Answer him

Ianto Jones. Coffee-maker extraordinaire. Wearer of three-piece suits. Persistent and dependable. He loved hopelessly and helplessly and truly. He kept a mechanized girlfriend alive in the basement, trying desperately to keep her alive, to fix her, to save her. He fell for Jack, who refused to say the words, "I love you," even when Ianto lay dying in his arms. He deserved so much more than being the errand boy, the extra agent, the casual fling. Ianto Jones. He needs a song.

Worn out

It feels a lot later than it should, somehow. Perhaps getting up at six thirty this morning has something to do with that. Maybe I have done more today than I have the rest of break together. Maybe I'm still just stressed over things that are not getting done. Either way, today feels like it has been extraordinarily long.
I'm saying lots of silly things because I have nothing else flowing from me at this point in time. I'm all worn out emotionally from Torchwood, for which I wept bitterly.

I saw friends today that are still friends, but not very close friends. I don't talk to them about the most important things which shouldn't be the most important things, but they are. We talk TV, but shows that aren't tied to the center of me, my core self. We saw a daft movie, at the end of which I sat laughing until I nearly cried, it was so  awful and amazing. I like retarded movies that don't mean to be retarded. If you're trying to be stupid, I'm irritated. If you think you're being cool, but failing, I laugh. What sort of person does that make me?  A cynical, sarcastic, awful one, I think. I think the failure of others is more amusing than their genuine attempts to amuse me. Hmm. I liked the movie. Going to leave that thought there.

Having a style is one thing, but reusing words or phrases bothers me. I can't even reuse a distinctive word in an entirely separate post. I remember that I used it somewhere else, and it's no good. Been used; goes in the trash bin. I have no recycling bin for words.

That was a random rant, and I haven't the foggiest idea where it came from. Oh well.

Black Friday

Standing in line.
Read a magazine. Investigate sale fliers. Get to the front.
Go to the back.

Standing in line.
Text a friend. Pick up useless items. Get to the front.
Go to the back.

Standing in line.
Check phone for texts. Read an article online. Get to the front.
Go to the back.

Standing in line.
Grab a candy bar. Check phone again. Get to the front.
Go to the back.

Standing in line.
Put down useless items. Change ringtone. Get to the front.
Go to the back.

Standing in line.
Answer text. Hide the candy bar. Get to the front.
Go to the back.

Standing in line.
Look for Mom. Choose wrapping paper. Get to the front.
Let people pass.
Let people pass.
Let people pass.
Let people pass.

Standing in line.
Wait for Mom. Wish for coffee. Still in front.
Mom's here.
Checkout.

Impotent tears

Why would you do this to us

You offer them up
Make them breathe
Teach us their names
Tell us their stories
Expose their souls
Let us love them

We build them homes in our hearts
Accept their flaws
Cry for their pains
Fear for their safety
Laugh when they tease
Yearn for their happiness

Then you take them back.

Why would you do this to us?

Accepting what I can't change

I like my family.
I carry on as though they are heinous and ridiculous and sometimes they are, don't get me wrong, but I do like them.
Things get awkward when they ask me about my future or my cousin treats me like I'm 15 instead of 21, but I guess if I want to be taken seriously as an adult, I need to answer their questions and lose the acne.
We are a strange bunch. Dry, almost undetectable humor is the order of the day, and most of the time it could be mistaken for outright stupidity . . . and I am considered a bit slow on the uptake because I don't understand when my uncles are trying to be amusing. Am I supposed to 'get it' when they act like they've lost their minds? . . . oh well.
My younger cousins are brats to the last child, except for one, and I find him more corrupt each time I see them. His transformation saddens me.
Aunts are more demanding than uncles. They want opportunities to brag about their own children to each other, so they grill me on my future plans, hoping to trip me up with something they can use against my mum. I hide in a corner with my phone. They can think what they like.
I like my family. We are judgmental, arrogant, selfish, and irritating. We are intelligent, amusing, sarcastic, and strong.
I think I'm okay being one of us.

Thanksgiving

All the food in the world is in me.

Or so it feels.

I ate so much starch today. Ick. Yum. Some complex mixture of the two.

PUMPKIN PIE.

