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(no subject) [Dec. 10th, 2013|10:33 am]
I need to start using Livejournal more.
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(no subject) [Dec. 3rd, 2011|04:21 pm]
1) Three ways that you are stereotypically a girl, and
I get weepy at the end of Pixar and Miyazaki movies.
I go, "awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww" over mushy movies.
I like cute things

2) Three ways that you are stereotypically a boy
I like men's clothes and dark colours
I'm not afraid of snakes and spiders, though some men are scared of those.
I like swords and some action movies.
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I miss Bernie [Oct. 31st, 2011|11:00 pm]
Because I lost him Halloween of 2008.
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Writer's Block: Between a rock and a hard place [Oct. 12th, 2011|10:25 pm]

What's worse: a pit of snakes or a pit of spiders?
Neither. I love both. As long as the snakes aren't venomous they will find me in the pit going, AWW LOOK AT HOW CUTE THIS IS!
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Let's try this [Apr. 4th, 2011|07:27 pm]
For the last 3 years it had been the same ritual. She spread the knives and razor blades like a fortune teller spreads her cards. There's a bottle of pills.

Here it comes again, that pull. I have to turn away from the light. That cold raw pain keeps bringing me back.

She had a bottle of strong alcohol, vodka, she hated the stuff, but it had to be strong enough to give her the courage to go through with it. She realized she could have easily used a gun, but thinking of the mess someone would have to clean up always made her reconsider.
She didn't want to traumatize anyone. She just wanted to stop feeling so cold and dead, but every time she tried to do this, go out to a ledge, fall off a bridge, step in front of a car, something always stopped her.

How many times had she called me back? Just as I was about to find out if there's a heaven, over and over, that cold sad darkness would send me back to her.

She's about to carve into her veins, her arms are scarred. She always just misses the vein. Not this time, she takes a swig of burning vodka. She forces her to drink. Maybe she'll be able to do it this time. The blade caresses her wrist. There is no pain, she closes her eyes.

Hell no.

It's that hot rage again, knocking the blade out of her hand, spilling the vodka. She shouts a swear at the same time the rage washes over her.
She wish she had that much passion. She picks up the knife.
It falls out of her hand, the pills fly across the room.
Her twin was always the passionate one. Fire to her ice.

It's all she can think of. Dying.

Even now she could see her standing in the corner, A woman who looked like her, her eyes blazing at her with all the life and fire she lacked. She wasn't the child she thought she'd be. She always had an image of being in heaven, a grown woman, with her sister, still 8 years old taking her by the hand and telling her to run in these fields.
She didn't really believe in heaven.
She couldn't stop imagining that small mittened hand in hers.

I couldn't stop thinking of how much I wanted to be her, or at least to have taken her with me.

Whatever it was, the alcohol, lack of sleep, her subconscious started to talk to her.
Whispering to her.
"You're not real." She picked up the vodka bottle and downed the last drops in it. She could break the bottle and use the broken pieces? The bottle flew out of her hand. The... she refused to call it a ghost stood glaring at her.

Is this how you waste your life? Constantly trying to die when I want to live?

She thought about her first experience of death, a hamster, a fish floating belly up. Her grandmother laying in her coffin, not burying the both of them in her ample, old powdered scented chest while cooing over how cute they were.
Not one thing prepared her for this.

You keep calling me back. Every time you sit here thinking of killing yourself I keep having to come back. Why do you keep DOING this to yourself? Going over this constantly. Why can't you get over it?

That wet mittened hand, slipping downwards, her sister sinking taking so much with her.
It had been her idea to play on the ice in the first place. They were outside of their parent's supervision, running around feeling like big kids. Her sister always lead, she followed. She was the bold one, running in front of her in her pink jacket and snow pants telling her to hurry up.
It happened so quickly. One moment she was running, laughing, looking to see if her sister was catching up, the next...
She was in a hole, her sister was clutching her hand.

It didn't really happen like that, you know.

She tried so hard to pull her from the ice, but her hand slipped away and she watched her sink, screaming, people ran over and grabbed her from the hole.
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I'm not listening to these songs, but let me try [Apr. 1st, 2011|07:31 pm]
[music |Evanescence-Like You]

She sat looking at the impliments spread out before her. The usual tools; knives, a razor, a bottle of pills. If only she could get a gun, but she didn't want to traumatize whoever would find her body.
Who was she kidding? She could never drink enough to get the courage to end it. Something kept her clinging to life, but she couldn't understand why.
It was always, constantly winter inside her. The last time she had felt warm was wrapped lovingly in layers of thick clothes along with her sister. Her snowsuit was pink, her sister's, blue. They looked alike, but they were different in so many ways and enjoyed annoying each other.
It had been the first time they were allowed to play alone together outside. They had been forbidden from playing on the ice.
Her sister had always been good at doing things she wasn't allowed to do. She always had to have her way.

Even now Beth could see her, not as the child she always imagined her to be, but as an adult, it was like looking in a mirror at a version of herself that knew what it was like to be happy inside.

"You're not real." she told her, picking up the razor blade and trying to carve carefully into her skin, away from her veins. The blade slipped from her hand and flew across the room. She stared into her own angry eyes.

"Stop it!" she screamed. Her sister walked carefully across the ice. Backwards. She looked at Beth, smiling, two teeth missing from her mouth. Her laugh became a look of shock as she fell through.

"Is this how you waste your life! Like this! Constantly trying to die, when I want to live?"

Beth grasped her hand, holding tightly to it, her mittened hand was going numb, she tried to pull her back up even as she could feel her trying to pull her down.

