![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
That's twice in the past thirty-six hours that I've wanted to bite someone gently, as a way of indicating "mine"
It's something I've done for a while now. Biting things is how I claim them as my own. CD's, books, comics, art --if I get something new and utterly fantastic, my response is often to bite one of the corners lightly, not even so hard as to mark it. But hard enough.
With people, it's never an exclusive claiming, of course. Even were I *not* poly, it would not be an exclusive claiming --owning people, and the prospect of being owned both frighten me. But sometimes, the affection and the love wells up in such a way that I do feel in some manner possessive. And so my automatic thought is to bite, lightly, and on the shoulder generally.
It's definitely a light and gentle sort of biting. While I can and sometimes do bite to hurt (both myself and others, always *with* consent, thanks) that's a very *very* different sort of biting, for a different sort of situation. Possession bites are not ever meant to hurt, even in a good way. They are my way of saying you are a friend, you are family, you are nakama, you are part of Mine, and at this moment, I feel particularly close to you, whether you realize it or not.
Of course, I have only a very limited subset of the world that I can do that to -casual biting is not really encouraged in formal circles, or even informal ones, and among those I think of as Mine, not all of them are bite-friendly. But maybe I should start again. A subtle little kiss, with teeth, a way to say in actions what I can't always work out in words.
I find it amusing that I already have a tag for this sort of entry...
~Sor
MOOP!
It's something I've done for a while now. Biting things is how I claim them as my own. CD's, books, comics, art --if I get something new and utterly fantastic, my response is often to bite one of the corners lightly, not even so hard as to mark it. But hard enough.
With people, it's never an exclusive claiming, of course. Even were I *not* poly, it would not be an exclusive claiming --owning people, and the prospect of being owned both frighten me. But sometimes, the affection and the love wells up in such a way that I do feel in some manner possessive. And so my automatic thought is to bite, lightly, and on the shoulder generally.
It's definitely a light and gentle sort of biting. While I can and sometimes do bite to hurt (both myself and others, always *with* consent, thanks) that's a very *very* different sort of biting, for a different sort of situation. Possession bites are not ever meant to hurt, even in a good way. They are my way of saying you are a friend, you are family, you are nakama, you are part of Mine, and at this moment, I feel particularly close to you, whether you realize it or not.
Of course, I have only a very limited subset of the world that I can do that to -casual biting is not really encouraged in formal circles, or even informal ones, and among those I think of as Mine, not all of them are bite-friendly. But maybe I should start again. A subtle little kiss, with teeth, a way to say in actions what I can't always work out in words.
I find it amusing that I already have a tag for this sort of entry...
~Sor
MOOP!
On Hair, and loving my body
May. 9th, 2009 03:14 pmOh hey, I never posted this. It seems pretty readable, so have an essay that's been lying around on my desktop for a couple weeks. I think I wrote it just post-NEFFA or so.
So, I don't shave my legs.
(I don't shave my armpits either, but it's a little easier to hide that --I can wear t-shirts all summer. There is weather where pants *really* aren't an option.)
I've never shaved --never really seen the point. My general feeling about it is that the only thing it really accomplishes is boy attraction, and therefore falls into the same category of "completely fucking useless" as wearing make-up does. When I was of an age to learn how and get into the habit, I was also of an age where boys were useless and relationships impossible. For just post-pubescent Sorcyress, boy chasing was the furthest thing from my mind.
As I've gotten older, actually accepted that maybe this relationship idea is not all bad all the time, and started to (on occasion) do things specifically to attract boys1, 2, I've still never bothered to shave my legs. Between the feministy stance and the much larger "I am lazy and a little bit of a perfectionist and I don't want to waste my time doing that to the degree I'd want to" stance, I've just never gotten around to it.
This would not be a problem, were I not a little bit self conscious of my hairy self. Okay, a lot self conscious. I try really quite hard to love my body just the way it is, but as with the stomach thing (mine is round, not flat), I live in a society that has made it very very clear that my body is NOT PERFECT and I should therefore try to fix it.
This is obviously bullshit. The clearest reason I can see for having a societally perfect body is so I can catch myself a man. Maybe if I get to a point where I can't rattle off without thinking the names of ten guys3 who would happily have sloppy make-outs with me I'll shave and start binge-dieting like it's going out of style6, but in the meantime, I think I can live comfortably with my really quite awesomely hot body just as it is.
Now, almost a year ago, something in my attitudes changed. Prior to this, I tended to wear a lot of tights, a lot of pants, yes, all summer long. Tank tops would only be worn with an open button-up shirt over them. Society couldn't make me take a razor to skin7, but it could at least make me hide the fact that I didn't.
So, a year ago, I was driving somewhere with my friend Jim. It was recockulously hot out, because it was summer in Maryland, and I was wearing shorts. At one point in the conversation, he commented, and I gave my usual "I am lazy and a feminist and therefore don't bother" answer. His response? Totally without mocking "You go girl."
My brain clicked into place, and more or less all was right with the world. That was about the point of my life where I started actively trying to be better about loving my body like it deserves. I've stopped wearing tights when I know damn well they'll be too warm, short skirts are even less the enemy than before, and while I'm still a little bit self conscious wandering out in the world, I'm getting better and better at just not giving a shit.
I don't get in people's faces about it. I don't rail against my smooth-legged friends. ((Hell, when given the invitation, I will happily run my hands up and down my roommates just shaven legs --all of the niceness without any of the itching or stubble the next day!)) I don't even usually bring it up. I just wear short skirts and bare legs and let people decide for themselves whether that's terrible. If people can't be friends with me just because I don't match that idea of normalcy, well, I don't really want them to stick around to find all the other deviant behaviours I indulge in.
I still can't look in the mirror every day and think I'm gorgeous. Hell, half the time I can't even manage seeing "pretty". But I'm getting a lot better at looking in the mirror and seeing myself, exactly as I'm meant to be, and not someone uncomfortable in her own skin.
~Sor
MOOP!
1: I feel that this is about the point in the essay where I should say I'm only using boys because I am too lazy to constantly write out "folk who like girls" I have no problems with being ogled by members of any gender --at least not when I'm in ogleable mode. It's a weird little exhibitionist line, and would probably take another essay to explain.
2: And I still don't often do things specifically to attract people. Rocky Horror and *some* conventions are the only exceptions, and only to a small extent.
3: This is not an exaggeration, and I've thought of at least two more since I said that. And these are just the folk I *know* want sloppy make-outs --I'll be damned if I can ever remember or keep track of how many of you want to take me home and do naughty things with me.4
4: ...or to me, but that's a different post, and one I don't feel like putting here. Suffice to say, I think that sloppy make-outs5 should have all parties as active participants. More fun like that.
5: This is a euphanism.
6: Or, you know, I'll just get over it and be happily single. Shock, horror, all that.
7: And that's another thing. Razor blade. Can kill people. Scraping against skin. How the *fuck* is this considered normal for *anyone*?
((That being said, I do have maybe a slight preference for clean shaven men. But I've had perfectly nice kissies with boys with beards before, so really, shaven status is totally up to them. Unless they try to grow a pornstache. I do not give kissies to boys with pornstaches.))