Just pie. And potatoes. Lots and lots of potatoes.

These are just words and fragments of phrases that are trying to tell you what day it is today.

Today, if no one is interested

I have experienced this level of mental, physical, emotional exhaustion very few times in my life. I blink mistily at the screen because I'm not sure what I'm typing, actually. I am a blob. A lump. A thudding great heap of silence. I cannot move, but I refuse to sit here any longer. I begin to fuse with the chair. This is a wrong thing to happen.

I know I am not the first to experience this sort of hell on earth, and it's a hell of my own making, but today was awful.

I woke up at 6:15 to drop mom off at work, came back and accidentally fell asleep, so there went at least an hour I should have been using. I spent the next 2 hours pushing through a report and three page paper project that I should have started three weeks ago. Needed a shower. Showed up to class long enough to turn it in. Then I sat back down at the computer and began trying to type up the last bits of a term paper due at 2. I did part of it, then tumbled for a good hour. What is wrong with me? By that point, I had about 10 minutes to stuff a few things into it that were supposed to be references before I went to choir. Still needed a shower. Went without. I went to choir, sang, came home, researched and typed and cut and pasted frantically until 2 . . . and then after 2 . . . and I got to class 45 minutes late. Still needed a shower. Once that was turned in, I went home. I got food, watched some TV. Finally took a shower right before I had to work for two hours. I remembered to my dismay that I still needed to revise and send a second draft of an essay that I had fudged my way through the first time, so it needed a lot of work. It was also due at 2, but it was a bit late for that now. After work, I came back to the computer desk from Hades and finished going through the essay. I sent it. I remembered that I have to do a bibliography for another term paper.

I do not care. Tomorrow.

Please don't

Don't expect too much from me, goes my daily refrain. If I keep your expectations at low to middling then my best efforts will astound you but I don't have to give them if I don't want to be bothered. If I set the bar for me too high, then I'm continually disappointing you, and I can't bear that. I hate that look on your face that asks me for more and thinks I am more than I am, because I'm really not. It's just me in here, and I will never be what you want from me. I will never be what I want from me.

Don't expect too much from me, goes my daily refrain. We, you and I together, are setting me up to fail, and when I do--because, believe me, I will. I've done it so many times before-- I will be left to stare at you from beyond the emptiness, pierced only by the knowledge that you thought I was more, and you tried to make me give you more, and I wasn't enough, and so it ends. I end, in a hole in the dismal earth dug by my ambitions and your encouragement. 

Don't expect too much from me, goes my daily refrain. 

Slips that are freudian

When tasked to write 1000 words on anything, I write just about anything. Stream of consciousness, or at least stream of typing? I can't even type fast enough for any of it to make sense, really, and then I surprise myself with what my fingers tap out. A few bits from this week follow:
_____

I write poetry now. Poetry is cool. Honestly, I'm not sure how I got started writing random poems of words strung together like they might actually mean something important. I never thought I had anything to say before, so why does it matter now? I apparently have things to say, and a captive audience that is the internet. I need more words, more words, more words to say the things I want to say. I never do write very much when I need to, and I never say the things I mean to say aloud.
_____

I write mostly about fandom things which are easier to express than talking about real life. No one wants to hear about real life, because they are living it too, and mine is less crappy than most.
_____

Random ramblings, so on and on I go, saying nothing that really matters, because nothing does matter, and I shouldn't let myself go on existential ramblings when I am working with way too few hours of sleep.
_____

I am quite proud of the words I flame into existence. I like fire. I think that's because I have none of my own; I want my writing to be warm and breathe burning life into me where my soul has iced over from being used so infrequently.

Two words to change a life

No.
That is the only word that hurtles through the blazing fog of my mind, colliding with a crash of agony in my thoughts. Gritty, grating cloth lost from between my grasping, over-sensitive fingertips as the burden they bore flops with a dull thud to the burning sands of my battle-ground. The void in my very soul wars with my fiery passion, conquers it with a single flickering glance into the still face of my lifeless prisoner. 
All warmth extinguished. My sun has fallen from its overarching sky. So, too, will the moon cease to reflect its gleaming light; I am finished. No other course remains, and I welcome the darkness. 
I have killed my captain.


