A moment of spite

All right, I caused a lot of hurt with my last post to more than one person.  What I’d like to say is that you probably saw me at a bad moment: one where I was sharp-tongued and let out a lot of hurt in a moment of spite.  Yes, I was very immature.  How did I explain it to myself earlier?  Oh, that I was like a fourteen year-old who had just gotten a Live Journal and had started to write everything about my oh-so-dramatic life.  So, to those I did hurt (and there is more than one of you), let’s talk it out in person, because I’m not going to keep up being a bitch via internet.  It’s just something I shouldn’t do.  If talking in person won’t work, we can have a telephone call, but I will not do this via internet or text message.  You know that’s not my style for working things out effectively.

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Animosity, Wow!

(Note: I originally tried to hide this from third parties, but because of the drama and hurt I caused with it, I’m putting it fully into the open.  I better ready myself for deleting the spam comments.  There will be a follow up blog or two to explain some actions.  But you won’t see the full repercussions.)

Woah.  Just woah.  Where the hell have I been?  Has it really been more than two weeks since I updated?  Have I really said ‘ef it’ to everything online?  Yeah, turns out.  Somehow, I’ve ended up with only two public posts so far in May, which is a major turn around from my average of twelve, post-non-depression.  Oh wait, I’m sorry, let me put that in layman terms: I posted a shit tonne when I was depressed and stressed with school.  Now, I just sit in my room and internet around, or I’m flitting off with friends, having adventures and catching shit on fire.

Should I say that?  Adventures and fire?  Will that go against me?  We’ll pretend it won’t.

All right, making a mad dash to fill in crap.  Feel privileged–I haven’t even been writing in my diary because I’ve either been doing too much or just haven’t cared.  I guess that’s what summer does to you.  So, where do I begin?  Well, I’m still unpacking (my room looks ganky as fack; I can’t wait for everything to be put in its rightful place), I’ve hung out with my friends literally every day for nearly two weeks, and I don’t have a job.

Let’s start with the friends department.  We’ve been hanging out, catching up, blah blah blah: enjoyable.  Some friends and I meandered to the Renaissance Faire today (kick ass, let me tell you), have made far too many trips to Main Street, and have had a few get togethers that have all either ended in a bonfire or watching a movie or both.  Somehow, we end up adding gossiping like bitches and throwing dance parties into that mix, which then leads to trips to Steak and Shake in the dead of night.  I don’t know how this happens.

Something I do know that happens, and will most likely happen until the end of time, is that our friends will find gossip and drama to parade around.  Whether it be talking too much about the girls who are preggers or getting pissed off about not being invited to watch a television show that you don’t even like watching, we manage to claw at each other when backs are turned.

Now, I realise that this is just girl life (though how that ever became a standard, I’m unsure of), but damn it!  Can’t some people just hide their bitch-card once in a while?  For heaven’s sakes; I have a friend mad about not being invited to a small get together and another mad at me for eating a slice of pizza that I paid for.  And then the smart Facebook statuses full of complaints about it?  Really girls: get over it.  We’re all bitches to each other, so don’t feel so hurt.

I sound really negative, maybe on the edge of upset, but I’m not.  My mum even commented that I take social drama more maturely than anyone she’s ever met.  I don’t let my emotions get involved, and it’s why I am rarely disappointed or upset or angered over things that happen.  Not to mention that I accept the fact that I’m not everyone’s best friend and thus will not be invited to every little get-together.  I accept that I make other people uncomfortable at dance parties and that you’re afraid to touch me (unless you’re Alex, who decided to-hell-with-it and gave me a four second-long lap dance at a party because everyone else was too intimidated by me.  You win, Alex!).  I’m fully aware that people say mean things behind others’ backs then smile at them ten minutes later.  It’s kind of life, so I don’t get upset by this petty drama or how people treat me.  Getting bothered seems like a waste of time.

I guess I’m just trying to say that I wish others didn’t feel the need to be so upset by such small things.  No wonder heart-failure is so prevalent in this country: everyone is constantly moving fast and getting angry.  We all need to chill; have a Meditation With Missi day.  It will be glorious.  I promise.

Meanwhile, no job.  Not surprising, actually.  With this economy, even my friend who has applied for seventeen jobs can’t manage to grab one (and she’s one of the workers people should fight over).  You could say that I’ve given up without trying all that much.  After all, the Historical Society must need me in order to bring me in, and without the need, you might as well sit back and think of other things.  That ‘other thing’  for me has been painting.  I recently decided to start a miniature painting business (as in, I paint you a crappy picture for twenty bucks that you’ll probably hang in your dorm room).  It’s part hobby, part that I need the practise, and part summer job.  Maybe I can paint enough to have a little spending money for the summer (like, an extra fifty dollars, yo).  Nothing high-roller; I think of it more as bartering anyway.  You get a painting, I get a full tank of gas.  That sort of thing.

If you’re interested in purchasing a painting, let me know.  I’m best at abstracts and landscapes.  Give me the information, I’ll tell you size possibilities and prices.  We’ll work this old school.

Anyway, I can’t find much else to say.  This was more of a ‘let me fill you in and be a bitch along the way’ kind of blog.  And to anyone who would be upset by anything said: please take some time to chill and not let little things ruin your life.  You owe it to yourself.

