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.

I don't like being alone.

Sunday, March 16th 2008 at 7:03pm

My boyfriend is leaving right now with my car keys to my mom’s car. He’s going to deposit some money, but he won’t tell me how much, or for what. I suspect he’s buying me a ring or something symbolic of that sort. I hope so, I might be disappointed if I find out it had nothing to do with me and that he just wouldn’t tell me for rash or vain reasons.

I’d say over all things are still going smoothly. And I’m still obsessed with playing Saga online. If anyone wants a referral to play online with me, let me know.

Sunday, March 16th 2008 at 9:00pm

I grew up as an only child, so you’d think I’d love being alone. And I guess I do to an extent. But I have this habit of latching onto one person, and then wanting them there all the time. Jeremy could put up with it for the better part of the time, but we had a great deal of arguments about me always being on him. Travanti couldn’t stand it, and constantly complained about me putting “my weight” on him. But My boyfriend has never been like that. He’s been so accepting of affection, so giving of his affection, so willing to be around me all the time. He used to never get tired of talking to me.

I remember him saying, “Does it ever get boring being around you?” or something along those lines. And I told him how I felt the same way. But that was the second month into our relationship after all, so it’s no use comparing things now to how they were then. Because this is a year and two months into our relationship. I can’t expect him to still want to be all over me all the time...

But wait, what am I saying?

Monday, March 17th 2008 at 12:34am

My boyfriend just hasn’t been as affectionate because he’s not getting laid because I’m still recovering from my yeast infection. And I’m only being so needy because he’s not fucking me (because I’m still recovering from my yeast infection). What a silly, silly girl I can be.

Wednesday, March 19th 2008 at 5:45am

So I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep at all. My boyfriend is really hurting me right now. He won’t listen to me. He’s been drinking, so I shouldn’t be surprised. He thinks I write for the online attention. He thinks I’m an attention whore... He doesn’t understand that I need to write like he needs to draw. It’s my form of creation, this is my self expression. This is my passion.

It’s just like Isadora says towards the end of “Fear of Flying” – She missed her typewriter more than her fucked up marriage. She wanted to go home to have custody of the typewriter. She compares it to having custody of the kids. Later on, either in that chapter or the next she pulls out her written journal and she talks about how much it means to her, about how she can’t wait to leave somewhere to come home and commit it to writing. She writes in ink because it’s permanent unlike pencils.

This is my permanence. This is what will be left of my pride, my love, my lust, my thoughts, my needs, my wants, my complaints, my hungers, my desires, my goals, aspirations, wishes, and insanity when I’m gone. This is the real me. This me is complete with it’s imperfections. My writing remembers more than I do. It watches my growth in a way that I can’t.

My writing is myself listening to myself. I’m conversating with myself. I’m thinking out loud. I’m sorting things out. I’m logic-ing my way into loving myself for myself by writing. Writing makes me feel good about myself.

“Every time I’m mad I run to my journal,” he yells at me across the room from the bed. It’s true. I did it with Travanti, and I did it with Jeremy. I did it with my parents before then. I’ve been doing it since I was a young child. Before Kasheef told me about diaryland I wrote.

I am one with myself when I write. My mind clears, the headache clears, and I become understanding of myself. I open myself to myself. I forgive myself. How could I do those things without writing?

I hate that he won’t listen and understand me right now, but because he won’t, I can’t just sit there and steam. I don’t want to break down and cry. I don’t want to lay there trapped within my fury. I don’t want to scream at him. I’m tired of saying “Don’t tell me how I feel!”

He tells me that I think I’m better than everyone. I told him that I don’t think I’m any better than my Mom, or him, or El or Tina, or my Dad or Aunt Mary. Sure I’m better at certain things, and don’t I have a right to be proud of those things which I have? Don’t I have a right to have pride in myself? I’d feel like shit without being proud of myself. I’d sink into a depression, and I’d cry, and I’d be bitter, and slowly but surely I’d have less and less to be proud of.

I just want to die when he yells at me. My head throbs just recalling it. The eerie almost-silent room is deafening to my ears. The humming of his computer, my computer and the fridge. His plaintive kicking. He’s awake and I’m not with him. Well, gosh-gee, where was he from 11:00pm to 1:30am when he got home? He was with Dana and other friends. He was drinking two beers and getting hit on by some hot chick. I was sitting here playing Saga online. He came home, and he kept asking me, “Can we fuck? Can I eat you out?”

“No. And no.” We’ve been through this. I’m still recovering from the yeast infection and I’d like it to heal. He asks again, and again, and again, and again. Finally the sixth time he says “Can I suck your dick,” and for the hell of it I say yes. He eats me out, and I’m not enjoying it because he’s tipsy and he’s not doing it the way he normally would, and on top of that I’m still highly annoyed with him. I feel bad for agreeing for the purpose of shutting him up. I was afraid he might try to fuck me once he got me wet but he didn’t.