Jim.
The name explodes into my mind and perhaps from my lips; I cannot tell and do not care. Firm and warm and alive beneath my clutching, trembling, tingling fingers, he moves freely with my wild spin and laughs, laughs up at me, and I cannot contain a responding grin that splits and cracks and shatters my reserve and my resolve to let him go ever again. 
Never again, because my sun is back in its place and setting me to burning with clear, confident flame; I glow with nothing more than his smile for kindling. We banish the darkness together, and forever, and forever has only just begun.
I have found my captain.

But you left me

Paradise

is looking into your eyes and waiting for my breath to come back just a bit faster this time

last time i wasn't sure it ever would

but that would have been pretty okay with me

stabbed through the middle like a glittering butterfly

with scales the same shade as your eyes that pin me here

What good is forever

with no you to see it with

no you to touch it with

no you to smell it with

no you to live it with

Can i just have the days you promised me

all the days we never had

short and terrible and too sweet

Those will be

my Paradise

Not right

Trust
is a gift
is a risk
is a connection
is appreciated
is reciprocated
is important.

He didn't know.
He didn't think.

He
rejected
protected
disengaged
forgot
neglected
minimized

Wrong. Merely destructively humiliatingly terrifyingly heartbreakingly wrong.

Distracted

Fire

I caught this for you, he says.

I mean, for dinner. For you to cook, he says.

but all i can see is the tilt of his head the scuff of his feet the blood in his ears the teeth of his grin

Are you going to do something with it, or just sit there? he says.

but all i can hear is the laugh in his voice the scratch in his throat the catch in his breath the thud of his heart

You shouldn’t stare like that, he says.

Your eyes will get stuck, or something, he says.

but all i can think is the way that he looks the stuff that he shares the joy that he lives the time that he said

I love you.

I try not to besmirch mine honor with foul language

BUT DAMN IT ALL TO HELL.
I FOUND IT.
I FOUND THE BLOODY BOOK.
ON. MY. GORRAM. *BOOKSHELF*.

I LITERALLY CRIED OVER THIS.
I LOST SLEEP.
I WAS STRESSED OUT OF MY MIND.
I MADE AN ABJECT FOOL OF MYSELF MULTIPLE TIMES WITH FRUSTRATION AND WORRY.

FFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU--

--dge.

I need a better grip

I keep losing things
Like my will to live
My train of thought
My grip on reality
My heart
My mind
Myself

Butterfingers.

Time is getting away from me

Crumbs.
NaNoWriMo is really hard to do. I know I said this already, but I am reiterating because it is true. I mean, spending upwards of an hour a day? I don't have an hour a day. I had to skip it yesterday. I was already behind, and now I am moreso. It makes me sad.
Time to get to business.

I keep losing things

I think I am all worded out. I just spent about an hour and a half eking out more than 1300 words for my novel. NaNoWriMo is really hard and time-consuming. I don't want to quit, though. I like writing. I like my story. I have trouble with pacing, but I think it will be okay.
Yeah. No more words today. I don't even want to talk.
OH, on a different note, though, that I want to tell someone...
I agreed to read scripture for church this week. This should not be a scary, horrifying thing. It should not be that big of a deal, but I am a nervous wreck, and nothing has even begun yet. Oh no...I lost the paper. I don't know what the scripture even is anymore. Aaaaaack. This is no bueno.
Also, I lost my book that I am supposed to be reading for a class and teaching out of on Tuesday. I borrowed a copy, but I have had zero time to read it because of reasons. Legitimate reasons, mind you, but just reasons. We are supposed to talk about it and come up with questions and similar by one tomorrow. I have a test in the morning which precludes any time for anything else in the morning. Oh dear. Oh well. Such is life.
I need to stop losing things.

Unasked

Going to a dance

Every one wearing slippery silky 

Dresses

Every one in high shining

Shoes

Every one under curly stylish

Hair

Every one with glowing happy

Faces

Every one
Else.

This is a long ramble about what I want to write but can't

I never feel creative at all in the evening.

Why is that?