So, I don't shave my legs.
(I don't shave my armpits either, but it's a little easier to hide that --I can wear t-shirts all summer. There is weather where pants *really* aren't an option.)
I've never shaved --never really seen the point. My general feeling about it is that the only thing it really accomplishes is boy attraction, and therefore falls into the same category of "completely fucking useless" as wearing make-up does. When I was of an age to learn how and get into the habit, I was also of an age where boys were useless and relationships impossible. For just post-pubescent Sorcyress, boy chasing was the furthest thing from my mind.
As I've gotten older, actually accepted that maybe this relationship idea is not all bad all the time, and started to (on occasion) do things specifically to attract boys1, 2, I've still never bothered to shave my legs. Between the feministy stance and the much larger "I am lazy and a little bit of a perfectionist and I don't want to waste my time doing that to the degree I'd want to" stance, I've just never gotten around to it.
This would not be a problem, were I not a little bit self conscious of my hairy self. Okay, a lot self conscious. I try really quite hard to love my body just the way it is, but as with the stomach thing (mine is round, not flat), I live in a society that has made it very very clear that my body is NOT PERFECT and I should therefore try to fix it.
This is obviously bullshit. The clearest reason I can see for having a societally perfect body is so I can catch myself a man. Maybe if I get to a point where I can't rattle off without thinking the names of ten guys3 who would happily have sloppy make-outs with me I'll shave and start binge-dieting like it's going out of style6, but in the meantime, I think I can live comfortably with my really quite awesomely hot body just as it is.
Now, almost a year ago, something in my attitudes changed. Prior to this, I tended to wear a lot of tights, a lot of pants, yes, all summer long. Tank tops would only be worn with an open button-up shirt over them. Society couldn't make me take a razor to skin7, but it could at least make me hide the fact that I didn't.
So, a year ago, I was driving somewhere with my friend Jim. It was recockulously hot out, because it was summer in Maryland, and I was wearing shorts. At one point in the conversation, he commented, and I gave my usual "I am lazy and a feminist and therefore don't bother" answer. His response? Totally without mocking "You go girl."
My brain clicked into place, and more or less all was right with the world. That was about the point of my life where I started actively trying to be better about loving my body like it deserves. I've stopped wearing tights when I know damn well they'll be too warm, short skirts are even less the enemy than before, and while I'm still a little bit self conscious wandering out in the world, I'm getting better and better at just not giving a shit.
I don't get in people's faces about it. I don't rail against my smooth-legged friends. ((Hell, when given the invitation, I will happily run my hands up and down my roommates just shaven legs --all of the niceness without any of the itching or stubble the next day!)) I don't even usually bring it up. I just wear short skirts and bare legs and let people decide for themselves whether that's terrible. If people can't be friends with me just because I don't match that idea of normalcy, well, I don't really want them to stick around to find all the other deviant behaviours I indulge in.
I still can't look in the mirror every day and think I'm gorgeous. Hell, half the time I can't even manage seeing "pretty". But I'm getting a lot better at looking in the mirror and seeing myself, exactly as I'm meant to be, and not someone uncomfortable in her own skin.
~Sor
MOOP!
1: I feel that this is about the point in the essay where I should say I'm only using boys because I am too lazy to constantly write out "folk who like girls" I have no problems with being ogled by members of any gender --at least not when I'm in ogleable mode. It's a weird little exhibitionist line, and would probably take another essay to explain.
2: And I still don't often do things specifically to attract people. Rocky Horror and *some* conventions are the only exceptions, and only to a small extent.
3: This is not an exaggeration, and I've thought of at least two more since I said that. And these are just the folk I *know* want sloppy make-outs --I'll be damned if I can ever remember or keep track of how many of you want to take me home and do naughty things with me.4
4: ...or to me, but that's a different post, and one I don't feel like putting here. Suffice to say, I think that sloppy make-outs5 should have all parties as active participants. More fun like that.
5: This is a euphanism.
6: Or, you know, I'll just get over it and be happily single. Shock, horror, all that.
7: And that's another thing. Razor blade. Can kill people. Scraping against skin. How the *fuck* is this considered normal for *anyone*?
((That being said, I do have maybe a slight preference for clean shaven men. But I've had perfectly nice kissies with boys with beards before, so really, shaven status is totally up to them. Unless they try to grow a pornstache. I do not give kissies to boys with pornstaches.))
(no subject)
Apr. 23rd, 2009 05:01 pmI have a bit of a mama bear complex.
Which is to say, if you touch my cubs, I *will* hurt you, however possible. Words, or physically, or however I can. And being made helpless, unable to protect those I think of as mine...well...it is among my least favourite things in the world.
My "cubs" are quite a lot of people, too. Alys, Veronica -those are the most obvious ones, and the ones I am absolutely most protective of. But when it comes down to it, pretty much all my contract mates, definitely everyone I think of as an older or younger sister, my roommates, Nik, the high school friends I'm still close to, the college friends I've made, the entire pie shop...You hurt someone I care about, and I will not be happy with you.
The problem, and I actually find it a very interesting one, comes when two of my cubs are fighting, or one of them is (inadvertently or purposely) causing another to be hurt. Who do I protect? Do I just ignore them both publicly and support each of them in private1? Do I go ahead and bitch out the offending party, despite caring dearly for them? Do I curl up in a hole and hope the whole thing goes away?
This doesn't really have anything to do with anything. I largely just find it an interesting thing to ponder. On the one hand, I don't care for the idea of "ranking" friends, and of course, all rankings would be situational, anyways. (If Alys punched...say...Emily in the stomach, I'd tell Alys she's an idiot, despite normally considering her more my cub than Emily. Though it occurs to me I'd probably be gentler on Alys than I would on Emily were their positions reversed.)
On the other...well...there are people I am more protective of than others --not necessarily closer friends, but people I feel it's more important I take care of, often because I tend to consider them mentally younger, and more in need of my protection. (And let me tell you, it is startling as all fuck when they do something that illustrates that they are actually a lot older than they necessarily seem.)
*shrugs*
~Sor
MOOP!
1: Yes. I can say with some confidence that this is the route I took with the strongest example of two people I quite like and care for being stupid to each other.
Which is to say, if you touch my cubs, I *will* hurt you, however possible. Words, or physically, or however I can. And being made helpless, unable to protect those I think of as mine...well...it is among my least favourite things in the world.
My "cubs" are quite a lot of people, too. Alys, Veronica -those are the most obvious ones, and the ones I am absolutely most protective of. But when it comes down to it, pretty much all my contract mates, definitely everyone I think of as an older or younger sister, my roommates, Nik, the high school friends I'm still close to, the college friends I've made, the entire pie shop...You hurt someone I care about, and I will not be happy with you.
The problem, and I actually find it a very interesting one, comes when two of my cubs are fighting, or one of them is (inadvertently or purposely) causing another to be hurt. Who do I protect? Do I just ignore them both publicly and support each of them in private1? Do I go ahead and bitch out the offending party, despite caring dearly for them? Do I curl up in a hole and hope the whole thing goes away?