So obviously I didn’t cum, and he gave up eventually, and then shortly thereafter he passed out. I stayed wide awake. I read two chapters from “Fear of Flying” towards the end of the book. A very good two chapters I might add. I then drew on a picture I’ve been working on for about a week. Then at about 3:00am I started writing in a notebook until 3:30am. But still I couldn’t sleep. Him falling asleep before me invariably does this to me.

I tried anyway. I turned of the light and held him for a while. I rolled over and held Silent for a while. Then I took out my vibrator and had a shitty orgasm that only made me sleepy for about two minutes. Then at about 4:30am My boyfriend starting stirring, who knows why.

He woke up at 4:45am and starting asking to fuck me again. So then he started asking about fucking other girls again. I explained to him (again) that my feelings towards that have changed, and (again) I explained why. The topic moved from marriage and kids. We talked about pregnancy and child birth, and that’s when the argument started getting heated for some reason.

I’m not even sure why. We had a heated argument about sex during pregnancy, about childbirth, about arrogance and pride, about being real and being fake, about threatening someone in a way that Travanti would (which he assumed I was doing, but I wasn’t.) He kept saying “whatever” and playfully hitting me in such a way that basically means “whatever” in our own language. He kept telling me I wasn’t telling the truth about how I felt. I couldn’t take it anymore and here I am now at 6:08am in the morning.

This is nuts, he woke up to me giving him kisses and affection and then tries to tell me I’m not real, and that I lie about how I feel... In a nutshell. He made a lot of good points but what was driving me nuts is that every time I agreed with him he told me that I didn’t really agree. What kind of bull shit is that? Basically accusing me of patronizing him though he never used those words.

Shit between him and I has been really fucked up since I this yeast infection. Not being able to have sex with him makes everything fucked up and that worries me. Does he really love me for me? Or does ‘me for me’ exclusively include my sex?

Friday, March 21th 2008 at 11:51pm

I have not been writing much. I’m content with that. I’m really into playing Saga right now, and I’m enjoying being so in to something like I have not been in so long.

Monday, March 25th 2008 at 5:22pm

I’ve been thinking about turning my writings into a novel about myself written as fiction, with different names and such. Since I’d be working on it as a novel, I wouldn’t post it as entries in the hopes of publishing it, but instead my entries would be mostly short excerpts of the draft version. I feel the need to take my writing in a new direction, and I’m considering taking Erica Jong’s lead.

Lately I’ve been writing more in the Saga forums than anywhere else. It’s really quite astounding how interests can change so quickly.

My Body Hates Me

Wednesday, March 5th 2008 at 2:55pm

This new online game is like the coolest game ever. At least, it’s the best game since Civilization IV anyway. It’s the first step towards the computer game I want to see.

Wednesday, March 12th 2008 at 5:25pm

I just got up.

My mind likes me. It really does. It’s logical for me, it comes to conclusions for me, it lets me will myself to eat right, exercise, have fun playing games, to allow myself to feel bliss when I’m with My boyfriend...

My body fucking hates me. Last week... Was it Tuesday? I started getting a yeast infection. Another goddamned yeast infection. I don’t eat sugar, I barely eat bread, I don’t wear a lot of tight jeans, and I actually wear a lot less black underwear than I used to.

But I know that isn’t all the factors in getting a yeast infection. There is also cleanliness which has been difficult since the bathroom has been under construction for over a month. Let me tell you, it ruins your dignity to stand in a turkey pan in front of the kitchen sink (and window) and washed yourself with water that you boiled on the stove, poured into the sink, and then let fall down into the turkey pan. The pan of course, needs to be frequently emptied however, not because it’s full, but because the water turns cold freezing my feet.

Now out of a month, how many times do you think I really went through all that hassle? I’ve never been one of those have-to-be-perfectly-clean-or-I-will-die people anyway, but this is just ridiculous. I do use wipes to ensure that there isn’t a build-up of nastiness down there or something, but I really don’t think it was the lack of cleanliness that caused the infection either.

There are two variables pertaining to the vaginal area that I noticed happened to be the same with this infection and the last. (And perhaps the one before that though my memory is foggy.) I shaved right before getting the infection, and two, I started using the wipes my mom uses. (I think they might be Scott wipes. They’re cheap and small and don’t smell to pretty and aren’t very soft.)

Whenever I shave it causes irritation during sex, so I don’t why I did it again when I had already connected those two dots. It was just a habit, and standing in the turkey pan I wanted some sort of normalcy! Well, for me, I think yeast infections are as normal as eating, sleeping and pissing. It’s some royal bull shit.

Talk about cock envy! I dream about having a cock. No more squatting. No more being helpless to give myself an orgasm. No more yeast infections. No more period. No more cramps. No more worrying about childbirth or pregnancy. My only worry would be it’s goddamned size, and if it’s small than I’ll just get an Asian girl. I have genuine, literal cock-envy and I admit it. I worship cock and how uncomplicated it is.

