Holy crap, this thing's still here?

I completely forgot about my blog. For like, a year. More than a year.

Thankfully I don't want to be a parent. I mean, if I can't take care of a blog, what will I do to any potential spawn that pops out of me (did I say spawn? I meant... um... yeah, I meant spawn)?

Let's see, what's changed since last time I posted.... Everything. Everything has changed since last post. I'm still dating Tyson, though. That's about it. Starting with me, my hair's longer, I have a new hunk of metal in my nose, my hair's like 2 feet long now... oh yeah, and I'm now living with my crazy mother, whom I vowed to never talk to again aout 2 years ago. My bedroom's the couch and my kingdom's a 2 room apartment with three people living in it. Why am I here? My wonderful father and I had a fallout due to his new behavior thanks to the influence of his new whore of a wife (I'll write an entire blog on this wicked creature. From the depths of hell, she sprung! She left all but her blondest, most cheerful child behind!) I left behind my pets, my stuff, my clothes, everything I had, and in about 20 minutes made up my mind to walk to mother's and hope things work out for the best. So far, it's not too bad. Even though I still, months later, don't have shit (thanks to no jobs in Wheeling. Mmm, that Wheeling feeling! Feels like... stinky poverty) except for the stuff I bought new after I moved in, namely clothes and college stuff.

Mom's not as crazy as she was. She finally agreed to see a counselor about her bipolar disorder, which means she's not as loud, bloodthirsty, and rampaging as she once was, but she's still a bit... well... let me explain the most current situation.

Mom went to a bar. Mom found a shaggy looking guy. Mom brought him home. Shaggy guys tell us he used to smoke crack but doesn't anymore. Shaggy guy ends up living with us for 3 months, after giving Mom a sob story about having nowhere to go. Shaggy guy still smokes crack. Shaggy guy tomatoes from store to make us spaghetti, then washes the dishes, then hits on my 16 year old sister when he comes home all cracked out, steals mine and my sister's pot (like my smoking pot surprises anyone reading this), busts a potted plant, then leaves for three days. Shaggy guy comes back to the house, is cracked out for days until Mom sends him to the homeless shelter, and finally, after a few more weeks, calls from Shaggy guy's angry ex, and babysitting his kids, decides to break it off.

Then! And then and then and then! Mom starts dating a cop. Then a guy that caught his leg on fire when he was drunk. Now she's dating the cop again. Oh! She's also dating the doctor from work! AND now she wants to move in with her lesbian friend and take my sister and I with her because it'll save money and they're... well, I don't know what's up with mom and her new lesbian friend, but I think Mom's a bit more "open" than she thought (which explains where I got it from, but at least I have taste! Mom's friend has 4 chins, 3 ex husbands, 2 spoiled kids, 1 loud mouth, and acts exactly like Mom but drinks twice as much).

And that's just nipping the bud. But honestly, as crazy as life is right now... it's better than when I lived with my dad those last couple of months. On the day that I left, here's what helped me make my decision:

I spent all day cleaning the house. Dishes, vaccuum, dusting, laundry, sweeping, mopping, cleaning the inside of the oven, microwave, fridge, freezer, vaccuuming the couch and chairs, cleaning my room, Dad's room, Taylor's room (step sister), upstairs, downstairs- everything. Why did I do this? Because Dad's a prick and the only way I could live in his house was to clean up after everybody. This usually took at least 4 hours out of my day, when you have a 4 story house to clean with 3 bedrooms, one small room (my room. 8X10 feet. Dad made me move in here when he married his new wife), 1 living room, 1 dining room, 1 kitchen, 2 bathrooms, 1 basement, 1 attic, 2 backrooms, etc etc etc. This day, I was feeling pretty good and decided to pamper the dogs and cats. My one dog, Sara, my sweet sweet Sara, needed a bath for her fleas. So, I bathed her, blew her dry, then took her on the porch to shave her fur a bit (she's super fluffy) so I could put a bit of flea medicine on her neck to scare away the little pests.

While I was trimming her fur, Sherri (evil wife) asked, "Don't you think you should cut her hair a bit shorter?" I said no, I'm just doing it to make applying the medicine easier, she's fine with fur, I don't mind brushing it. This was the only thing Sherri said to me that day.

Dad came home, and instead of looking around the sparkling house, the equally sparkling and well groomed pets, and the pile of homework I'd managed to finish and saying, "Gee, thanks," he sat me down and screamed that I should never talk to his wife like that again, that I was lucky that he let me live there at all, that I needed to apologize to Sherri for making her upset, that I was just as bad as my mother, and that I because I chose to live with him after the divorce, I owed it to him to keep the house nice and not mouth off to his wife.