This doesn't really have anything to do with anything. I largely just find it an interesting thing to ponder. On the one hand, I don't care for the idea of "ranking" friends, and of course, all rankings would be situational, anyways. (If Alys punched...say...Emily in the stomach, I'd tell Alys she's an idiot, despite normally considering her more my cub than Emily. Though it occurs to me I'd probably be gentler on Alys than I would on Emily were their positions reversed.)
On the other...well...there are people I am more protective of than others --not necessarily closer friends, but people I feel it's more important I take care of, often because I tend to consider them mentally younger, and more in need of my protection. (And let me tell you, it is startling as all fuck when they do something that illustrates that they are actually a lot older than they necessarily seem.)
*shrugs*
~Sor
MOOP!
1: Yes. I can say with some confidence that this is the route I took with the strongest example of two people I quite like and care for being stupid to each other.
(no subject)
Apr. 21st, 2009 09:32 pmFour and a half years ago, I was engaging in a mindless little elljay survey "What have you done" sort of life experience thing.
One of the items was "Seen Tori Amos perform live". I was fifteen. I was not especially pop culture savvy. I responded with "Who?"
A few days later, ShadowKevin wrote a post about picking battles, which touched on my offhand answer. He had chosen not to fight that fight, figuring it was ridiculous to force Highly Important Music on the snarky fifteen year old. What he essentially said (either there or in other posts) was that you couldn't force Tori on people. She had to be Found.
He said some other stuff, but what I took away from all of it was that Tori Amos had music that was strong and sad and beautiful and full of cope, and eventually, I would be at a point in my life where I would need her, and at that point I would go find her.
I've held that in the back of my mind for the last four and a half years. I've figured out who exactly Tori is, and what she's for, and yes, I've managed to fall just a little bit in love with her -after I read her introduction to the Sandman comic "Death: The High Cost of Living".
But I've never heard her music. I've never made that effort to Find her, perhaps because I've never needed to Find her. It's not that I've never felt sad and scared and empty and lone, or that I've never needed music to protect me when I'm in that zone. It's just that, I think, I've fond my own safety nets for when that happens.
I've nothing against Tori. I'd be perfectly happy to put her in my "Sad Girls with Pretty Voices" playlist, which is pretty much what I need when I'm in that bad place. But when I cry, when I truly need the music to protect me, I'm first gonna turn to the old protections, the old comforts, those made strong by a year or more of already spilled tears. I've never Needed Tori, because at all those points where I really would, I had someone else to catch me.
She didn't play "The Tower"
And she didn't play "Lullaby for a Stormy Night"
But she did play "Harbor", which was my first, and she did play "City Hall", which makes me cry with the beauty and the sadness of it all, and she did play "Gravity" and she did play lots of new and beautiful songs and wrapped me up in her music and her voice. And so, for a few hours, in the real world (and not just in my head) I was safe.
I saw Vienna Tengyesterday last the other week. Vienna, who has held me through tearstorms and panic attacks, who has let me dance my way back into stability, who's words have wrapped themselves 'round my arms and through my mind. Vienna, who above and beyond anything else she makes me feel, makes me feel incredibly perfectly safe,
Vienna Teng who is my Tori Amos.
And who knows. Maybe there's still time for my brain to break in just the right fashion so that Tori is the only thing I need. I wouldn't mind that. And maybe I'll just find her anyways, where I don't need her at all but am perfectly happy to add her songs to my collection. In the meantime, when I'm broken, and need my music to heal me...I have my resources.
I have Vienna. And that may be all I need.
~Sor
MOOP!
One of the items was "Seen Tori Amos perform live". I was fifteen. I was not especially pop culture savvy. I responded with "Who?"
A few days later, ShadowKevin wrote a post about picking battles, which touched on my offhand answer. He had chosen not to fight that fight, figuring it was ridiculous to force Highly Important Music on the snarky fifteen year old. What he essentially said (either there or in other posts) was that you couldn't force Tori on people. She had to be Found.
He said some other stuff, but what I took away from all of it was that Tori Amos had music that was strong and sad and beautiful and full of cope, and eventually, I would be at a point in my life where I would need her, and at that point I would go find her.
I've held that in the back of my mind for the last four and a half years. I've figured out who exactly Tori is, and what she's for, and yes, I've managed to fall just a little bit in love with her -after I read her introduction to the Sandman comic "Death: The High Cost of Living".
But I've never heard her music. I've never made that effort to Find her, perhaps because I've never needed to Find her. It's not that I've never felt sad and scared and empty and lone, or that I've never needed music to protect me when I'm in that zone. It's just that, I think, I've fond my own safety nets for when that happens.
I've nothing against Tori. I'd be perfectly happy to put her in my "Sad Girls with Pretty Voices" playlist, which is pretty much what I need when I'm in that bad place. But when I cry, when I truly need the music to protect me, I'm first gonna turn to the old protections, the old comforts, those made strong by a year or more of already spilled tears. I've never Needed Tori, because at all those points where I really would, I had someone else to catch me.
She didn't play "The Tower"
And she didn't play "Lullaby for a Stormy Night"
But she did play "Harbor", which was my first, and she did play "City Hall", which makes me cry with the beauty and the sadness of it all, and she did play "Gravity" and she did play lots of new and beautiful songs and wrapped me up in her music and her voice. And so, for a few hours, in the real world (and not just in my head) I was safe.
I saw Vienna Teng
Vienna Teng who is my Tori Amos.
And who knows. Maybe there's still time for my brain to break in just the right fashion so that Tori is the only thing I need. I wouldn't mind that. And maybe I'll just find her anyways, where I don't need her at all but am perfectly happy to add her songs to my collection. In the meantime, when I'm broken, and need my music to heal me...I have my resources.
I have Vienna. And that may be all I need.
~Sor
MOOP!
(no subject)
Apr. 13th, 2009 10:54 pmFollowing yesterday's theme of offbeat things fixing my mood, I am feeling better now because I lied to jere7my.
Now, normally, lying to jere7my is a naughty wicked thing and absolutely shouldn't be done. But it was one of those "are you okay?" "yes." lies --not that it makes it better or nothin', but at least I hope you can all understand that it's the sort of lie I tell far too often, and am therefore very used to doing.
He said okay. Trusting my answer, we returned to the dance.
I blinked, and my brain laughed at me. "Well dear" a rather sensible part of it said. "You told him you were okay. I do think that means you have to actually be okay now."
And so I more or less was.
***
As for reasons why my mood was in a not good place, well, the most of those belong in other venues. Stress about classes, and schoolwork and scheduling for next year is one. An interesting analysis of what is lost by the choices I have made is another. Letting my brain slowly piece together all the reasons why I might have failed one particular facet of my life is a very unpleasant third.
None of them are going to go away in the next few days, especially not if my body is going to insist on spewing blood shortly, like I suspect it will. I don't anticipate feeling particularly happy, probably not in more than brief spurts until the summer, but at least I don't seem to feel particularly negative. And in the meantime, there are ferrets and lemon cake, and those are both very very good things indeed.