I’ve never met an impotent man. My boyfriend is always ready, while my pussy protests, becomes dry, becomes infected, becomes sore, becomes anything but freaking useful! Sometimes I wish the thing would just fall off!

I’ve never been free of bodily issues. When I was a toddler I was too tired to go tricker-treating. I always managed to get enough bug bites to look like I had chicken-pocks, and then my dumb naive mind decided to scratch them all until they bled, and them some more. I had chicken-pocks twice. I had mono four times between age 9 and age 14. I got my teeth punched in at age 11 and ate through a straw for over a week, and then nothing but soft foods for a month.

And my first yeast infection when I was 10 or so. My period started in school, and was so heavy, and always leaking all over the place. I had cramps that made me double over, sometimes cry, sometimes not leave the bathtub (very similarly to the yeast infections that made me refuse to pee for eight hours at a time.) Then there is my six-year-old bladder which causes me to pee every half and hour like a pregnant woman. (Tina is seven months pregnant and we pee just as often!)

I was constantly constipated as a child as well. Sitting on toilet at six years old for twenty or thirty minutes at a time, sweating. And to think this is only the beginning of the list... What about the year I spent burping constantly and frequently having painful burps that caught in my chest?

Most of those things went away after I gave up sugar (all sugar alternatives and forms including molasses and brown sugar), white bread, pasta, meat that isn’t free-range/organic, coffee and caffeine in general, smoking weed, and drinking. It made the painful burps and stomach aches go away. It gave me more energy, and I wasn’t tired all the time for the first time in my life.

But now... Now I have a whole other something inexplicable! One week of a yeast infection (mostly itchy, mildly burning, unlike my childhood yeast infections which barely ever itched at all but burned like hell when I peed) and then, the day it starts to get better, on Monday, I start getting this odd pain in my knees.

I guess to myself that this pain is directly related to the odd positions I’ve been sitting in. I’ve been sitting with my feet under my ass, and a cold bottle between my legs in front of my computer in order to relieve the itching of the infection, causing a good deal of knee strain for hours upon hours. So I stopped sitting in the various knee-straining positions, but as the night wore on my shoulders began to hurt, and then my right wrist, right ankle, my hips, then my left thumb.

I thought perhaps I was just getting very tired and needed to sleep. I limped to bed with My boyfriend, and he took care of me, brought me things I needed. In bed, with him to wait on me, I almost felt fine. The itching had mostly stopped, and the stiff joints were not so noticeable while laying in one spot.

(Did I write about New Years Eve when I decided to eat some of my mother’s blue-berry pandowdy? It only had a cup of white sugar in the whole pan. Only some white bread. I only had a very small bowl full. Oh god what an idiot! Within minutes my hands began to sweat, my stomach began to turn, and it began to hurt so much that I stopped playing the board game, left for the bathroom and didn’t return for a very, very long time. I put a finger down my throat for the first and only time in my life, over and over and over again until the pain was gone. You have no idea how done with sugar and white flour I am. They are toxic. Maybe more so for my body than yours, but trust me when I say that it will catch up with you.)

So Monday night I get to sleep... And Tuesday morning I wake up, still in achy pain, but not so bad. I limp a little, but I can get around. Surely I’m fine. But as the day continues it gets worse, and worse, and worse. At one point, I stand up from my computer to pee (as I do so very often) and I step forward, and then this blinding pain goes through my left knee, and I try to step forward but there is no response from my left leg. (For fucking Christ’s sake, I’m fucking nineteen! This isn’t supposed to be happening to me!) I make something like a hop, or a shuffle forward with my right leg, trying to catch my balance on the desk, on My boyfriend, on anything, but my hands are weak, my shoulders are sore, and the next thing I know I’m falling... Falling is so scary. Thank goodness I wasn’t more than foot away from my chair and simply fell backwards right into it. Some other places in my room would have been awful places to fall.

Now I’m crawling. I can’t really stand anymore. My left leg won’t take any weight at all. My boyfriend took off Monday and Tuesday (mostly for me, but partly from how tired he was from taking care of me through the night) and he carried me to the from the bathroom a number of times, other times I just leaned on him. He sat me up in bed, and laid me back down again. How embarrassing. But oh how grateful I am.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. So far I’ve taken five pills of a calcium, magnesium, and zinc complex, but that’s about all I can think of to help. I don’t even know if rest or exercise is better for whatever is wrong with me. The war between my body and me is officially on, and somehow I don’t feel like I’m going to win.

PS: I really have dreamed that I had a cock before, multiple times in fact. Undoubtedly I was a man in my most recent lifetime.

PSS: Shit, I have to pee again, this isn’t going to be fun...