"Every time I try to go to, where ever I'm supposed to go, I feel you calling me back here. I've watched you walk around like a zombie, never fully alive, never actually trying to live. Why?" she screamed, and Beth could feel the heat of that rage, that longing, a sadness so deep, matching her own, she couldn't stand it.
"You're not real." Beth said, reaching for another razor blade. She could barely even feel the pain. She hadn't felt anything since that February morning. The heat again, that rage, the slippery blade fell out of her hand. She wanted to roar with rage herself, but there was no anger inside of her. Only cold. Always cold. It could be the hottest summer day, and that's all she'd feel. She had gone to therapists. Nothing helped. She couldn't forget that last image of her sister, falling into the lake and her trying to join her before hands grabbed her by the waist and dragged her away screaming and fighting. She got loose and tried to run back to that hole only to slip and be knocked out.

Her first experience of death had been a hamster looking like it was sleeping, an upside down fish, her grandmother not getting out of her coffin to hug her and her sister when they were a set.
She couldn't believe this had happened to her sister.
She saw her in her coffin in a frizzly dress she would have hated. Beth was the one who loved frilly dresses. She wanted to curl up beside her liked they did after a day of fighting, of disgusting each other and being separated by their mother, only to cry until they were back together again.
She wanted to just climb beside her, wrap her arms around her and go where she was going.

"She's hurting in a way we just can't understand." Her father's voice had said as she lay in bed alone. He had scooped her up and put her between him and her mother. Cuddled between them, she still felt cold inside, like something she needed was missing.

She had even tried to jump into the hole.

"No." All the hot rage that was left of her sister said. "This is ridiculous. Why do you go over this constantly?"
"You don't know what it's like to have to live without you."
"Oh, really? I don't know what it's like? Do you know how badly I want what you have? To be ALIVE like you, breathing, blood in my veins, just living."
Warmth, feelings, longing, heat filled her body.
"What are you doing?"
"Joining you."

Writing feels good. But this is very bad. Send me some opinions
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(no subject) [Mar. 31st, 2011|08:35 pm]
This woman from Overdream has a great voice.

Man, I want voice lessons or something. I will have to add that to my thinks to do list. Along with GET AROUND TO FINISHING A NOVEL!
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I should post here more often [Mar. 27th, 2011|10:08 pm]
But I post on facebook more. I'm cheerfully OBSESSED WITH MUSIC! Man, I LOVE THAT STUFF!

I need more of it. I constantly have to have it. I think music should be liquefied and dripped into my veins.

Technically it might as well be as I can taste it, smell it, feel it on my skin and see it in colours based on key.

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I still like that guy [Mar. 27th, 2011|07:11 pm]
[mood |thoughtfulthoughtful]
[music |Me singing a ridiculus song about seals.]

Even though he's taken. Oddly enough, I'm not upset about this and I'm not sure why.
I'm mostly proud of my courage in TALKING to this fellow as I'm usually to shy to do that.
I've made a lot of progress dealing directly with problems I have such as shyness, unorganization and such.

Ah, well. It's not as if other men don't exist. But, men are not interchangeable. Each is special and interesting in their own way.
I shall befriend this fellow and not whine about what I can't have but instead like what I do have.

Which reminds me. DANG IT I WANT TO PLAY MUSIC! I must work on the guitar, on VOCALS! Stuff like that and GET A KEYBOARD!
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Dear GOP - the collective you are an Idiot [Feb. 6th, 2011|12:34 pm]
Originally posted by ladyqkat at Dear GOP - the collective you are an Idiot
(Post originally seen in this post by [info]ramblin_phyl. I have been notified that it was originally posted by [info]suricattus in her journal post. The story and words are hers, but I do believe that it needs to go viral and that as many people as possible need to get their stories out there. Only by making a noise about this can we make a change in our society.)

There is a move afoot in the nation -driven by the GOP - to repeal the new health care laws, to protect corporate interests, to defend against fear-mongering (and stupid) cries of "socialism!", and to ensure that people are forced to choose between keeping a roof over their heads or getting necessary health care.

This movement is killing people.

Think I'm overstating the fact?

Ask the friends and family of writer/reviewer Melissa Mia Hall, who died of a heart attack last week because she was so terrified of medical bills, she didn't go see a doctor who could have saved her life.

From another writer friend: One person. Not the only one. That could have been me. Yeah, I have access to insurance -- I live in New York City, which is freelancer-friendly, and have access to freelancer advocacy groups. Through them, I can pay over $400/month ($5,760/year) as a single, healthy woman, so that if I go to the hospital I'm not driven to bankruptcy. But a doctor's appointment - a routine physical - can still cost me several hundred dollars each visit. So unless something's terribly wrong? I won't go.

My husband worked for the government for 30 years. We have government employee (retired) insurance. It is the only thing of value he took away from that job. His pension is pitiful. He still works part time. My writing income has diminished drastically. Our combined income is now less than what it was before T retired fifteen years ago. Inflation has diminished it further. In the last 30 days I have racked up over $8000 in medical bills for tests and the beginning of treatment. Our co-pay is 20% after the deductible. And there is more to come. Our savings are already gone. I have the gold standard of insurance and I still can't pay all the medical bills.

Another friend lost her insurance when her husband lost his job. She couldn't afford medication and ended up bed ridden for three months at the end of over a year of no job and therefore no insurance until he found work again.

It's our responsibility. All of us, together. As a nation.

EtA: Nobody is trying to put insurance companies out of business. They will always be able to offer a better plan for a premium. We simply want to ensure that every citizen - from infant to senior citizen - doesn't have to choose between medical care, and keeping a roof over their heads, or having enough to eat.

We're trying to get this to go viral. Pass it along.

I'm going to post my story as the first comment to this post if anyone would like to read it. If anyone wants to tell their story, please tell it on your own journal and post a link in the comments. Maybe, just maybe, TPTB will listen to the slaves peons who clean their toilets before they have to clean their own.
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