I'm sure one of these days, the things that make me cry will go back to all being based in myself, and my own poor self-image, rather than in the problems caused by other people and my relationships with them. I look forward to it --while it's never fun to feel hideous and unloved, it's much easier to snap my brain out of it than when I'm trying to comprehend why I feel so hurt in a situation where no one involved has done anything wrong. Tears shed at the fault of others are generally more earned than tears shed at my own faults, or something equally melancholic and poetic.
Have a good evening, my dears.
~Sor
MOOP!
Now, normally, lying to jere7my is a naughty wicked thing and absolutely shouldn't be done. But it was one of those "are you okay?" "yes." lies --not that it makes it better or nothin', but at least I hope you can all understand that it's the sort of lie I tell far too often, and am therefore very used to doing.
He said okay. Trusting my answer, we returned to the dance.
I blinked, and my brain laughed at me. "Well dear" a rather sensible part of it said. "You told him you were okay. I do think that means you have to actually be okay now."
And so I more or less was.
***
As for reasons why my mood was in a not good place, well, the most of those belong in other venues. Stress about classes, and schoolwork and scheduling for next year is one. An interesting analysis of what is lost by the choices I have made is another. Letting my brain slowly piece together all the reasons why I might have failed one particular facet of my life is a very unpleasant third.
None of them are going to go away in the next few days, especially not if my body is going to insist on spewing blood shortly, like I suspect it will. I don't anticipate feeling particularly happy, probably not in more than brief spurts until the summer, but at least I don't seem to feel particularly negative. And in the meantime, there are ferrets and lemon cake, and those are both very very good things indeed.
I'm sure one of these days, the things that make me cry will go back to all being based in myself, and my own poor self-image, rather than in the problems caused by other people and my relationships with them. I look forward to it --while it's never fun to feel hideous and unloved, it's much easier to snap my brain out of it than when I'm trying to comprehend why I feel so hurt in a situation where no one involved has done anything wrong. Tears shed at the fault of others are generally more earned than tears shed at my own faults, or something equally melancholic and poetic.
Have a good evening, my dears.
~Sor
MOOP!
A/N: The events and things and thoughts and feelings leading up to this particular thoughtstream have been sorted out and reasoned with and talked over and etc. In short, please don't read too deeply into this post, I'm not trying to put it out there as a hint to anyone*, it is merely some words that I think sound good strung together.
***
( friendship privileges )
~Sor
MOOP!
*...anymore.
**This may be less true than I think. I'm not sure how body shy I am at the moment, it tends to vary across a long range, even within the same people.
***Well, technically, I don't want to stoink anybody. Replace with snog/date/pet as appropriate.
Not private because I'm better than that.
***
( friendship privileges )
~Sor
MOOP!
*...anymore.
**This may be less true than I think. I'm not sure how body shy I am at the moment, it tends to vary across a long range, even within the same people.
***Well, technically, I don't want to stoink anybody. Replace with snog/date/pet as appropriate.
Not private because I'm better than that.
Posting things for posterity, I suppose.
Dec. 9th, 2007 01:07 am"I could build a house on all the what-if's I've had in my life. What -f I had done this. What-if I had done that. The only problem is, I never really know how they would turn out. So I'm going to send you this so I'll get rid of at least one what-if.
I love you
It might not be anything more then a crush, but whatever it is, it's been happening on and off since sixth grade and that's enough to convince me to do something crazy like this. I don't know how you feel about me right now, and I don't really care, if that makes any sense. I also know/think you like [Name Removed], and that's okay too. I just don't want to have another what-if. I want to know what will happen.
I also don't particularily care what you do with this e-mail. Reply, delete, talk to me about it, ignore it forever...I just wanted to get this what-if out of my mind.
~Kat"
I wrote that a long time ago. Ninth grade, I think. (Stop lying, Kat, you know damn well it was written and sent late October/early November of your ninth grade year. Little over four years ago now.)
I've been rereading things I wrote back then all evening. This one, I think, matters the most. It very clearly wasn't a love letter, and I never referred to it as such.
It was a rational letter. The first of a handful I wrote. Not a lot, certainly.
The last one I wrote, I didn't save. It was the opposite of this, it was written to a boy who knew I loved him, asking if he loved me back. He...didn't. And told me so. Contempt in his voice that I would be silly enough to ask important questions in notes. It hurt then, hurts now, but I haven't used letters to communicate the important stuff ever since. Or e-mails, or phones, or anything like that.
I was so much cockier back then. Oh sure, I had my doubt and confusion and self-hate, same as always. But I was much more sure of how the world worked, and what was right and what was wrong
I miss myself.
Perhaps I should do as I said I would in my last post, and go outside and let the cold and the movement numb me.
(Perhaps I don't want to be numb.)
~Sor
MOOP!
I love you
It might not be anything more then a crush, but whatever it is, it's been happening on and off since sixth grade and that's enough to convince me to do something crazy like this. I don't know how you feel about me right now, and I don't really care, if that makes any sense. I also know/think you like [Name Removed], and that's okay too. I just don't want to have another what-if. I want to know what will happen.
I also don't particularily care what you do with this e-mail. Reply, delete, talk to me about it, ignore it forever...I just wanted to get this what-if out of my mind.
~Kat"
I wrote that a long time ago. Ninth grade, I think. (Stop lying, Kat, you know damn well it was written and sent late October/early November of your ninth grade year. Little over four years ago now.)
I've been rereading things I wrote back then all evening. This one, I think, matters the most. It very clearly wasn't a love letter, and I never referred to it as such.
It was a rational letter. The first of a handful I wrote. Not a lot, certainly.
The last one I wrote, I didn't save. It was the opposite of this, it was written to a boy who knew I loved him, asking if he loved me back. He...didn't. And told me so. Contempt in his voice that I would be silly enough to ask important questions in notes. It hurt then, hurts now, but I haven't used letters to communicate the important stuff ever since. Or e-mails, or phones, or anything like that.
I was so much cockier back then. Oh sure, I had my doubt and confusion and self-hate, same as always. But I was much more sure of how the world worked, and what was right and what was wrong
I miss myself.
Perhaps I should do as I said I would in my last post, and go outside and let the cold and the movement numb me.
(Perhaps I don't want to be numb.)
~Sor
MOOP!
(no subject)
Dec. 8th, 2007 11:57 pmAnd I read thoughtstreams from a year and two and three ago.
And I read BehindtheWalls, the first one, the one that coined the term.
And I read secret journals, that I was never meant to find in the first place.
And I read letters that were never meant to be sent
And I read notes that were left on my keyboard
And I talk, to you and you and you. And it doesn't really help. Not right now.
I just feel empty.
I just feel so
frigging
empty.
And I'm doing things off Al's radar. She pays such careful attention, should I cut-scratch-bite-hit myself, she swoops and grabs me and stops me.
But there are more ways to hurt yourself then with knives. There are ways to hurt yourself that don't hurt at all, that shouldn't hurt at all, that only burn because you're a freak.
