Why isn't 'Batgirl' a valid career choice?

...my own dreams again.  That was my biggest mistake.

Horrible dream last night about my asshole ex.  I was at this party where I didn't know anybody, and he shows up.  He starts saying something about "I know you're lonely and can't find anyone else.  So I'll tell you what.  You promise to not be such a crazy bitch and fuck up our relationship like you did last time, 'cause it was all you, and I'll take you back and it can be just like before."

I replied with "Wait, what?"

And he continued on with, "Well, if you hadn't been so crazy everything would have been just fine.  So I'll tell you what, just admit it was all your fault and we'll get back together."

At which point I started yelling "I wans't the one who cheated!  I didn't pretend to go to my cousin's wedding and have my mother lie for me so I could sleep with another woman!  I didn't hook up with someone random at a bar!  I didn't hook up with somone I met on Neopets!"

Then I stormed off.  But then everywhere I went after that was flooding.  My bathroom, this mall I was in, everywhere.  And I just kept thinking to myself "Maybe he's right.  Maybe I should just go back to him.  Maybe he was my last shot at happyness, even if I was miserable with I was with him. And worse, if I don't go back to him, everyone will think I'm a total unforgiving bitch and will hate me for it because maybe the whole thing falling apart WAS my fault and I deserved it all."

And everytime I thought that, the flooding got worse.  Until I was on a life raft trying to get to this boat to get me out of there...then my raft flipped over and I didn't make it.

I don't have most of those thoughts in real life.  If he ever showed back up and said anything like that to me, I'd kill him.  If he even showed up on his knees begging my forgiveness for all the shit he put me through, I'd KICK HIM IN THE FACE.  But sometimes I get scared that he WAS my shot at marriage and domestic bliss.  Not that I really WANT domestic bliss, but was that my last shot at finding someone brain damaged enough to spend the rest of his life with me?  I fantasize about rock stars, tell me who doesn't have a fantasy like that, but I'm well aware that it's fantasy.

I am terrifed of spending the rest of my life utterly alone, never meeting anyone who can get me or understand me.  I am even more terrified that I met that person and lost them (not my asshole ex, but maybe somebody I didn't even give a chance to).  I am especially terrified that I will meet that person and they will want nothing to do with me because I'm not exactly a prime catch here, folks.

And that is why I fucking hate love.  Because love, given the right opportunity, can destroy a person completely.

...but love my friends...




Hey, I live in Pittsburgh.  Zombie survival capital of the world.  If you live in this city and don't live every day expecting a zombie outbreak, you're gonna get caught with your pants down.  And you can't run away from zombies with your pants down!

from the movie quote generator...

And one more...

somewhat in keeping with the "Alice in Wonderland" theme I've been going with lately.

Eventually I'd like to do a bunch of actual Wonderland themed photos. I've got some great ideas for the Queen of Hearts one and the Mad Hatter one.  But that would be much further down the line, after I get my own camera again and don't have to worry about borrowing somebody else's.  And after I lose about thirty more pounds.  At least.

I can't see through the rain so I don't know if it's snowing.

Merry Christmas one and all.

...this is home for the holidays.

It's changed, but still feels more like home than it used to.

I'm pretty sure I've fallen down the rabbit hole.  Don't have a white rabbit to follow yet.  Any volunteers?  I mean, let's face it, I'm never going to catch you, unless you want to be caught.

But you're always late.  And I'm always too early.  I guess we're never going to cross paths at that point, unless I'm willing to wait.  But I can only wait so long.

At least I've got a Hatter.  Not sure if he's mad or not.  But look at me and tell me you don't think I understand the phrase "Beggers can't be choosers."

I'm begging you to choose me.  The Wonderland I'm in is nice.  I'm going to hate coming back to the real world. 

The Cheshire Cat has your grin and I can't take much more of it.

I think you said it was time for you to start looking for me.

Except I don't think you said it.

At least, I don't think it was you.

And I'm pretty sure you're not looking for me.

No, wait, I'm sure you're not looking for me.

Because if you were you'd have already found me.

It's not like I'm that hard to find.

I'm going to do my cross country couch crashing road trip that will inspire my greatest piece of writing ever and will be remembered as a defining novel that future hipsters will talk about as they sit around a diner in Ann Arbor.

Either that, or I'm going to eat a really, really good cheeseburger.

If I'm feeling adventurous...maybe both.

