GrrrrrrrAWR.
(Why isn't "disgusting" a mood?)


Last night was not a good night. I couldn't sleep at all, and for some reason tossed all night thinking about Tigger. Sleep deprivation and gloom followed me to work, where I managed to avoid ERing by keeping exceptionally busy (read: distracted, and therefore superficially happy). I was even really happy on the way out to my car.

I have no idea what the heck happened then. I spent the entire car trip home thinking about all the things I miss and crying. Dangerously crying. I considered pulling off the road, and only the desire to be home and homenow stopped me from doing so.

I curled up on the couch with my family to watch Christmas movies on TV, which I thought was doing some good until I got into a stupid argument with my mom that I walked away from to avoid letting my own frustrations make the situation worse... but apparently she was a lot more cheesed off than I thought. She went to bed angry, so now I'm going to bed frustrated, depressed, and with burninating eyes from all the idiotic crying.

I feel like the ultimate oxymoron. I want to be left alone. I want someone to notice that I'm soverynotErin right now. I don't want anyone to draw attention to it or me. I want to know someone, anyone has my back. I want a shoulder to cry on. I don't want the world to see me like this.

I think my name must be synonymous with "contradiction."



I'm sick of myself and want me to go away for a long, long time.
That is all. Done.

"A best friend is someone who sees the pain in your eyes while everyone else believes the smile on your face."








I love it when it rains at night, but I find myself too inspired to sleep.


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So... is it completely wrong that I think of the Doctor and Rose while listening to The Greatest Story Never Told instead of the Doctor and River Song?

Especially the first two minutes.




Dork, dork, dork, yep.


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I have never in my life felt more that no one understood me. Even the people I thought knew me better than I know myself seem to no longer hear a thing I say and have begun to interpret whatever they want in my moods and words. I find, lately, that I feel like a useless semi-blip of nothingness; like white noise; like negative space that isn't fully perceived except in that it makes the images it surrounds more evident. But I've used that analogy before.

And you know something? Impulsiveness is not synonymous with strength, and caution is not always a weakness.



Papaw's back in the hospital. For one, they don't think he was getting enough fluids to help him recover from the surgery. (I will kick that stubborn old man in the head. I've already lost one grandparent who refused to do as he's told to heal.) They also found a blood clot in his lungs? Whaaaat? I guess now they're doing all kinds of tests to make sure there aren't any others and figure out what else is going on.

I severely want to hit something. Or run. Running sounds good.



I need to find that old Hermione "too much going on" icon. Funny how I figured I wouldn't need it anymore after graduation.



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...I'm slightly tempted to go see New Moon.




Heaven help me.





I have nothing left to do now but hang my head in shame.


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It's so very, very hard to be thankful when all I can think about is how you used to tear around the kitchen in such a little fritz, twining around and under every step we made, while Dad carved the turkey and Mom poured the juice off for gravy. You little furry trip hazard... and I really believe we all snuck just the tiniest bit of turkey to you, each without realizing the others had, too, so that when it was all said and done, you'd had too much rich food for your little kitty tummy.

It was hard, but I really tried my best. I tried.





Still.

I've always hated that cooked-bird smell, but...
I hate it even more, now.

Uh... so I'm listening to my Doctor Who soundtracks and crying myself a river for some inexplicable reason.




Blast you, Murray Gold, and your awesome musical sobbiness!



Fudgesicles, I'm such a dork.



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I've determined that the reason I am a clumsy person must be that I'm constantly having to maneuver around the chaos of my own room. I'm used to over-exaggerating each step and motion to avoid piles of semi-organized mess on the floor or stretching into odd contortions to prevent from disturbing precariously stacked papers on the shelves I have to reach over... so when those elements are removed from my near vicinity, my otherwise reasonable flamboyance of motion serves no purpose and ultimately just contributes to my imbalance. I say this, because my room is now tidy--and, no lie, within ten minutes of my regaining full use of all my floor space, I fell over three times. Note I did not write, "tripped over." No, I simply toppled over nothing and into my dresser, my bed, and the floor.

Now, this is the norm in every other environment of my life... but as a general rule, I usually fall over much less in my own room. No more, apparently.

Coordination is made of fail.