(Other people are not the only ones who are not to touch my neck. I don't even like it when I touch it myself)
You pull strings tight round your wrist, and cause your hand to tingle from the loss of blood. And then you stop, you release the cord, the chain, whatever it is you have, and let your hand return to normal. Maybe you caused slight indents on your wrist, that fade within moments. Maybe you didn't. You didn't actually hurt yourself, just caused the world to feel different for a little bit.
You're all about making the world feel different for a little bit.
...
And in the middle of the empty and the hate and the lost and alone, she says one beautiful perfect priceless thing, without reason, without warning.
And the stretched thin emptyness, keeping you from doing anything stupid snaps away, and the saltwater starts running down your face. Fucking tears, you've been here before. How long since the last time you cried? Perhaps a week?
Fucking tears.
Maybe it's time to go away for a little while. Take all of who and what you are and bundle it up in a shirt and a robe and a hoodie and a coat and go walk. Walk the paths that you've made familiar, familiar because you hurt sometimes, and when you hurt, you need to leave. You need to go somewhere new.
Were I in Maryland, I would go to my playground. The one I don't bring other people to. Because other people taint memories, and I need a place where all the memories are mine and mine exclusively.
It's interesting to see how hard I have to work to find any given reference to any given thing. It's interesting to see whether I choose to use the reference when I do. For the last paragraph, end it "My 'Das Nonstop-Programm'." A reference that one and only one person will get. Good for him, then.
From Dar Williams* to Clam Chowder* to Dresden Dolls* to Marillion* All the words, all the lyrics are different, all the tones are different, all the moods are exactly the same. Sad and quiet and beautiful and melencholy.
Where to next. They Might be Giants? Where do they make balloons? I suppose.
It's time for me to wrap myself up and leave. May you find happiness where you need it. May I find happiness before I sleep.
BehindtheWalls
*The Christians and the Pagans, Windmills, Sing, Lavender.
And I read BehindtheWalls, the first one, the one that coined the term.
And I read secret journals, that I was never meant to find in the first place.
And I read letters that were never meant to be sent
And I read notes that were left on my keyboard
And I talk, to you and you and you. And it doesn't really help. Not right now.
I just feel empty.
I just feel so
frigging
empty.
And I'm doing things off Al's radar. She pays such careful attention, should I cut-scratch-bite-hit myself, she swoops and grabs me and stops me.
But there are more ways to hurt yourself then with knives. There are ways to hurt yourself that don't hurt at all, that shouldn't hurt at all, that only burn because you're a freak.
(Other people are not the only ones who are not to touch my neck. I don't even like it when I touch it myself)
You pull strings tight round your wrist, and cause your hand to tingle from the loss of blood. And then you stop, you release the cord, the chain, whatever it is you have, and let your hand return to normal. Maybe you caused slight indents on your wrist, that fade within moments. Maybe you didn't. You didn't actually hurt yourself, just caused the world to feel different for a little bit.
You're all about making the world feel different for a little bit.
...
And in the middle of the empty and the hate and the lost and alone, she says one beautiful perfect priceless thing, without reason, without warning.
And the stretched thin emptyness, keeping you from doing anything stupid snaps away, and the saltwater starts running down your face. Fucking tears, you've been here before. How long since the last time you cried? Perhaps a week?
Fucking tears.
Maybe it's time to go away for a little while. Take all of who and what you are and bundle it up in a shirt and a robe and a hoodie and a coat and go walk. Walk the paths that you've made familiar, familiar because you hurt sometimes, and when you hurt, you need to leave. You need to go somewhere new.
Were I in Maryland, I would go to my playground. The one I don't bring other people to. Because other people taint memories, and I need a place where all the memories are mine and mine exclusively.
It's interesting to see how hard I have to work to find any given reference to any given thing. It's interesting to see whether I choose to use the reference when I do. For the last paragraph, end it "My 'Das Nonstop-Programm'." A reference that one and only one person will get. Good for him, then.
From Dar Williams* to Clam Chowder* to Dresden Dolls* to Marillion* All the words, all the lyrics are different, all the tones are different, all the moods are exactly the same. Sad and quiet and beautiful and melencholy.
Where to next. They Might be Giants? Where do they make balloons? I suppose.
It's time for me to wrap myself up and leave. May you find happiness where you need it. May I find happiness before I sleep.
BehindtheWalls
*The Christians and the Pagans, Windmills, Sing, Lavender.
(no subject)
Dec. 3rd, 2007 02:24 pmSo, elljay has decided to play mommy.
( Some notes about the new adult filters and parenting and my mommy, who is awesome. )
***
Ohhh, this post made me giggle. Warning, NSFW text and bad advertisement.
***
What is the name of your house/apartment/whatever? I tend to use names when I can (The Conservatory, Ednoria, Fozzie Corner), although most people don't seem to name their living spaces, which is a shame. I myself hail from the Empty City, though I'm currently staying in an unnammed* dorm room with Grace.
~Sor
MOOP!
Posts to come:
An analysis of WriMo in general and this month in specific.
Some sort of post about the fact that I've been spewing babble all over this journal for the last week or so
My consolidated info post
*I feel compelled to tell you that I typod that as "nunnamed". I...don't know what to say. Maybe my subconcious thinks I look good in black?
PostScript: If you want a Christmas card, go tell me so
( Some notes about the new adult filters and parenting and my mommy, who is awesome. )
***
Ohhh, this post made me giggle. Warning, NSFW text and bad advertisement.
***
What is the name of your house/apartment/whatever? I tend to use names when I can (The Conservatory, Ednoria, Fozzie Corner), although most people don't seem to name their living spaces, which is a shame. I myself hail from the Empty City, though I'm currently staying in an unnammed* dorm room with Grace.
~Sor
MOOP!
Posts to come:
An analysis of WriMo in general and this month in specific.
Some sort of post about the fact that I've been spewing babble all over this journal for the last week or so
My consolidated info post
*I feel compelled to tell you that I typod that as "nunnamed". I...don't know what to say. Maybe my subconcious thinks I look good in black?
PostScript: If you want a Christmas card, go tell me so
Well...shit.
I just...figured out something reasonably important about myself.
...okay, we're being honest here. A painful and different thing for me, I know.
Its something pretty damn important about myself.
I've known for some time that I don't trust people real well. Probably a good lot of you know that as well --I've certainly bitched about it in some form or another, and if I haven't bitched here, it only means I never posted those rants. But last night, somewhere in between getting lost and getting home, I put it all together, and I think I finally have a pretty comprehensive picture of why.
I don't trust people, because I am dead scared of people leaving me. Or being taken away from me, is probably the slightly more accurate description. This *certainly* fits all but one (two?) of the crushes/relationships I've had in the past...oh...I was gonna just let it be from ninth grade, but then I let myself think back farther, and it reaches to at least fifth.
Reasons, bitching, evidence, history:
( Friends )
( boys (and girls) )
( Moving )
( <s>Daddy's Girl</s> )
( And one for the future... )
So yeah. There you go. Sor, in a nutshell. A crazy, paranoid, fucked up nutshell.