Kerouac actually said he wrote On The Road because someday we're all going to die.  I think that's a shitty reason to write a book.  Then again, he's remembered as a fucking genius and I'm just a girl with a blog.  I don't know why this part is in italics.  If you can figure it out, please send me the answer along with a self abused stomped antelope to:

New Age Amazon
P.O. Box it doesn't really matter what number
City of Angels, State of Confusion (Zip Code Pending Approval from Moderators)

And be sure to tip your waitress.

...one of my favorite winter memories:

When I was a senior in high school, we had this huge snowball fight out in the student parking lot behind my school.  About ten or twelve of us I want to say.  We just started slinging snowballs at each other, and ended up cleaning off most of the cars in the lot.  Then, after it ended in a stalemate, I got into my red mini-van (I loved my van!) and ran over one of those mini-Barbies you got in McDonald's Happy Meals.  I had to run over her three times to do any damage.  Then I took her home and tried to make a noose for her so she could hang in my locker.  I couldn't do it right, so my father had to show me how.  That doll hung in my locker for the rest of the year and I'm still not sure why I got away with it...

That was...6 years ago, I believe.  I feel old.

A little over a year ago, I used to wear masks for everyone.  I used to pretend for everyone that I was someone I'm not.  For the customers I had to deal with, for most of the people I worked with, for the housemates I had to put up with, for my parents, for my fiancee, basically everyone I came in contact with. A different mask for every part of my life.

If you keep changing masks like that, you get lost and you can't find yourself.  You forget what your real face looks like.  It gets so bad that you wear a mask for yourself when you look in the mirror, to convince yourself of what you aren't.  It leads to screaming blind rage, a night in your bedroom staring down oblivion with a big fucking knife and too much hairdye.

The only people I wear masks for now are the people that really matter.  For my current job, because it's only appropriate.  For my mother and my father in certain situations.  I only occasionally wear one for the current housemates, and they can tell when I'm wearing a mask, since they've seen my real face.  But I don't need to wear a mask for random people on the street or on the bus.  And I shouldn't be expected to.  And I shouldn't have to put up with those random people telling me to put my mask back on just for them when, in the long run, they don't matter to me.

I still don't like wearing masks.  I'd like to get to a point where I don't have to wear one anymore.  But for now I can at least save my masks for the big performances and the formal masquerades.

I don't think I can do it anymore.  At some point you've got to dream for yourself.

And I've been missing my own dreams so much.  I wonder where they've gone.  Are they building me my own little Wonderland to fall into someday soon?  I don't think I'd run from the Queen of Hearts, I think I'd try to play her own game and behead her.  I just hope the Cheshire Cat doesn't have your grin.

You owe me.  Remember that if I ever ask you to dream for me.

...on the horrible topic of love.

There are a lot of people in the world.  The world is very big and is at the same time very small.  But right now it's the big parts we're concerened with.

There are very few people in this world who will ever have "true love."  True love isn't the sort of thing that happens every day.  If you read enough or watch enough movies, there's always a mention of how rare "real, true love" really is.  And yet we all keep looking for it despite overwhelming odds that it's not going to happen.

Few people will find true love. The rest of us have to settle for true lust.  Much easier to recognize, trust me.  You don't need to know anything about the person, you don't even really have to care much about who they are or what they think about.  True lust just happens.  I myself have fallen into true lust as of late. 

The thing about lust and love (and here is where I'm going to get weird and new age-y/pagan-y/batshit insane-y, so if that sort of thing ain't your cuppa, turn back now) is that only one of them is ever going to last.  Love is classically associated with water.  Lust is associated with fire.  This is our starting point.

Water flows, passes over things, travels, and eventually swells into the oceans.  It can change forms, become solid ice or become steam.  It adapts, transforms, overcomes.  It never truly disappears, because when a puddle evaporates eventually it will return as rain.  Water quenches thirst, we need water to survive.  It poses the danger of drowning you, but if you know how to keep your head above water you're safe for the most part.  Such is love.

Fire burns brightly, but often briefly.  A fire will eventually extinguish, though it's greatly enjoyable while it lasts.  Fire is the only classical element that cannot exist without consuming something else, and changing it while leaving behind cinders.  A great fire can be started by a single spark, but when it's over that's it.  Have you ever tried to restart a fire once it's dying?  The work it takes isn't always worth the flames you get in the end.  Such is lust.