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circles of dirty

So, I’m back in Saint Charles, sitting with a new window open and a certain Cat on my lap.  Yesterday happened to be both my birthday and the start of my summer holidays, which made for an interesting day.  I spent the majority of it packing, cleaning, driving, and napping.  Actually not too bad.  It just wasn’t what I expected, and I hadn’t thought that leaving university would be so upsetting.  Or maybe I did; it’s something I’ll miss during the three and a a half months back home.

Cat is now sitting on my desk, knocking CDs onto the floor and pawing at the keyboard.  Beautiful.

The next few days will be spent reorganising my mess of a room and then unpacking.  Yesterday, I managed to clean out my entire closet, which was a plus.  Now, I’ve started to unpack and get my bed back together.  Next up, clean up all other surfaces so that I can continue to unpack.  This wouldn’t be such a big deal if it wasn’t that I have a lot to unpack before I can get to my clothing (which means I’m sitting here in my pyjamas since I don’t have any clean clothes).  And I need clean clothes so that I can A) see my friends today and B) go shopping for vegetarian friendly food.  And I need to buy food to eat.  So, I’m kind of trapped until I can get everything unpacked–which is a good two day job.  Ugh.  I may just have to re-wear dirty things.

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.3

The above is courtesy of Cat, who likes to lie on my keyboard and then paw at me for attention.  I’ll go love up on her now.

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how it’s shaping up

Well, the end of my first year at uni is upon me, and I can’t shake this feeling that it went by far too quickly.  As spring came along, my sense of time and directions seemed to do backflips, until I felt like I was at the beginning of the school year all over again.  I’d walk into the room and think it was September, but when the calendar said May, I’d skulk away, shaking my head.

It’s odd to see my room the way it is after having packed nearly two thirds of it away.  I ended up spending Saturday not studying and getting all of my clothes and items from drawers packed away into my truck.  And after only an hour, I was surprised to see my truck full and my room, well, not so full.

I’m actually taking home the truck load on Tuesday, though my reasons for going back to St. Charles are entirely different from a simple dump of items.  It’s starts back on Friday with a text message from one of my friends saying that the mum of a mutual friend had recently passed away.  She’d had cancer for several years, so it didn’t come to that great of a shock, but it was still very saddening.  I found myself worried and feeling empathy (I know, actual empathy), for my friend who had lost his mum.  And I ended up spending an entire night tossing and turning, wondering what to say to him.  In the midst of bad dreams, my brain somehow rattled together two sentences that I decided to send him via Facebook the next morning.

But it was a bad night.  A T-Rex dream kind of night.  Ever since I can remember, I’ve had these nightmares.  I’m running, running as fast as I can, but there’s always this T-Rex behind me, waiting to eat me up in one bite.  As much as I try not to, I always turn into this little child, this five-year old Missi who can’t seem to leave the middle of the street and run for safety.  And then, completely helpless and out of control, I’m gobbled up.  But this dream was different.  Suddenly, I was me, just me, and the T-Rex, well, it was nothing more than a silly stuffed animal.  It bit at me like a yappy dog, not able to do much more than draw a drop of blood.  Yet it was still ferocious, and I still felt an immense amount of fear toward the tiny thing.  I tried throwing it, bashing it against the floor, anything to keep it from turning right around and biting at my fingers, but I couldn’t kill it.  After a while, I was so lifeless, so angry in this dream as I bashed it again and again until I realised that I wasn’t me any more.  I may have still looked the same, but I had become the monster, the T-Rex, and that yappy little stuffed-animal of a monster was no different than me in all of those other dreams.  How pathetically funny that I had lost control.  No matter what, I would never win against this, because I would never have the control.  But I looked at the two situations.  In one, I had no physical control, but I still had me.  In the other, though I had the physical control, I was nothing more than a husk; there was no humanity left.  And, putting that T-Rex down and waking up, I decided I’d prefer to keep my humanity.

As I awoke, I finalised the words I would send to my friend, and upon checking into Facebook, I found that he had placed the time of his mum’s visitation as his status.  Tuesday, 4 until 9.  Well, I hadn’t any finals during that time, so I decided in the matter of only a minute that I would go.  I called my mum to finalise it, and now I have my plans set.  I’ll leave after my finals on Tuesday, get back to St. Charles around six, maybe eat something real quick, go to the visitation, unpack, wake up at seven on Wednesday, and drive right back up to Truman.  It will be hectic, but it’s something that I should do.  Or that I feel I should do, because even though I hadn’t really met her, I was friends with her son.  And that’s all that really matters.

– – –

My birthday is this week–on Friday.  Nineteen.  I’m still unsure what to think of it, so I try to think of nothing at all.  Chances are, I’ll make a fool of myself, wear a tiara, and go out to dinner.  Like every birthday, really.  The only difference is that it will be my last day of finals, so I will spend a grand majority of this birthday packing and driving back to Saint Charles.  But, how I see it, there is no greater present than getting to be alone for four hours with my own music, the windows down, and my own voice to sing and talk through my thoughts.  As I told some friends yesterday, it’s quality time that can’t be bought.

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