I scream. I write. I dream.

Tuesday, April 1st 2008 at 4:30pm


For those of you who don’t know, we don’t have a bathtub currently. We’ve never really had a shower, I grew up with baths, not really knowing that showers existed. I didn’t even like showers growing up. I was probably somewhat afraid of the water pouring down on top of me instead of enveloping me at my pace.

Aunt Mary, who has been living with us for about three years now (has it really been that long?!) doesn’t like not having a shower, and after Dad got used to having a shower in our temporary apartment (after the fire when I was fourteen) he wanted one too. Mom didn’t think this would be such a hard thing to install, but every attempt resulted in more leaks.

One weekend, about a month and a half ago Mary went on some trip somewhere. (I have no idea for what.) Mom decided this was a perfect opportunity to move the bathtub and inspect the plumbing and get everything done right once and for all. She thought she’d have it done before Mary got back, so that Mary (who can’t go without a shower everyday) wouldn’t miss a weekend without bathing. Mary got back, and it still wasn’t done. At that time, we all thought it would be done within a few days.

More leaks, more complications, and the next thing we know a week has gone by, and Mom’s response is no longer “soon” or “in a few days” or “in a week” but rather “I don’t know” or “I’m doing the best I can” or “It takes as long as it takes.” I’m not a clean-freak so a week and a half without a bath didn’t bother me at first. When it got to about two and a half weeks I was feeling disgusting and washes my hair, arms and upper body as best as I could in the kitchen sink. I’ve gone through a tremendous amount of wipes keeping myself as clean as I can without being able to soak in water.

I’ve been given the offer to go to Asa’s house or to Gerri’s, neither of which would be comfortable. I could go and use Tina’s shower, but it would be rude to come and use the shower and leave, and I’d hate to see Arrin while I’m there, or Scott, or even Tim for that matter. Not that they would be in Tina’s apartment, but nevertheless, I might see them on the porch, or on there way in, or something along those lines.

So about three weeks into not having a bathtub the hot water tank quits on top of it. I resorted to boiling water in the stove, pouring it into the sink, heating more water, and then using the water from the sink with a fluffy cleaning utensil cleaning myself letting the water drip into the turkey pan. Standing nude in our very exposed kitchen while my mom was just over in the living room was highly humiliating, and I haven’t decided to do that again since, especially when the turkey pan got so cold that my feet went numb in the cold water.

I’ve resorted to be contented with washing elbows to hands, neck, face, hair, and sometimes feet, and using wipes whenever I use the bathroom. I don’t smell, but I certainly don’t feel clean. I can’t say I really feel dirty either, but... It’s not pleasant knowing how dirty I probably really am. I’ve gotten lax about cleaning the floors because My boyfriend and I are shedding so much hair and skin that there really isn’t much point in cleaning it when we’re just going to make everything dirty again so fast. Might as well wait until we can take a bath again.

Just now I’ve come back from laying cement and floor tiles in the bathroom. We laid five files. It’s slow going because we’re not professionals. We don’t have professional tools or supplies, we just have what works and what we can afford. And Mom has had to forgo using male teenage-ish helpers as she has been doing most of my life. (Thomas – Summerlee’s brother, Jeremy – my first love, Carlos – a dufus kid who used to have a decent work ethic, Magarret – an idiot who thinks he’s smart who is a friend of Carlos, El – My boyfriend’s friend, and now that all of that has either passed or didn’t work, it’s moved on to me. ) They all don’t work out for one reason or another. Either they can’t understand, or can’t listen, or make to many mistakes, or don’t communicate, or complain too much, or whatever. I certainly wouldn’t trust any one of them, probably not even Jeremy or even My boyfriend for that matter with the task I was just helping my mom with. I mean, not that My boyfriend couldn’t do it, but it’s not something I’d leave him alone with if I was my mom. (Not that it’s logical to bring My boyfriend into this since he’s not the construction type, and doesn’t have the time to be laying floor tiles with cement.)