But at least I've figured out WHY I'm crazy. At least I can figure out someway to do something about it.
Have a good day.
~Katarina
MOOP!
I just...figured out something reasonably important about myself.
...okay, we're being honest here. A painful and different thing for me, I know.
Its something pretty damn important about myself.
I've known for some time that I don't trust people real well. Probably a good lot of you know that as well --I've certainly bitched about it in some form or another, and if I haven't bitched here, it only means I never posted those rants. But last night, somewhere in between getting lost and getting home, I put it all together, and I think I finally have a pretty comprehensive picture of why.
I don't trust people, because I am dead scared of people leaving me. Or being taken away from me, is probably the slightly more accurate description. This *certainly* fits all but one (two?) of the crushes/relationships I've had in the past...oh...I was gonna just let it be from ninth grade, but then I let myself think back farther, and it reaches to at least fifth.
Reasons, bitching, evidence, history:
( Friends )
( boys (and girls) )
( Moving )
( <s>Daddy's Girl</s> )
( And one for the future... )
So yeah. There you go. Sor, in a nutshell. A crazy, paranoid, fucked up nutshell.
But at least I've figured out WHY I'm crazy. At least I can figure out someway to do something about it.
Have a good day.
~Katarina
MOOP!
(no subject)
Feb. 10th, 2006 05:51 pm...Shit.
Crying sucks. *pouts* I hate this.
And no, I don't need to talk about it. Or rather, I do, and I have. So yes.
~Sor
MOOP!
And now, right before I turn off comments, and make this post avaliable to teh world, I'm forced to think about myself.
Never a pleasent task that is.
Oddly, I'm not thinking of that which is making me cry right now. I'm thinking of attention whoring, and wanting to be the star. Which really does happen to me a lot.
Take this post for instance. I don't want hugs, or sympathy, or lendings of ears. I'm specifically turning off comments so I don't have to deal with anyone saying anything that would just upset me. So why am I even posting this?
Logically, it's for the attention. Yet that attention which I need, I have been given in the form of conversations with those more intelligent then myself. I don't *want* attention from the rest of you, for one reason or another, mostly because I don't know you well enough, or I don't want you to know me that well.
And for all of those going "Shock and Awe! Kat doesn't trust me!!" don't feel bad. I don't trust a good 96% or so of the people I know. Not with myself, or my thoughts and feelings and emotions. Not with what lies Behind the Walls.
And yes, all of the people who I do tend to let further behind the walls ARE people I know online. This doesn't mean I don't like the rest of you well enough, I do, and I highly enjoy spending time with the most of you. But somehow, having that extra level of removal from the version of my world that exists in this reality, makes it easier for me to let you see me.
Perhaps this is because, even though I intend to meet all three of the people I've been confiding/ranting/bitching to, there is still at least some level of anonymity.
...Holy shit, I just spelled that right on the first try. Wow.
Right, right, back to what I was saying.
I don't know. I just really don't know. I'm a very private person, while I gladly (and ocassionally loudly) share my thoughts and ideas, I keep my feelings and emotions very hidden. I also tend to keep issues I'm having to myself, only asking for advice when I come to a total loss.
Could this be pride? It may be --it fit's the descriptions. I could very well be too prideful to ask for help, and that, paired with my own cynicsism could be a large part of why I tend not to trust people.
But what were we talking about at the start? Attention-whoring? Somewhere in my personal writings, there exists a sequence of words that, I believe reads, "I am an attention whore with stage fright." It is always a frustrating thing when I look back on myself and find that I'm being incredibly fucking RIGHT, and fitting whatever situation perfectly. I am, in fact an attention whore, I have known this for some time, and I try to realize when I'm being stupid for attention, which is never a good thing. And, although I don't believe stage fright is quite the right word at all, I DO avoid the spotlight. I hate being fawned over, which makes crying an absolute nightmare. Because people are good, and nice, and friendly, and because I have been good and nice and friendly to them, they feel obligated to come over and crowd around me and ask if I want to talk (which I generally don't) and if I'm alright (Which I'm sure as hell not, but I'm not going to tell you that). And really, when I get to the point where I'm crying, I reeeeeeeeeally don't want you to pay any attention whatsoever to me. I want you to ignore me, and do what you're doing, and let me find my happy spot and just melt back into the real world at my own sweet pace.
Did I ever tell you folk about the breakdown I had back in...October? It's what sparked a lot of things, including my getting therepy, and sequentially, my getting ADD testing and diagnosed with ADHD. It was...not a good thing. I was re-reading things I wrote while I was having it, and it is...scary. It's scary to remember the fact that, I really was caught in a thought-stream, and had NO FUCKING WAY OUT. The thoughts really were just too fast and too intense, and there was nothing I could cling to to pull myself out.
My saving grace with that one was that it was during a test. Yes, this did meant that I really only finished half of the timed essay, and had to make up the rest later, but it meant I *couldn't* have people fawning over me crazily. And I think that if I *had* had that, I would have snapped, and gone into full bitch mode, and possibly said some things that I would very much regret.
That might be part of the problem with my life. I get mad about as easily as anyone else, I figure, but unlike a lot of people, I really don't have any rational way to release my anger. Yes, I can try and play DDR if I'm at home (although Nik tends to invade) and I can always write and write and write, but in all truth, I don't think the latter really helps very much. It does less to clear the anger, and more to link it to everything else, like my mind links everything, and shut the anger away until the next time I need it. But I don't punch things, I don't scream, Alis won't let me bite my tongue or dig my nails into my palms or scratch up my arms (which were all things I used to do on a fairly regular basis until she came along...and theres a whole stream by itself) so I can't get rid of it through self-inflicted pain, and I always wind up feeling far too guilty to take it out on other people. So generally, when the emotions get to be too much, I wind up crying, writing in a notebook, or both.
And neither activity really condones having a lot of people standing around staring at me with worried looks on their faces and asking if I'm alright.
Also, I noted the other day that when I'm in an especially people-hating sour mood, I go very quiet. This is primarily to keep myself from yelling at people, and I figured it out by watching a friend, who was bitchy and WAS yelling at people. So really, if I go quiet on you and detach myself from the group, I probably really would prefer to be left alone.
*laughs bitterly* My own silly memories. Like bowling. To date, Eric is STILL the only person who has ever managed to figure out the above without my telling them. He's a good lad.
*thinks*
This turned out rather further then I suspected. I meant to discuss attention-whorism, and figure out what I could possibly gain by posting my above post. I still don't know, other then the fact that I HAVE gained a lovely bit of SoC (Stream of Conciousness)
It's odd, thinking about it. When it comes to writing, I think of myself as a fairly good fiction/fantasy writer. But when I write SoC, I find myself IMMENSELY more eloquent. I prefer the subject matter, perhaps? Or maybe I just write best when I really am in such a quiet mood. If life tells me right, I do recieve more, or better compliments on my SoC peices then my stories.
Somehow, that depresses me a little. Perhaps because this is never how I've seen myself when I've said I wanted to be a writer?