I mean, I was talking to an English major friend of mine who mentioned National Novel Writing Month, and I thought to myself, "What a great idea! I can finally get started on my super special awesome fantasy novel that I've been dreaming over for about seven years." 

Now I am here, at the computer, poised over a Word document, fingers ready to fly with heretofore unrealized genius and inspiration from the highest muse....and I have nothing. 

No words worth saying at all. 

This is frustrating.

Can I just tell you about my characters?

Gariven is an awesome guy. I like him a lot. He makes me laugh, because he's got such a stick up his behind about EVERYTHING. I mean, he isn't pretentious without cause; he's the heir to the biggest hold in the southern plains. He's been raised to take over for his father, and he's pretty smart, too. He knows how to fight; he likes twin short swords, which may be impractical. I have no idea. I don't fight; I write. Anyway, he's been at the Court of the Council every winter since he turned fifteen, rubbing shoulders with all the other prospective nobility, finding out he is pretty much the gods' gift to women, being generally impressive. In spite of his general awesomeness, he hasn't gotten into any real trouble. He has a little brother, much younger, of whom he is rather fond. He never uses contractions; court manners, remember? Oh, and he's an elf. I have elves. With magic. He has lots of magic, more than most other elves, actually, and elves have more magic than men. He is particularly good at scenting it, or tracking it, and he is the only elf he knows of that can read minds and communicate telepathically. He doesn't do it often, and he hasn't told anyone. He has a decent relationship with his parents; his mother tends to smother him a bit, while his father is disciplined but not cold. A golden boy kinda guy, really. Everything is going his way, at this point. He's twenty-two now. Oh, physically, he is taller than average, but only by an inch or two. Blond hair that's shaggy when not slicked back. Black-brown eyes. 

Playing opposite this paragon is Adoran. Another really awesome guy. He is my standard dude with tragic past. Stereotypes, I has them. But that doesn't stop me from making him amazing anyway. I am sort of in love with this character I have created. Is that strange? You are probably saying yes. Psychoanalyze away, because I have NO REGRETS. Back to Adoran. He is the sort of dire guy that says grim things but thinks something snarky. Sometimes he says the snarky thing instead of the grim thing. He thinks irritating everyone else is hilarious, and that's kinda the extent of his humor, at least, at the beginning of this thing. He is hard, and cold, and brutal, but not blood-thirsty. When he was a child, he lived with his mother on the edges of a village, and while life wasn't awful, it wasn't the best. He was a kid, what did he know? He remembers being happy then, when he thinks about it, which isn't often. He tries to forget that he was happy before he came back from the woods one day to find his mother dead on the floor, singed corpse still smoking from the blast of energy that ended his childhood. His name was on the wall. He ran into the woods, survived for a year or two scavenging and stealing into towns. One day, while wandering in the woods, he finds a cabin. When he gets close enough to get a better look, he is captured by a hermit elf who eventually trains and raises him and teaches him how to survive. I forgot to mention Adoran has magic, too. Lots of it. Lots more than Gariven or any elf. And he is a half-breed elf/human. And those are supposed to be impossible in my world. Yes. Truthfully, his back story has given me the worst time trying to figure it out. This version is new. I will probably write another one. Adoran likes projectile weapons: daggers, bow and arrows. He is also very good with a sword. He makes a living now by acting as a courier of messages, packages...it keeps him moving around, out of sight. He is tall and thin, has dark hair, blacker than brown, past his shoulders that he keeps tied back. His eyes are light blue. 

...why do I feel like I am digging more and more into fandom with this thing? I have been told they are essentially Kirk and Spock. Now that I look at it, they are also Charles and Erik. 'Cept the blond stuff, but character-wise? Yep.

TOO BAD. I like these guys. I made them up way before I ever got into fandom of any kind. They make me smile to think about. I drew them a lot a couple of years ago. 

I may or may not be feeling inspired now. Off to try this novel-writing thing!

Just today

Time to write about nothing really fascinating or important.

Sleepy. Very very sleepy. Not sure why.

Today was a good day. GETTIN STUFF DONE. Like errands and such. Felt accomplished awhile.

Then came home and did ABSOLUTELY NOTHING for about 7 hours. Felt both marvelous and worthless.

Sigh.