I’m certainly not the best person for any job involving construction, but I have enough of a care not to be careless. I’m intelligent enough not to ask one thousand questions, and to ask a question when I need to. I’m familiar with the tools and don’t have to be taught anything. I know about the importance of being accurate. I’ve done this stuff before. I listen to what my mom says. I don’t have to be picked up, and I don’t have to be paid. So it does make a lot more sense for me to be the one doing the work.

(My mom can’t do it all herself because she also has to take care of my Dad, the kitchen, the bills, and herself, not to mention that she has a bad hip, and a hip replacement on the other side.)

Today I’ve laid five floor tiles in the downstairs bathroom, spent three hours writing and formatting my writing, and spent about half an hour eating and on the phone with My boyfriend. No Saga yet today, a record for me since I started playing the game...


Tuesday, April 8th 2008 at 12:19am


It’s been exactly one week since the last time I wrote. I’ve been writing, I just haven’t been writing entries. I’ve been writing Saga suggestions, I’ve been writing letters, I’ve been working on a new novel idea. I can’t really ever stop writing, but entries themselves aren’t really necessary every single day for me to get that sense of satisfaction that writing gives.


Wednesday, April 9th 2008 at 1:41am


Today was a little different than most days. I attached a shoulder strap to My boyfriend’s laptop bag, but I never got a chance to show him. He called me at 10:50pm to ask me if I wanted to come and hang out with El, El’s girlfriend and some other guy that none of us knew but El. (I think it was kinda rude of El to completely ignore him when none of us knew him.)

El’s girlfriend is really superficial and flaky, but there was no real reason for me not to like her, or to really like her either. I feel completely ambivalent towards her, though I do I hope I don’t see her again since I know (via My boyfriend, via El) that she doesn’t like me. Further proof of her flakiness is her reason: Wearing a lot of black eyeliner and fishnet top. Oh god, heaven forbid. But I’m so used it, doesn’t even phase me actually. But it upset My boyfriend.

So nothing much really happened while we were out, we went to Delaware park (El’s girlfriend picked me up and dropped us off again in her car) and we just did nothing. They drank, they smoked weed, they smoked cigarettes – well, that was only that other guy I don’t know. I munched. I brought rice crisps, rice cakes, pistachios, and almonds.

It was better than some lame house party, but it wasn’t exactly fun either. I enjoyed the fresh air more than anything, but if My boyfriend hadn’t been there I wouldn’t have liked it at all. My boyfriend was kinda down after he discovered that El’s girl doesn’t like us.

So then we get home, and My boyfriend finally tells me what’s bothering him, he eats a bowl of ramen noodles and turns down the watermelon offer. (My mom left him a slice of water melon, but I knew My boyfriend wasn’t going to want it.) We get upstairs, and we start talking. He wants to fuck me of course, and I of course don’t really want to, but I’ll try to want to. I rant for a while about how unfair it is that I was so bloody horny when I couldn’t get laid, when I was too young for anyone to look twice at me, when I couldn’t orgasm on my own. I was so fucking horny then. I couldn’t do anything about it then. It consumed me. No sex is so hard for me to get in the mood for. Usually I don’t mind it so much once I’m into it, but it’s just the getting into it at all that’s the problem. I thought getting off of birth control would bring back my sex drive, but it didn’t. I just feel more myself, healthier and such. But I certainly don’t feel more inclined towards sex, nor any less inclined for that matter.

Why is getting horny now work? Where did all my fantasies go? Why don’t they work for me anymore? It used to be so simple to turn myself on. I thought about a tight pussy getting fucked by a big black dick, and then I was horny. Then I added stories later on. I added background stories, warm-up, foreplay and such. Now even the most insane things I can think of don’t help.

I’m nineteen, how can I be just not horny all the time? I miss being horny now. How come when being horny would actually benefit me I’m not horny, but back when I was so young, and didn’t know better I couldn’t stop being horny!

It’s just plain stupid. It makes me hate myself. What’s wrong with me?

It’s not My boyfriend’s fault. He is plenty attractive. I like a lot of things about his body that other men don’t have – his large collar bones, his toned thin body, the shape of his jaw bone, the size of his lips, the size of his feet, the thinness of his fingers – but somehow no body turns me on. Not the hottest chick or guy. Porn is a joke, and never really works. There are only two things that work – reading erotic stories (which only works with really good stories) and (of course) My boyfriend talking to me about something erotic. Always through language. Touch and sight don’t seem to do it for me, and this bothers me immensely. I want to just throw my head through a wall.

