set my baby car on fire, the BASTARD.

Sigh. Why am I constantly putting myself into these situations? I hate scary movies.

Advertisements

Acquisition #3

The spoils of last night: a giant 42 oz. Lowenbrau mug. A giant, hefty, textured glass about 3/8” thick– faboo! My second Lowenbrau glass, third beer glass period (the other is a Guinness). None have been physically removed from the premises by my own hands (or fingers or arms or head or any other body parts), and both Lowenbraus were given by the bar staff to the carry-outer with the knowledge that said bar staff would never see said glasses in said bar again. Or something like that.

Truth be told, I have no idea what I’m going to do with this glass. I’m not even sure why I wanted it, other than because it’s so funny looking. As I told the boys last night, I might plant something in it.

Because, I mean, what else am I going to do with a 42 oz. glass?

The Suitcase Mutilation

My mother: I’m really sorry, but I have to do this, it’s not your fault, I’m sorry… [sounds of scissors snipping as she cuts through the lining]
Me: Are you apologizing to the suitcase?
Mom: Yup.

—————

In other news, I made a kick-ass batch of Irish soda bread. Fantastic! I might use dried cranberries next time, instead of raisins. Which will probably take out the “Irish,” but– well, would it, actually? I don’t remember raisins being stereotypically Irish. Potatoes, maybe, but not so much raisins.

Either way, taste = yum.

Proof that I need a life

Cat: Meow.
Me: [mockingly] “Meow.”
Cat: Meooow.
Me: “Meooow.”
Cat: Meow!
Me: [exasperated] What?
Cat: Mrooooow.
Me: No!
Cat: MEOWWWW.
Me: NO!!
Cat: MROOW-RRR-OOOOOW.
Me: NO. GO AWAY.
Cat: MRR– [pauses, as if contemplating a change in strategy. Plaintively:] Mew?
[beat]
Me: Oh, fine.
Cat: Purrrrr.

If you ask me, that purr was just a smidgen too smug.

Did I mention it rained today?

One of the signature smells, and sounds, even, that signals the coming of cooler temperatures (understand that Vegas doesn’t really *have* autumn, despite the abundance of fake foliage decorations in assorted rust-colored variations, despite the pretty gift baskets of “seasonal” nuts and squashes and pumpkins and such. Autumn don’t come ’round these parts, oh no– we experience summer and winter out here, and right now, we are moving from post-summer into pre-winter), a.k.a., The Cold Weather Smackdown:

The heater. The glorious heat-producing heater that heats this heat-needing house. Heat! It’s amazing!

It rained today. Yup.

“I was perpetually grief-stricken when I finished a book, and would slide down from my sitting position on the bed, put my cheek on the pillow and sigh for a long time. It seemed there would never be another book. It was all over, the book was dead. It lay in its bent cover by my hand. What was the use? Why move? Why breathe? The book had left me, and there was no reason to go on.

You can, perhaps, forsee a series of terrifically dramatic relationships in my future, all ending with me in an Ophelian heap in my quilt. I had a love affair with books, with the characters and their worlds. Books kept me company. When the voices of the book faded, as with the last chord of a long record, the back cover crinkling closed, I could swear I heard a door click shut.”

“You go insane about now. You understand, it just happens. Crazy isn’t always what they say it is. It’s not always the old woman wearing sneakers and a skirt and a scarf, wandering around with a shopping cart, hollering at no one, nothing, tumbling through years in her head.

“No. Sometimes it is a girl wearing boots and jeans and a sweater, arms crossed in front of her, shivering, wandering through the streets at night, all night, murmuring to no one, nothing, tumbling through the strange unreal dimensions in her head.”

“…it hurt like hell… Because I was not what he saw, and because I could not show him what I was. I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t.”

“I have a remarkable ability to delete all better judgment from my brain when I get my head set on something. Everything is done at all costs. I have no sense of moderation, no sense of caution. I have no sense, pretty much. People with eating disorders tend to be very diametrical thinkers– everything is the end of the world, everything rides on this one thing, and everyone tells you you’re very dramatic, very intense, and they see it as an affectation, but really it’s just how you think. It really seems to you that the sky will fall if you are not personally holding it up. On the one hand, this is sheer arrogance; on the other hand, this is a very real fear. And it isn’t that you ignore the potential repercussions of your actions. You don’t think there are any.

“Because you are not even there.”

~Wasted, Marya Hornbacher

Christmas for peanuts

Peanuts, rather. Peanuts-with-a-capital-P.

The “Charlie Brown Christmas” DVD has been out for quite some time, and I imagine the VHS has been out even longer, though I wouldn’t know, never having looked for it and only becoming aware of the DVD’s release because there was such a big to-do made over it.

I haven’t purchased it. And I never, ever will. And if someone gives it to me as a gift, I will be forced to commit the ultimate crime in gift etiquette and return it to them, via outraged screaming and hurling of cellophane-wrapped packages and wrapping paper and bows in various directions. Because I would consider it a sacrilege of sorts to have “A Charlie Brown Christmas” in my possession.