Another thing I've figured out, which I don't remember if I ever posted here, is a bit of mathmatical ratio type stuff. I figure that about 80 or so percent of my time, I am happy, or at the very least, indifferent on the positive side of the mood spectrum. I also figure that, out of all my emotional intensity, about 75 percent or so of it comes from or out of that 20 percent of the time where I'm *not* happy. Do negitive emotions just mean more, or do they just stick better? And I know I can get happiness highs, I've done it before, but it's much harder to remember them, and how they feel when I'm feeling negitive then it is to remember the low's I've hit when I'm feeling positive. Do I really just hate myself?
I feel so disjointed. No doubt that if I went back and actually read this peice, I would agree with the fact that I *am* being disjointed, and that I'm very much letting myself swirl about the thought-stream. Controlled though. I try to avoid letting myself be in it uncontrolled, the results are rarely pretty.
*sigh* I have to go babysit. In all truth, I only may or may not actually be around on AIM, and if I am,I only may or may not want to talk. So ta.
...And I turned comments back on. The first few lines though, the first post...that is not to be commented on. Alright?
~Sorcyress
MOOP!
Crying sucks. *pouts* I hate this.
And no, I don't need to talk about it. Or rather, I do, and I have. So yes.
~Sor
MOOP!
And now, right before I turn off comments, and make this post avaliable to teh world, I'm forced to think about myself.
Never a pleasent task that is.
Oddly, I'm not thinking of that which is making me cry right now. I'm thinking of attention whoring, and wanting to be the star. Which really does happen to me a lot.
Take this post for instance. I don't want hugs, or sympathy, or lendings of ears. I'm specifically turning off comments so I don't have to deal with anyone saying anything that would just upset me. So why am I even posting this?
Logically, it's for the attention. Yet that attention which I need, I have been given in the form of conversations with those more intelligent then myself. I don't *want* attention from the rest of you, for one reason or another, mostly because I don't know you well enough, or I don't want you to know me that well.
And for all of those going "Shock and Awe! Kat doesn't trust me!!" don't feel bad. I don't trust a good 96% or so of the people I know. Not with myself, or my thoughts and feelings and emotions. Not with what lies Behind the Walls.
And yes, all of the people who I do tend to let further behind the walls ARE people I know online. This doesn't mean I don't like the rest of you well enough, I do, and I highly enjoy spending time with the most of you. But somehow, having that extra level of removal from the version of my world that exists in this reality, makes it easier for me to let you see me.
Perhaps this is because, even though I intend to meet all three of the people I've been confiding/ranting/bitching to, there is still at least some level of anonymity.
...Holy shit, I just spelled that right on the first try. Wow.
Right, right, back to what I was saying.
I don't know. I just really don't know. I'm a very private person, while I gladly (and ocassionally loudly) share my thoughts and ideas, I keep my feelings and emotions very hidden. I also tend to keep issues I'm having to myself, only asking for advice when I come to a total loss.
Could this be pride? It may be --it fit's the descriptions. I could very well be too prideful to ask for help, and that, paired with my own cynicsism could be a large part of why I tend not to trust people.
But what were we talking about at the start? Attention-whoring? Somewhere in my personal writings, there exists a sequence of words that, I believe reads, "I am an attention whore with stage fright." It is always a frustrating thing when I look back on myself and find that I'm being incredibly fucking RIGHT, and fitting whatever situation perfectly. I am, in fact an attention whore, I have known this for some time, and I try to realize when I'm being stupid for attention, which is never a good thing. And, although I don't believe stage fright is quite the right word at all, I DO avoid the spotlight. I hate being fawned over, which makes crying an absolute nightmare. Because people are good, and nice, and friendly, and because I have been good and nice and friendly to them, they feel obligated to come over and crowd around me and ask if I want to talk (which I generally don't) and if I'm alright (Which I'm sure as hell not, but I'm not going to tell you that). And really, when I get to the point where I'm crying, I reeeeeeeeeally don't want you to pay any attention whatsoever to me. I want you to ignore me, and do what you're doing, and let me find my happy spot and just melt back into the real world at my own sweet pace.
Did I ever tell you folk about the breakdown I had back in...October? It's what sparked a lot of things, including my getting therepy, and sequentially, my getting ADD testing and diagnosed with ADHD. It was...not a good thing. I was re-reading things I wrote while I was having it, and it is...scary. It's scary to remember the fact that, I really was caught in a thought-stream, and had NO FUCKING WAY OUT. The thoughts really were just too fast and too intense, and there was nothing I could cling to to pull myself out.
My saving grace with that one was that it was during a test. Yes, this did meant that I really only finished half of the timed essay, and had to make up the rest later, but it meant I *couldn't* have people fawning over me crazily. And I think that if I *had* had that, I would have snapped, and gone into full bitch mode, and possibly said some things that I would very much regret.
That might be part of the problem with my life. I get mad about as easily as anyone else, I figure, but unlike a lot of people, I really don't have any rational way to release my anger. Yes, I can try and play DDR if I'm at home (although Nik tends to invade) and I can always write and write and write, but in all truth, I don't think the latter really helps very much. It does less to clear the anger, and more to link it to everything else, like my mind links everything, and shut the anger away until the next time I need it. But I don't punch things, I don't scream, Alis won't let me bite my tongue or dig my nails into my palms or scratch up my arms (which were all things I used to do on a fairly regular basis until she came along...and theres a whole stream by itself) so I can't get rid of it through self-inflicted pain, and I always wind up feeling far too guilty to take it out on other people. So generally, when the emotions get to be too much, I wind up crying, writing in a notebook, or both.
And neither activity really condones having a lot of people standing around staring at me with worried looks on their faces and asking if I'm alright.
Also, I noted the other day that when I'm in an especially people-hating sour mood, I go very quiet. This is primarily to keep myself from yelling at people, and I figured it out by watching a friend, who was bitchy and WAS yelling at people. So really, if I go quiet on you and detach myself from the group, I probably really would prefer to be left alone.
*laughs bitterly* My own silly memories. Like bowling. To date, Eric is STILL the only person who has ever managed to figure out the above without my telling them. He's a good lad.
*thinks*
This turned out rather further then I suspected. I meant to discuss attention-whorism, and figure out what I could possibly gain by posting my above post. I still don't know, other then the fact that I HAVE gained a lovely bit of SoC (Stream of Conciousness)
It's odd, thinking about it. When it comes to writing, I think of myself as a fairly good fiction/fantasy writer. But when I write SoC, I find myself IMMENSELY more eloquent. I prefer the subject matter, perhaps? Or maybe I just write best when I really am in such a quiet mood. If life tells me right, I do recieve more, or better compliments on my SoC peices then my stories.
Somehow, that depresses me a little. Perhaps because this is never how I've seen myself when I've said I wanted to be a writer?
Another thing I've figured out, which I don't remember if I ever posted here, is a bit of mathmatical ratio type stuff. I figure that about 80 or so percent of my time, I am happy, or at the very least, indifferent on the positive side of the mood spectrum. I also figure that, out of all my emotional intensity, about 75 percent or so of it comes from or out of that 20 percent of the time where I'm *not* happy. Do negitive emotions just mean more, or do they just stick better? And I know I can get happiness highs, I've done it before, but it's much harder to remember them, and how they feel when I'm feeling negitive then it is to remember the low's I've hit when I'm feeling positive. Do I really just hate myself?