But anyway, I try to horny for My boyfriend, and set my mind to thinking about sexual things. And he’s touching me and stuff, but he’s touching me in a way that makes me want to fall asleep, not in a sexual way. So I asked him, “Do you know what body mapping is?”

I kinda expected him to know, it’s used in all sorts of books, but mostly how-to sex books, (which are secretly how-to-make-your-woman-want-you books) but he didn’t know what it was. I shook my head, surprised. And of all things he gets mad at me for shaking my head. For shaking my fucking head! What a reason to get upset! I was so mad at him for getting mad at such a stupid thing that fucking became out of the question. He goes on to rant about how I always am trying to play him, and about how I’m trying to talk books while he’s trying to have sex. Books sure had nothing to do with it.

All I wanted to express to him is that maybe sometime he should map my body like they say to in the books. Experiment with touching me in different ways and places. But he doesn’t even want to try to turn me on. That’s what really pisses me off. Why doesn’t he want to? I like turning him on, but it’s so easy that I don’t ever get to do anything. He tells me that I ask him to do so much when it comes to sex, which isn’t true. I mean, how is asking him to touch me a big deal? How is that any different than him asking me to sleep naked? (Which I’ve been doing for weeks now, for him. )

He always wants to tell me doesn’t ask for shit, then he tries not to ask for shit to prove himself right, then he gets mad when I don’t do shit for him! I’m sick of the damned cycle. How to break it? By not asking for anything to? Somehow I don’t think that would make any progress. I tried all the ups and downs with Tre. All of the not asking, the asking more, the being distant, the being close, the caring a lot, and the pretending to not care... Switching from one to the other trying to find the answer doesn’t solve anything, it just makes you look like a hypocrite and it confuses your partner, and the worst part is, if it does solve anything, then you’re in deep shit because that’s not who you really are. So I can’t just stop being myself to see if that works, because not being myself will never work.

I’m so mad at myself for not being able to fix things, and so mad at My boyfriend for not trying to fix things with me. I once read that you have to stop trying to “work on your relationship” and just “live” with your partner instead. To go out and stuff, but it’s so not like that. That’s such an over simplification of everything that doesn’t really solve anything. I also once read that one person can fix a relationship by themselves through apathy, because it would make the other person want them (because now they can’t have them) but that’s also not true, at least not most of the time it isn’t. Apathy makes the other person feel unloved, and then ultimately separates you even more. Being depressed doesn’t help anything either.


Wednesday, April 9th 2008 at 11:18am


Perhaps it’s true that misery is writing’s best inspiration. I think My boyfriend is going to give up on me soon. He still doesn’t trust me. He still calls me a liar, and he lately keeps accusing me of trying to “play” him. Why doesn’t he understand that all I want is the best for him? He’s also got this new thing about how if I loved him I’d care that he has to walk home alone. It’s not as though I’ve never thought about it, but you know, I’m so used to men having to walk places in Buffalo that I forgot that it could be dangerous even more a man, excuse me. But if I had been concerned all along he’s probably think I was trying to “play him” or that I didn’t have confidence in him being a man.

I should do a tarot card reading today... See what is around the corner and brace myself for impact. I’m terribly afraid. He’s not going to break up with me, is he? I don’t fucking understand what I’m doing wrong! I went out with him like he asked, and I let him drink one beer (on the condition that there would be no other sorts of exceptions for three months) and I stayed out as long as everyone else pretty much wanted to stay out. I was going to fuck him, but then he had to try and tell me that I was “playing” him again. I don’t want to fuck when I’m thinking about how my man thinks I’m a liar. I just told him last night that I am never trying to “play” him.

Why does he mistrust me? I’ve never fucked lied to him. Never. It’s beginning to be pointless to be so honest with him. It’s gotten me into more scrapes than anything since I’ve met him.

You know what’s still bothering me just as much as the not trusting me part? The fact that he really doesn’t she why he should have to spend a goddamned five to ten minutes trying to make me horny. Why the fuck is that so bad?