This may sound strange, considering how much I love this show. I love this show maybe a little bit more than I love my left foot, which is saying a lot, considering I couldn’t drive my car without this left foot, and if I couldn’t drive my car (regardless of the fact that ever since I’ve been home, I’ve been driving the Prius, but HEY, that car gets WAY better in-city mileage than my Celica and IT HAS A SMARTKEY SYSTEM, *HOW* am I supposed to resist that, eh?), then I would be a very sad little girl.

But here’s the thing: to be able to watch “A Charlie Brown Christmas” WHENEVER I wanted would be the most appalling power ever. Yes, I love that show, yes, in general, if I love something I prefer to own it so I can indulge in the loving it whenever I want (wow, that sounded wrong), but– this is “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” It’s different. It’s special. Yes, EVEN MORE SPECIAL than “Finding Nemo” (I’m so sorry, Feather!).

It’s as special, people, as Christmas itself. And who in their right mind would say, hmmm, you know what? Let’s celebrate Christmas on December 23 this year! Or, hey, we could celebrate Christmas on the 19th, and then again on the 23rd! Yeah!

Because technically, you could. You could celebrate Christmas in March. Just get a tree (with so many people switching over to those realistic artificial trees, this isn’t hard), decorate it, buy some presents, the night before you open the presents, set out some half-decent cookies and a glass of milk, and voila! Instant Christmas!

EXCEPT IT WOULDN’T BE THE SAME, WOULD IT?

There’s something significant about the fact that Christmas only comes once a year and we as individuals have no control over its occurrence; the date was set centuries before and will continue to remain as is for centuries to come– likely, for the rest of the existence of Christianity. In this same way, there’s something significant about the fact that “A Charlie Brown Christmas” is only aired on ABC once a year (as far as I’m concerned), and dammit, no DVD ownership is going to ruin that for me.

“Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind,” however, is an entirely different matter, and I promise I won’t scream or throw things if you try to give this to me as a gift. Well. No screaming or throwing things of the angry kind.

Again with the moving!

Yes. I moved. Again.

Online, anyway.

Reasons for moving:

1. I don’t like Blogger, even though it’s nearly the same thing as TypePad. Reasons for the not-liking include a myriad of nitpicky items, items which probably never would have occurred to me had I never discovered TypePad.

2. If and when I build another home on a server, I’ll be able to use Movable Type, a more-or-less cousin of TypePad, which means I can import/export instead of manually copying and pasting and redoing links, as I’ve been doing from Blogger to TypePad.

3. TypePad was offering a free (FREE!) 90-day trial, and who can pass up a free (FREE!) 90-day trial?

4. TypePad is cuter.

5. I’m a Movable Type fanatic. Oddly enough.

6. Categories! Wow!

I’ve been posting to this site instead of the Blogger site because:

1. The more I post on Blogger, the more I have to copy and paste, which means the more agitated I will be.

2. TypePad is cuter.

Every once in a while, I hop back onto my desktop and browse through the original Giovanni files and am amazed at the difference in narrative (Oh god, I’m starting to sound like a serious English major). EVERYTHING was happy. Or pissed. But usually happy. There’s a Blue entry that remarks on how saccharine the Purple entries are, but from where I stand now, I could still easily take a machete to whoever wrote those Blue entries.

I wonder, a year from now– will I look back on these entries and despise the girl who wrote them?

Life, interrupted (or, The Really Super Long and Kind Of Awkward Post)

I do what I can to keep my personal life out of this journal, which is almost paradoxical, because isn’t EVERYTHING on this site, in one way or another, “personal”? Because isn’t that what sets this all apart from all the thousands of other journals out there in cyberspace, the fact that each one is “personal”?

So I guess what I mean is, I do what I can to keep the grimy personal details of my life out of this journal, such as… well… the grimy things. Like relationships.

But for whatever reason, I’ve had this need for a week or two now to just write everything out that’s been going through my mind regarding relationships, and perhaps because I’m just ever-so-slightly touched by an equally grimy bout of sleep deprivation, I thought I’d post whatever it is I ended up writing out.

And you do realize you’re reading this of your own accord?

Anyway.

Someone asked me the age-old question a while ago: “Why is it that wonderful women always go for men who treat them like crap?” As I have an affinity for falling for men who either don’t consider me a priority or just simply can’t, for whatever reasons, be with me– or in some cases, both– the question bears considerable significance for me. Why DO I go for men who, often unintentionally but all the same do, treat me “like crap”?

I pondered this before, resulting in something that had to do with a subconscious need stemming from my childhood to prove that I am “enough” to make someone stay with me. This time around, I came up with a different theory.

Deeply rooted in my mind is this belief: I will inevitably make my significant other’s life a living hell. I’ll hurt him with betrayal, or he’ll discover one of my flaws and won’t be able to handle it, or he’ll just simply become incapable of putting up with me, with my personality, with my thoughts, and will want out. Will DEMAND out. It’s a belief that’s been etched in me for a good, long while now– that, perhaps, I’m cursed, and whoever chooses to date me, whoever falls in love with me, or even just comes close to falling in love with me, will be “ruined” because of it.