I feel so disjointed. No doubt that if I went back and actually read this peice, I would agree with the fact that I *am* being disjointed, and that I'm very much letting myself swirl about the thought-stream. Controlled though. I try to avoid letting myself be in it uncontrolled, the results are rarely pretty.
*sigh* I have to go babysit. In all truth, I only may or may not actually be around on AIM, and if I am,I only may or may not want to talk. So ta.
...And I turned comments back on. The first few lines though, the first post...that is not to be commented on. Alright?
~Sorcyress
MOOP!
(no subject)
Jan. 13th, 2006 11:21 pmI spent FAR too long typing this up, and I'm going to regret this in the morning.
Wow, and for once, I haven't even set foot in the bar.
Hey wait a minute...theres no bar tonight! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!
Right, back to this.
( A far too long rant about relationships and whatnot. Inspiered by my yellow notebook rants from ninth grade, if anyone remembers those. )
*thump!*
~Sor
MOOP!
Wow, and for once, I haven't even set foot in the bar.
Hey wait a minute...theres no bar tonight! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!
Right, back to this.
( A far too long rant about relationships and whatnot. Inspiered by my yellow notebook rants from ninth grade, if anyone remembers those. )
*thump!*
~Sor
MOOP!
I wrote this last night before I went to bed. This should clear up some stuff...
Start Transmission:0130 hours
Why do people ALWAYS assume they know exactly who I have a crush on? It's been going on since at least 7th grade, and I don't think anyone's ever guessed right. Ever. Plus, all these people teasing me about ASSUMED crushes just make me very certain that if I DO wind up with a crush on someone, the chances of my telling ANYBODY who it is are decreased to something approximating a 1 in a billion chance. Sorry folks, but I'm. Not. (That). Dumb. If I'm going to get teased for admiting the object of my current desires, why should I bother?
Oddly enough however, no one has ever acussed me of, guessed, or even TRIED to guess any of my female crushes. I wouldn't advise trying it though, I only currently have 1 and it's fading fast. Plus I'm most likely never going to see her again in our collective lives, so, whatever.
So, for the record:
A) I do not have any sort of love crush desire lust etc (except for the friendship kind) for a certain techie/sluggite heading off to collage. STOP INSINUATING I DO! Since I've returned from camp, I've had at least three people ask me and I'm getting a little tierd of it.
B) I am QUITE crush free at the moment. Enjoy your happy little romantic relationships, just keep me out of them since I don't give a damm.
C) In case you don't know by now, I'm expirimenting/bisexual. Meaning: I like girls about as much as I like boys. Maybe more.
D) I don't like boys very much.
E) Most of my closest friends at the moment have never teased me about relationships, never assumed I was interested in anyone, and, oddly enough, don't really seem that interested in finding a SO at the moment either. Think on that.
F) I don't have a significant other and I don't want one, mostly because I have no freaking clue what I'd DO with one. I am an introvert and an individualist and, while I'm happy that you've managed to find yourself that special someone, stop trying to hook me up.
G) I am not, in any capacity whatsoever, a slut whore prostitute skank wench ho etc. Surprising as this may seem, I don't engage in random acts of sex. Anyone who hasn't managed to figure that out yet probably doesn't know me very well. Anyone who implies that I am one of the above is going to get a very hard kick in the crotch. Male or female, it still hurts us just not as much.
H) Contrary to popular belief, I don';t actually get really Kiki-on-Pixie-Sticks hyper when I drink lots of caffinne. Mostly I just get a mild headache. Sugar on the other hand...
I) Tea is actually quite good, and I think I've had it more times in the past six six months then I've ever had it in my life. In the past six months I've met Bernie + Joe. Go. Figure.
J) I'm not writing this in pink, I'm writing this in light red. Get it straight.
(((It was dark and I wasn't feeling ambitious enough to find a working men or a sharpened pencil. I wrote the whole thing with orange and pink markers instead.)))
K) Oh good, I can stop now that we've gotten to the good letter. I'm going to bed now, goodnight.
End Transmission:0152 hours
~Sorceress/Kat
MOOP!
Start Transmission:0130 hours
Why do people ALWAYS assume they know exactly who I have a crush on? It's been going on since at least 7th grade, and I don't think anyone's ever guessed right. Ever. Plus, all these people teasing me about ASSUMED crushes just make me very certain that if I DO wind up with a crush on someone, the chances of my telling ANYBODY who it is are decreased to something approximating a 1 in a billion chance. Sorry folks, but I'm. Not. (That). Dumb. If I'm going to get teased for admiting the object of my current desires, why should I bother?
Oddly enough however, no one has ever acussed me of, guessed, or even TRIED to guess any of my female crushes. I wouldn't advise trying it though, I only currently have 1 and it's fading fast. Plus I'm most likely never going to see her again in our collective lives, so, whatever.
So, for the record:
A) I do not have any sort of love crush desire lust etc (except for the friendship kind) for a certain techie/sluggite heading off to collage. STOP INSINUATING I DO! Since I've returned from camp, I've had at least three people ask me and I'm getting a little tierd of it.
B) I am QUITE crush free at the moment. Enjoy your happy little romantic relationships, just keep me out of them since I don't give a damm.
C) In case you don't know by now, I'm expirimenting/bisexual. Meaning: I like girls about as much as I like boys. Maybe more.
D) I don't like boys very much.
E) Most of my closest friends at the moment have never teased me about relationships, never assumed I was interested in anyone, and, oddly enough, don't really seem that interested in finding a SO at the moment either. Think on that.
F) I don't have a significant other and I don't want one, mostly because I have no freaking clue what I'd DO with one. I am an introvert and an individualist and, while I'm happy that you've managed to find yourself that special someone, stop trying to hook me up.
G) I am not, in any capacity whatsoever, a slut whore prostitute skank wench ho etc. Surprising as this may seem, I don't engage in random acts of sex. Anyone who hasn't managed to figure that out yet probably doesn't know me very well. Anyone who implies that I am one of the above is going to get a very hard kick in the crotch. Male or female, it still hurts us just not as much.
H) Contrary to popular belief, I don';t actually get really Kiki-on-Pixie-Sticks hyper when I drink lots of caffinne. Mostly I just get a mild headache. Sugar on the other hand...
I) Tea is actually quite good, and I think I've had it more times in the past six six months then I've ever had it in my life. In the past six months I've met Bernie + Joe. Go. Figure.
J) I'm not writing this in pink, I'm writing this in light red. Get it straight.
(((It was dark and I wasn't feeling ambitious enough to find a working men or a sharpened pencil. I wrote the whole thing with orange and pink markers instead.)))
K) Oh good, I can stop now that we've gotten to the good letter. I'm going to bed now, goodnight.
End Transmission:0152 hours
~Sorceress/Kat
MOOP!