For the first time since January I’m wondering if this is really going to work out or not. I feel like dog shit. No, I feel like frozen dog shit. (Don’t ask me for how this works, I just feel like dog shit smells and looks.) I’m not looking forward to Summer anymore. In fact, I’m not looking forward to anything anymore.

I want to grab him by the neck and scream in his face, what do you want from me? What can I fucking do to make you happy? What the fuck is your plan? You want to leave me? Just fucking do it! Spare me getting married to you only to find that you still don’t fucking trust me, and that you still don’t like anything about me!

I want to scream until my voice goes hoarse. I want to bang my head into a wall until I bleed or until the wall breaks, or both. I was to throw something and watch is shatter. I want to fall to the ground and thrash and scream and kick like a madwoman. I’m shaking with anger and betrayal. Why, why, WHY after all this fucking time does he still not fucking trust me? I’ve put all of my faith in him after he’s lied to me, after he’s slept with other girls (though I said he could), after he’s ditched me, after he’s not called me, after he’s ignored me, after he’s left me alone in my misery time after time, even though he’s ignored my tears and went to sleep right through them and he has the nerve to not trust me?

He’s sitting there with his headphones on, pretending I don’t exist. I want to rip them off and demand that we work this out, but it’s no use. He’s ignoring me for a reason. He doesn’t want to talk to me. I suppose I should just not talk to him until he talks to me. God that could be forever.

What’s the right approach? To fuck him right now? Some guys would be insulted, but My boyfriend probably wouldn’t care. He’d probably go on not caring after he got his orgasm as well. It’s not a solution, just a doorway, and one that I’m too bloody angry to take.


1:21pm – I’m so sick of crying over him. I left him a letter in his journal after writing the following poem...


Love Me Like Organic Ice-Cream


No kisses, or hugs goodbye,

Cross my heart and I’m hoping to die,

Giving me no love for me to fly,

And so I break down and start to cry.


My cheeks are cold,

From his writing so bold,

And from what I’m told,

This doesn’t even break the mold.


We’re just the same,

As everyone else,

We’re just as lame,

And playing the same stupid game.


I might as well start to lie,

I might as well sit here and cry,

Because there is no where for me to fly,

I might as well drop dead and die.


I’m a myriad of mistakes,

And my tears fill up lakes,

As I scream to you,

That I’m not a fake.


My words hit walls,

And my heart sinks and falls,

With no answer to my calls,

I better start looking in shops and malls.


Soon this is will all end,

And soon I’ll need a new friend,

That will be able to offer and lend,

Me his love even as I’m rounding a bend.


It’s a cycle, a pattern, a never ending dream,

That I can never wake from, and so I scream,

Feel for me in the heat and through the steam,

Love me, love me, eat me like ice cream.



Thursday, April 10th 2008 at 3:00pm


I really believed that he was going to break up with me, little did I know that he was stumbling over things he really didn’t mean to say, stammering forward without being able to find the words he was really looking for, crushing my heart with every line he spoke me. We screamed it out (over the phone) for a good hour working it out.

He tried to play me something along the lines of “Oh, yeah, well I’m about to make you look really stupid. Really fucking stupid. Watch, watch me. I go to work every fucking day, work my ass off, give you money at the end of the week, come home to you every fucking night, give you rubs, give you affection, do what the fuck ever you want to do, and I make you tea in the morning! And you can’t even let a nigga chill with his friends once in a fucking blue moon? You can’t even let me go hang with the big boys sometimes and drink a couple beers?”

I didn’t feel stupid at all, I considered all of that. I counted all of that in one long speech that went something along these lines:

You going to work everyday is not relevant to our relationship. You give me one hundred dollars a week, out of five hundred to one thousand depending on the week.

“What am I supposed to do, give you half?” he exclaims.

I roll my eyes (but he can’t see me do that). No, no, not at all my point. You can bring up the one hundred dollars if you want, but you can’t bring up your sixty hours a week. You do that for you, you spend the money the way you want to spend the money. You work to bring your tattoo skills up, that is irrelevant to our argument.