As a result, I date guys who will never get that close to me. I may end up getting close to them– it’s almost a given that I’ll get that close to them– but through their own apathy or whatever it may happen to be, they will keep their distance and never get to know me well enough to discover my secret evils that could suck them into my path of destruction.

The problem is, for a guy to “never get that close to me,” he must: rarely ever see me, rarely ever talk to me, not make me feel comfortable enough to *really* talk to him, and make it clear to me that I’m not a priority. These four qualities just so happen to be four qualities which I despise in a relationship, which means that yes, I’m miserable most of the time, and thus, in a way, I’m being treated “like crap.” But the truth is, I’d rather be the one in the relationship who tolerates the crap than the other way around.

“But isn’t an ideal relationship one in which neither is mistreated?”

Um, yes. But understand my mentality: such a relationship is Impossible. If he treats me wonderfully and as I’ve always wanted to be treated, then he gets close to me and he sees me for everything that I am and that would just break his heart with disappointment and other Negative Emotions. So, he has to stay away from me (and do it naturally, because for me to push him away would be to Hurt Him and again, that ISN’T ALLOWED), so, he has to be utterly distant in every respect, so, I have to be unhappy in order to be in a relationship.

So the next question is, where the hell did this mentality come from? And is it justified?

And this is what I hate the most– that all this came from my first relationship. It shouldn’t be this way, a person shouldn’t be so scarred from one relationship, one why-won’t-it-leave-me-alone relationship– but there it is. Certain things near the end of it, or after the end of it, or actually even somewhere in the middle– certain things were said to me, and maybe they were retracted later, or he said that those things were said in a moment of unchecked rage (which to me only signifies he meant it all the more and doesn’t take away their sting in the least), but god help me, I’ve never been able to forget them. I suppose just the patterns of and the paths traveled during the relationship in whole were enough to teach me that I am, in short, not good enough. That I am weak and naturally, on so many levels, “wrong.” That I can, will, and do hurt the people I love, the people who love me. That I don’t deserve their love because of it, and that I don’t know what love is and therefore never have truly loved, because of it.

Despite all the progress I’ve made in the last 14 or so months to escape that relationship and all its aftermath effects, I’ve found that it really is hard to teach an old dog new tricks– or, more appropriately, it really is hard to unlearn such lessons, especially when they were taught to you while you were at your most vulnerable and impressionable stage. To this day, I still believe I’m less than he is– I still believe that I never will be as good as he is, whatever “good” may mean.

I don’t particularly like talking about my first relationship because it always ends with the listener wanting to kill my ex, even after my plaintive explanations of how he was really very loving, a fact which is nonetheless altered by the phrase, uttered either by myself in my mind or by the listener out loud: “when we weren’t fighting.” I always note, too, that I was far from perfect in the relationship and caused him his own share of grief– but somehow, this, too, does little to cool the flames.

There remains a problem even in my insistence that I was a problem in the relationship, because I’ve yet to understand whether I was as great a problem as he made me out to be, or whether he just considered me to be a much bigger problem than I, in truth, was.

His allegation that I don’t deserve love, I’ve more or less come to convince myself isn’t true. But all the other things– that I’m not enough, that I’m wrong, that I’ll hurt whomever I touch, that I’m not as good as he is (which simply ties back into the first, that I’m therefore not enough)– I still struggle with their truth values. There’s a part of me that hears the voices of all my friends, echoing their insistence that it’s not true, none of it is true, I’m a good person, I’m a wonderful person, and I deserve happiness and so much more– and then there’s another part of me that thinks, well, they’re my friends, OF COURSE they’re going to say that, and believes all the more firmly that said “things” are true.

My second boyfriend rarely ever called me and even more rarely ever kept his word when he said he’d see me, or I’d see him, soon. He also hated hearing the phrase, “I need to talk to you”– hated it with a vehement passion– which pretty much taught me to never utter it, which in turn forced me to keep the majority of my problems and problematic days internal. This was also something enforced by the first boyfriend, who got very tense if I was having a “bad day” and felt that I had too many bad days for him to handle and ended up just avoiding me if it was clear I was upset over something.

The end result is this, a confused and heartbroken girl who can’t stop falling into relationships that aren’t really relationships, who can’t stop falling for men who don’t particularly want her but can, when it’s convenient for them, when the notion passes through them, be overwhelmingly affectionate to her– a girl who is convinced that if she appears anything less than perfect and happy and with-the-program, she will drive her friends and family and significant other(s?) far, far away, and permanently– who honestly believes that it will never, can never, be any other way, and it is all her fault.

And that is why THIS woman chooses to be with men who treat her like crap, with the understanding that they don’t treat me like crap, they’re just of a nature that makes me horribly unhappy.

Understand, I don’t write this for sympathy, and I certainly don’t write this to turn everyone against my ex (either one)– ::sigh:: I don’t know. I wrote to figure things out, but I don’t feel as if I’ve learned anything new. Dissecting a mentality ought to be easier. Isn’t this what therapists get paid to do?

I need to get that Build-a-Boy Factory up-and-running, and soon…