Love quenches our thirst.  Lust keeps us warm, but will consume us in the end.  So how is it fair that so few of us will ever get to drink love, but so many of us will burn with lust?  Lust is the easier trap to fall into.  I've fallen.  I'm burning.  And there's no escape.

Maybe after it consumes me, my ashes can record what it felt like to burn.

...given the choice between snow or true love for Christmas, I think I'll take snow. 

I'm pretty sure it lasts longer.

It's not like I've got either in Pittsburgh right now.

My heart raced and I almost, ALMOST did something I would regret.  I knew about cruelty, but I had never quite experienced it the way I did earlier this evening.  To say what those people said to me and to my friend Kat...ugh.  And I don't think they will ever know how much the adrenaline was pumping through me and how ready my fist was to meet one of their faces (and I wouldn't have cared which one, the girl who was apparently the leader, the 220lb one who called me and Kat fat, or the boy with the bluetooth in his ear).  And they excused their actions because, and this is the kicker, they were 15-year-olds and they thought Kat and I were a lesbian couple.  So it was okay to call the two of us fat (when neither girl in their little group was any thinner than either of us...and I was at least ten pounds lighter than the "leader") and mock her loudly behind her back for lighting up a cigarette.  When they asked me why I was cracking my knuckles I almost broke character (when things like this happen I let the others be the vocal one, I'm the silent enforcer at that point) and yelled back at them "Why do you think I'm cracking my knuckles?  You want to start a fight, start a fucking fight."

The whole thing ended when their bus came and the larger girl yelled "Have fun with your diet plan!"  And the other girl yelled "Have fun eating pussy!"

But it was OKAY for them to mock us because they thought we were gay.  And there's apparently a logic in there I will never fucking understand.  See, by my logic it would have been right to beat the fuck out of them because they were stupid and needed to learn a painful lesson: you don't mock people because you never know how hard they hit, or how dirty they fight.  But then I would have been arrested for assaulting a minor.

Stupidity is, sadly, not a terminal disease in our world.

I burn.

I pine.

I perish.

I pray to gods that might not care.

I think it would help if I were prettier.

I run from anything that might reassure me.

I fight against the idea of "normal."

I am egocentric.

I wanted to join Molly and Case on the Rue Jules Verne.

I don't like the mask I keep wearing.

I don't like to cry.  I don't see a point in crying.  It gets you nowhere. I will shut myself down to keep from crying.

So why do I keep trying to cry?  There's plenty to cry about, sure, but there's no point to it.  It doesn't solve any problems.  Especially not the ones I have.  Not big problems.  Problems that can be solved, I'm sure.  But not by crying.

I feel abandoned/I should get over it.  I feel lonely/I should deal with it.  I probably always will.  I want something I can't have/I can learn to live without it.  I hurt inside/I've ignored worse pain before.

The only thing crying does is let yourself and everyone else know that you can't deal with it.  And I can deal with all of these things.  They're not worth tears.  The things in this life worth tears are much bigger than my stupid little problems.  And my problems are stupid, little and don't warrant much other than a rant in a blog I hide away from people that know me because, to tell you the truth, I don't really think there are that many people who fucking know me.  Hell, I don't know that I know me these days, but I can't very well hide this from myself, can I?

Or maybe I can.  Maybe that's the secret to keeping myself from crying.  I need to hide it all from myself and never think about it again.

There's a definite line between love and lust.  I know that line all too well.  And it's not a line worth crying over.

Snape kills Dumbledor on page 606.

There is nothing quite like trying to use crowded public transportation while you are walking on a pretty badly sprained ankle.  Between the fun in getting on and off the bus, you have the joy of not being able to find a seat, getting your injured foot (and ONLY your injured foot) stepped on, and having people push you around and then glare you for daring to stand there.

I wish I remembered more of my dreams.  Though, if I remembered more of my dreams, I bet I would wish to forget them.  I'm only happy when it rains, it seems.

I need to find something to do with my life that's better than being a secretary.  I basically need to find something I can do without having to obey a "no jeans at work" dress code that will still provide me with medical benefits.  And would perhaps allow me to pierce my eyebrow, 'cause I've always kind of wanted to do that.  And show off the tattoo a little more often.  I didn't get it so I could hide, for fuck's sake.

Today seems like the sort of day where I will spend a large slice of it pretending to work while I'm really working on "Starsign."