In terms of giving me rubs, it’s not as though you do this every day, and for a second thing, you don’t ask for rubs in return. The handful of times you’ve asked me to rub you, I did it. I’ve offered to rub you six times in the last week, and you accepted it three times out of those six.

What ever happened to all you wanted was sex, food, your computer time, and for me to clean up after you? I’ve done all that. Is fucking you five to seven times a week still not enough? I cook for you every time you ask, and I offer almost every single night. Is cooking for you a whole meal worth less than you making me a cup of tea? Is fucking you worth less than you giving me affection?

And when do I not offer to do what you want to do?

“Oh for like an hour, and then you start saying things like babe, don’t you want to go lay down? Don’t you want to cuddle with me? Don’t you want to give me attention?” He cuts in to say.

“And I can’t ask you a simple question?” I retort immediately. “I don’t have the same rights to suggestion what I want to do?”

So then I broke it down. This argument isn’t about affection, or sex, or doing things for each other, because we do those things for each other because we love each other. This argument is about you going out. So about two months ago now I said to you that what I’d really like is if you went out once a month. I could live with that peacefully and easily. I wouldn’t resent you for once a month. And I asked if you could handle that. And you said yes. So now I’m asking you again My boyfriend. Can you handle it? Can you accept hanging out with your friends once a month?

“I don’t know,” he says meekly. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

We came to the conclusion that we would go out with El and Connie last night (for the second night in a row) but My boyfriend wouldn’t drink anything. He didn’t. He was sweet to me the whole time. We brought out laptops and spent the night, and Connie drove us home in the morning.

Then My boyfriend was feeling so loving that he took the day off for me. And that made me so happy that I went downstairs and cooked him pizza and brought it up to him as surprise. He was delighted.


Friday, April 11th 2008 at 2:05pm


My dream


I was in a convention building of sorts. I went to use the lady’s room but something was clearly wrong inside the bathroom. Every toilet was terribly dirty. Different color stains and things clinging all over the seats. It looked like they’d be used constantly without being cleaned for weeks. There were several rooms conjoined the large bathroom and I wandered into the next one where the toilets were slightly cleaner, but there were no individual walls surrounding each toilet. They were simply there in the open. I covered one with toilet paper and sat down. A minute later (with me still trying to go) a stampede of people, mostly men start coming on through the bathroom. My coat is huge, so I try to completely cover myself with my coat, including my face.

Two “security” guards approach me. They get fairly close to me and pull out devices that look like large old walkie-talkies. They both press a series of buttons and then one looks up as says to me, “We’ve just disabled you cell phone. You can’t get away.” Suddenly all the boys coming through the lady’s room seem to be focused on me. Angry, I stand, pulling up my pants. And I run. I run as fast as I can out of the bathroom, around the corner, up the down escalator because it’s closer. I then realize I can’t make it, jump down, run over to the up escalator and takes the stairs two at a time. I round the bend, desperately looking for my hotel room so I can hide.

I burst inside my hotel room. Inside I find Lonna’s father (she looks just like Lonna from Smallville) at the head of the table. He is dressed richly in black silk highlighted with other colors. Shortly after I take my seat he remarks that no extra people will be coming to his dinner table. There is a fabulous amount of food, enough for twenty people, and there are about ten of us.

Lonna enters from the opposite side of the room, near the unoccupied head of the table. She is wearing a full length white dress with artistically places Rhine stones. Her finger nails are four inches long and resemble her dress. They are also white with Rhine stones and a swirling cream pattern. Her face is flawless and her black hair is down, straight and shining. I pull out my camera and I begin to photograph her.

During her photo shoot someone or something whisks Lonna away into the next room. I follow her, and I’m inside the office (what used to be the household office growing up) downstairs and there is no Lonna. I call out for her, look for her, but she’s no where to be seen. I go to leave the office and there is a body bag on the living room floor, the head of the body bag right near the doorway to the office, facing perpendicular to the office doorway.

I fall to my knees and grab at the bag. I find a hand, and it’s warm, and it’s soft, and it grabs me. I squeeze back. “Lonna! Lonna! Are you alive? Are you okay?” There is no answer, but her hand grips mine. I go to pull away the cover from her face, but then my Mom appears like an guardian angel and shakes her head. “Don’t.” she says, and then telepathically she tells me that Lonna is alive and must pretend to be dead.