I haven't been able to sleep properly my entire vacation. I finally feel my eyelids drooping at some point between 6 and 7 a.m. and wake up again around 11. It may sound silly, but I stay up so late that I'm too afraid to go to sleep. I'm 25 years old, and I'm freaking myself out over night noises. But I realized last night that... part of this is still my bothering over Tigger. Throughout my life, I've had a natural inclination to sleep with my back to the bedroom door, and for some reason, my overactive imagination finds that terrifying. Tigger used to sleep nestled up against my back, though, facing the door--and that was comforting. I felt no wrong could come while he was warm and cozy against my back. Even when he stopped sleeping in my room, he was always in the rocking chair just outside, so I felt the same sense of protection. This is insane, because my cat was the epitome of a "scaredy cat." Sometimes he would let me hold him if he was afraid, and he'd push his little head into the crook of my arm; but most of the time he'd just run to hide under my bed. I doubt he'd have protected me from a spider, let alone anything worth enough worry to forestall sleep. Still... his warmth felt like my own little alarm system, and it's awkward going to sleep without knowing that's there.

I found his favorite toy while I was cleaning. I thought I'd thrown it out years ago, but maybe I fabricated that memory when I couldn't find it. It's a fluffy white mouse about the size of my hand, and Tigger used to attack that mouse as if his furry little life depended on it. Then, when he was content in his kill, he'd curl up and sleep on it. Mom and I called it his "baby," because the ratty thing seemed to mysteriously follow him to various sleeping spots throughout the day, and we'd always find him curled up around or on top of it. It's presently missing both ears, each replaced with a tuft of stuffing that's come oozing out of the fluffy mouse wrapper; and it's yellowed somewhat on the bottom side. I should probably throw it out. But I haven't.

I'm thinking I should join a writing club or group somewhere, something that will encourage me to not only write on a regular basis, but provide some standard of feedback on that writing. I've been reading over ancient class work, and it's reminded me how instinctual that part of my life used to be. I need to dredge that up again, to find out if it's something I want to fall back on with the same passion I'd locked away in favor of other distractions.

I'm having trouble being my own instigator. Got to see if I can change that...


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Silly Putty is therapy. Cheap, cheap therapy. So is any song by Switchfoot. I still don't understand how Jon Foreman writes music that seems like it was ripped out of my soul and pieced together from the leftover scraps of things I could never bring myself to say.

( Bullet Soul )

Papaw is still in the hospital. He did end up having surgery, but from what I hear, it was much more minor than it could have been. Last I heard, he's recovering well, so thanks for happy thoughts and prayers (and text messages, celestialblue--MWAH).

So, I really like today's Writer's Block:

What scene from a movie, book, or play would you most want to recreate in real life? Who would you play? Who would you cast in the other roles?

I don't know if I can honestly choose just one from that plethora of amazing material, but the first thing to pop into my head was the scene from Love Actually when Jamie (Colin Firth's character) shows up to ask Aurelia to marry him. The fact that he's struggled to learn enough Portuguese to address her... and the fact that she obviously tried to learn English when she answers him... it makes my little heart get all happy sappy.

And as per usual, I will be a total dork and cast Mr. Tennant. HEEEE.

Project Runway was super lametastic this season. I was pretty blah about the finale tonight, but that could be because I've known since mid-season it'd ultimately be a toss-up between Irina and Althea: the great designer with the sucky attitude and the sucky designer the Klum seemed to love. And neither of their lines were that great. I would much rather have seen what some of the others would have come up with. Blah.

So yeah, my computer exploded on Saturday night. I'm still not sure how, but I contracted a series of nasty net bugs right around midnight that just would not be destroyed. Work and Dad's birthday on Sunday prevented me from doing anything about it, but my brother worked on it a lot and said Percy would be best off with a full system wipe. Fudgecicles. So I spent all of Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday burning the plethora of pictures, writing, and art files I had stored up on this puppy (dating back as far as '97!) in the hopes of saving them. That was sooooo not how I wanted to start my ten-days off, but whatevs. No going back, now. Ben got Perce running smoothly again late last night, and here I am. I've been too nervous to try putting my files back. I double and triple checked them, but there's always a chance that things will go cookoo again; and truthfully, I'm terrified that some of my writing could end up corrupted.

Also, for some reason, I've been scheduled on Sunday, though I should have the day off. No word back from my managers on this, yet, so I may actually have to go in, which would royally fail. Ah well, at least two more days of bliss.

I really wanted to whip out the paints over my vacation, but I think I'm just going to super-clean and work on Christmas presents.

Lalalala... other stuff going on, but nothing I want to write about here. sleepy time, methinks.


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My papaw is in the hospital, as of last night, apparently. I don't know exactly what's going on, but I've been told it could either be routine staying-for-a-few-days-just-to-be-safe or that it could be really bad.

Ugh.


All prayers and happy thoughts most welcome.



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