Sometimes, a lot of the time, actually, I feel like I just keep screaming soundlessly in a crowded room.  I know I'm not making any noise, but I'm still upset that no one can hear me.  I'd start to cry, but no one would hear me sobbing, either.

So, I messed up my ankle yesterday.  Twisted it, I think.  It hurts to walk and it looks like I'm wearing my boots to work for the next few days in order to give it some sort of support.  Oh well, at least my feet will be comfortable for once.

Tagged along with my friend Sarah while she tried on wedding gowns yesterday.  And she made me try on bridesmaid's dresses.  Possible pictures to follow.  POSSIBLE.

Now for the Christmas musings.  I grew up on Nightmare Before Christmas.  I saw it in theatres and loved it.  I tried to share it with my friends when I was young and they responded with "Is that guy going to do anything but sing stupid songs through this whole thing?"

Anyway, I broke the movie back out about a week ago in my desperate attempt to get myself into the Christmas spirit.  Because I haven't been able to this year since there's been so much drama and so little snow.  Hell, it was 70 degrees in Pittsburgh on November 30th!  How the FUCK does one get into the Christmas spirit in that situation?  I ask those of you who live in the South or other warmer climates: HOW DO YOU DO IT? 

Aaaaanyway, back to my point.  So, I'm watching the movie and I ended up getting it in a whole new way.  Most importantly, the town meeting scene where Jack's trying to explain Christmas to everyone and they don't get it.  And it clicked.

Last year I lived with a bunch of my guy friends who needed another roommate when the pothead chick living with them moved out.  I was in the beginnings of the break up with my asshole ex at the time and needed a place to live.  So, I move into this house in Squirrel Hill for about $450 a month, which isn't bad.

Around Christmas I start talking about getting a tree and doing some decorating.  And the one housemate (the one who I think kept hoping at some point to involve me in a threesome with him and his girlfriend, who was my best friend at the time) says "Let's do like a fucked up alternative Christmas and we can totally stick it to the man by not celebrating HIS Christmas."

WTF?  Look, if there is a message to be sent at Christmas, I don't think it's "Damn the man!"  I think it's "Hey!  Humanity!  Stop being a bunch of assholes!  PEACE AND LOVE MOTHERFUCKERS!"  But then I sat down and looked at the situation.  This guy's dad was a minister back in Johnstown.  So for him Christmas had always been about the Baby Jesus.  So for him celebrating an alternative Christmas was sticking it to the man, his dad to be precise.  Whereas for me, I was raised by a Catholic mother and a Druid father, so for me Christmas was about a lot of things...it was a time for faith, not religion.  And so for me trying to have an actual Christmas last year I kinda felt like Jack at times.  "This is a present."  "Well, what's the point?  To fuck with somebody's head?" "No.  Not at all."  "Oh, well then that's stupid."

I nearly hit the asshole actually when he came home to find me decorating (I was paying for the decorations and a New Year's party and figured he could fucking pay me to take everything down if he really hated it that much. Not that I would have, but still...) and yelled "Jesus Christ!  Well...okay, at least I don't see any of that."  Because dammit, you son of a bitch, I am the most spirtual person in the entire fucking household...and I'm a DAMN DIRTY PAGAN.  You had to go invent your own fucking religion because the only deity you could ever believe in is a fucking joke.  So you let me have my fucking Christmas.  Even if you can't feel something at this time of year, I CAN.  And maybe it fucking makes me a better person to feel it.

That was a longer rant than I anticipated...and I don't know how much sense it made.  I apologize for rambling.  Long story short: May have pictures of my decorations up later.  Because given what I'm working with this year, I'm not sure how well it's going to turn out...

that I think too much about truth lately.  Because there's a good chance it's all lies anyway.

I think about it like a poet.  I'm not really a poet, but let me think about this like a poet, if you don't mind.  Poets can lie with their lips and their eyes and their mouths, they can whisper lies in your ears when you're together in bed, but they can't lie with their pens.  Because the paper doesn't judge you, so you can tell it anything and it won't mind.  There's no reason to lie to paper.  No need.  And poets realize this and don't bother lying to paper.

So the question is: how do you know someone is really a poet?  Can you trust what they have to say?  I write poetry, but does that make me a poet?  I don't think so. So how can you trust what I've got on paper?  You can't.  You can't trust anything from me.  Or from anyone else.  If I were a poet maybe I'd know who I could trust.  But as it is, I'm lost.