I then begin to weep, to help her pretend that she is dead. I keen loudly, thinking she really is dead in my mind so that my weeping will be convincing. Somewhere during my crying I transform from my body into Elijah Wood, and I’m in love with Lonna and so sad that I can’t have her. Her father is yelling, barking orders to find me. Perhaps he thought it was my fault?

I tremble as I see him. His face is contorting, and his skin it turning black, and he’s growing in height. He yells; “Give me the powers and strength of a Death God!” And suddenly I realize that he is a Shinigami, which means that Lonna is a half Shinigami. I am amazed, and I am terrified. I crouch in the office, trying to hide.

I wait for a long time, and nothing happens, but I’m too afraid to move. Just then two men enter the room, and I try to hide from them, but I can’t. When they find me they tell me to be quiet. “He said we are to bring you back in one week. We’re here to run away with you. Where do we go?”

I shake my head, and I kneel before Lonna. As I do, I become myself again. I tell her that he is gone, and she comes out of the body bag. Her clothes are in ruins. I bring her into what now is the craft room on the first floor, adjacent to the dining room, but in the dream it’s a laundry room full of assorted clothes. She pulls on blue jeans a little large for her, and a tee shirt. I say to her, “You might find clothes that fit you better in my room.”

We file on up the stairs, and when I get the top of the attic stairs I am stunned. The floor is disconnected in the center, everything has fallen through and smashed, and burned, and cracked and shattered. There is nothing left. One can not even step onto the floor without falling through.

One of the men shakes his head, “It’s the Death God.”

I walk down to the second floor, but it’s barren as the third, and just as ruined though the floors are somewhat solid. I feel as though I’m being tested, and then I become Elijah Wood again. (Still looking through my own eyes, as I am the entire dream, but I have flashes from the top view, only flashes.) On the first floor I hunt for something to put on and settle on a pair of pants much like the pair Lonna is wearing. (When did I become almost nude? Don’t know.)

We proceed out the backdoor. Branches cover the back yard. And we find a canoe. We speculate about where we can go to sea. (Even though we were at my house, we were not in Buffalo.) I get that feeling again as though I’m being tested. “We’ll have to seer with branches,” one of the men says.

“No,” I say, looking up at the garage where an array of tools were neatly leaning. There was one paddle which was colored blue, and a three different colored plastic shovels. We selected them, and then suddenly I yelled “Run!”

I knew instinctually that this test involved gaining speed and distance fast. And before the explosion happened, I expected it. The garage blew up. And just then, I woke up.


Strangest part was the lack of fear in the dream. I have no idea what this dream could really mean. Do I feel like I’m being tested in real life? Do I feel like there is an illusive beautiful woman in my life? Am I afraid that my father is going to banish me, kill me, or test me in some cruel way? No, no and no. So if there is a real meaning in direct relationship to my life, it’s less obvious.

The Elijah Wood thing is really odd too. I can only imagine that is because of my connection with my mom and her obsession with him. That’s either the second or the third time he’s been in a dream of mine that I remember. The first time I was a girl and he was making out with me, and it was just peaceful and bright, and I remember his hair being so soft and him giggling and laughing. (Strange he’s always straight in my dreams when I know he’s gay.) I really think I had another one about him that I didn’t write or talk about that I’ve forgotten, and now this one where I was him for a short time.

Another odd part about the dream is the presence of Lonna. Two actors in one dream? (I don’t even know the name of the person who plays Lonna.) Two unrelated actors no less. The fact that Lonna dies, but isn’t really dead reflects Smallville’s last season finale, but it didn’t seem like that in the dream. It seemed so much more important than that. And what about my mother being a guardian angel? She was so ephemeral, and I could never really talk to her, but her presence seemed to be there throughout the dream.

It doesn’t seem to fit together. The Death God part was obviously from Death Note. Why so much TV in the dream? I watched Top Model last night, but there were no models, unless you count Lonna. And what about the convention and being chased and the dirty bathrooms? Perhaps that’s how I feel about all bathrooms, and about life in way. That would make sense.