I'm about ready to start inventing my own truth.  Because if I don't know who I can trust, is there anyway I can trust myself?  At least with my own truth, I know I'm lying to myself.

Don't tell me to fucking smile in the morning. And don't say things like "Don't look so mean!" Guess what, fuckers? I am fucking mean. I am a bitch. Some women are. And my purpose in this world is not to be cheery and cute for your amusement. I don't care if you think I'm better looking when I smile. Really, I don't care when you think I'm better looking at all. Because you are not the people I am trying to impress. It is my right to look bitchy and nasty if I want to, especially if I am feeling bitchy and nasty. I have had enough of trying to be Cindy Cheery-cheeks for everyone, that wore off real fast last year. And people thought I was SO NICE because I was a girl and I smiled all the time, not realizing the bigger the smile was the more tempted I was to just BURN THE FUCKING BUILDING DOWN.

Also, DON'T HIT ON ME. I can't stop you from checking me out, that's fine. But don't casually ask me "Do you ever go out to clubs?" Because I'm not interested in you, or your friends, or your kids. And it creeps me the fuck out when I get asked questions like that. I can't stop you from checking me out, but I am asking you as politely as possible to not fucking hit on me ever again.

AND STOP ASKING ME IF I HAVE KIDS! Just because I'm a 24 year old woman does not mean I have rushed out to procreate already! Nothing against people who have kids, because that's your thing. But do not assume that just because I am a 20-something woman on a Pittsburgh bus that I have popped out a kid already. And don't look shocked when I say "No, and I don't plan on having any." Because really, is it THAT FUCKING WEIRD for a woman to not want kids these days?

AND STOP ASSUMING I'M MARRIED WHILE YOU'RE AT IT. Some of us find more fulfillment in our lives in being single, independent and badass than in having a home and family. Again, not to say that having a home and family isn't fulfilling, it just wouldn't be for me. And it bugs the hell out of me that people assume that by looking at me...that I want a husband, a couple of kids and then lots of fat grandchildren.

You know what I want? A fucking car and my liscense back. Alternately, a sledgehammer.

So, after the weekend from hell (THEY HID THE DISHES FROM ME), the break in last night (all they apparently got was my sucky digital camera that they'll get maybe $5 for if they try to pawn it or sell it at the Exchange, which I hope they do because Jim will fucking MOCK THEM, and a broken laptop that's not even good for parts), things only continue to get interesting.   I missed a bus because of a phone call to the police, which in turn caused me to run into my old friend Steve and now I may have a date coming up or at least some casual sex, either would be nice right now.  Wrote 10 notebook pages of script for a comic entitled "Starsign" that I will never actually work on, but I at least wanted to write it to help me deal with everything going on right now.  I also ran into my friend Jen from waaaaay back when I did Judo (before The Knee Incident) and found out that Judo-cest is alive and well.  Then came home and just ended up in a wonderfully surreal situation with my housemate Kat trying to bite me while I went Cardboard Tube Samurai on her ass...all while "But It's Better if You Do" by Panic! At the Disco played in the background.

My life !=! linear

- came home to find computer thrown across my room and my monitor missing.  Call roommates expecting this to be the result of another hissy fit.

- call police when I realize it's not another hissy fit.

- police find basement door broken open.

- police take report.

- I book it over to Sarah's for the night after calling off of work

- As I enter Sarah's, housemate calls to tell me my stuff is in a suitcase in the kitchen.

- I call my ex-cop father to tell him about the evening.  He tells me that they were probably still in the house when I got home and ran when they saw me come in.

- my confidence is shaken because WHAT WOULD I HAVE DONE IF THEY HADN'T RUN?  I consider myself pretty hard to shake, but what would I have done if there had been a gun to my head tonight?  Would I have screamed?  Have I been conditioned well enough by a part cop/part military family that I would have been able to make myself not scream?  Would I have been stupid enough to use gun defenses I haven't practiced in at least three years?  I really don't know.  I'm glad I didn't have to find out, personally.

- now, I'm about to have a motherfucking chocolate chip cookie.  Because it seems like the right thing to do.

I don't usually care for Kerouac, but I love this quote:

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars..."

Just felt the need to share with no one.

But The Fountain made me tear up.

If you haven't already seen it, go see it.  The message is totally worth it.