To this I replied, "I'm not doing this today. Or ever." And I left and haven't to him since Christmas Eve, where I happened to run into him at a family dinner. Even though I'm living on a couch with very little in my name (dad threw most of my stuff away and turns my 8x10 foot room into a walk in closet for his new wife), housed up with a crazy mom and sister, in a 2 room apartment... life's not bad. I still se my pets though. I sort of break into Dad's house now and again to see them (not really break in, I still have a key there). I don't mess with anything in the house, I just want to see my pets again until I can afford a place where I can have them. So, I sneak into the house now and again while Dad and Sherri are at work, and her daughter's in school, and spend about an hour brushing their fur and spoiling them. Then, when I see one of their cars pass the house, I use the same escape method I used when I was 15 to sneak cigarettes to get out of the house unseen- out the cellar, through the gate, out the front entrance as their pulling into the back!

It sounds kind of sad. And, it is. But... life could be worse. It was a lot worse, for a while, when I lived with Dad. Now I have the chance to do awesome in college again (which is exactly what I'm doing - 3.6 GPA, hells yeah), I'll be transferring soon to a better college, where I'll commute from my aunt's apartment (she'll be renting me a room, and I can have my pets again, plus I'll be within walking distance of school and have enough room for a BIG ass garden, which means not having to spend as much money on groceries), and I'll be able to work on things that matter- like never being stuck in this bloody situation again! Ever!

Never ever ever!

Let's see, some good news... I had my own personal computer for a while, which I got for free. It ended up crashing within the first month that I had it, probably due to the amount of porn on it. What can I say, right? Free internet porn's a bee-yatch. Just buy the movies, kiddos. Oh, and if i can find a job within the next few weeks, I'll be saving up for a big trip. My boy toy and I might be going to Europe for vacation later this summer, if all works out well. We're looking at Italy as a possible destination, but just leaving the States will be refreshing enough. Even better news- there's chocolate in the house! I'm going to go attack that now, actually....

Well, sorry for such a long period between postings, hopefully it won't happen again. Have fun!

PS- Just thought I'd add this pic in. A year and a half later, I'm still with the same dude. Who'da thought I'd be one for even the slightest shred of commitment? (Note my newest shiny metal piece- the metal bullring hanging out of my nose! Boyfriend hates it, but I don't give a rat's ass, it's my new favorite thing and has been since I got it last March)

I've been gone forever

Yo yo :D I've been MIA for a long time, but now I'm able to post more regularly.

So, another semester of college aced! At least, I hope so. We have yet to get back our final grades for the semester. I'm the youngest person in the class, and so far it seems like I'm kicking all of the other students' asses. Brain power! And thanks to one of my amazing professors, I'm now dating a guy named Tyson (she hooked us up for a critique project and we really hit it off). Poor sucker's seven years older than me (not to mention an entire foot taller than me, coming in at about 6'5), and it's very surprising, even to me, that I'd end up dating someone like him. I usually go after the opinionated punk type just because that's the group I've grown up around my whole life and find the strongest rapport with, so dating an athletic Buddhist who's never been arrested, involved in a riot, or in a mosh pit is very...er....new. I don't think he's realized the full extent of how different we are (BIG surprise for him when he finds out that I don't shave my pits, that I can beat the crap out of most people, that I've been about a centimeter away from having a police record ever since I was 12, and that if it weren't for my current job, my head would be shaved, bright green and orange, and I'd have all of my piercings in).

In other news, I've been thinking of embracing my interest in science and going to school for zoology, possibly majoring in conservation or herpetology. The only problem is that the nearest school with a decent zoology program is about 8-10 hours away from where I live. I don't mind moving, I just don't like the idea of leaving everything behind (mostly my crazy bunch of friends. It'll kill me to leave them behind. Luckily for me, they're the type who'd be more than happy to move with me and squat around the city).

I've also entertained the thought of exploring the realm of astrophysics on a college level, but seeing as how I'm terrible at math and physics (thus ruining the whole dream of being a physicist of any sort), I might as well just stick to passions that I'm good at.

And now I'm taking my leave again. A group of my friends and I are going to try and have the millionth bonfire of the year in a foot of snow and ice.

"Love is like-" Shut up! Quit calling!

*To anyone reading this post, let me say that you've stumbled across quite the gem, feel free to laugh, and I'm sure that you can relate.*

I'm not the type who likes to date much, and for 3 good reasons:

Most of the people I'm attracted to are at least 5 or more years older than me (5 years older is young in my book), and thanks to my slightly overreactive father, I can't date them (if I did, they'd be dead. Dad has a tire iron he saves just for those special occasions). I'm attracted to those older than me because I usually relate to them better, and because many of the teens my age are...well...stupid. Their idea of a good relationship consists of copious amounts of mediocre nooky and calling each other 20 times a day to exchange pet names and false hopes. I don't see the highlights of that type of relationship.

The second reason is because I'm a bitch. Looks don't mean anything to me, but intellect matters a lot. I have a very low tolerance for stupid people, and I let them know it. Sometimes, my bitchy side kicks in and I go on the "Here's what wrong with you, and here's why I can't stand you, get out of my face or I'll blow up your car" rant (I know, I'm a mean chick). Nothing infuriates me more than someone being a moron.

The last reason is that sometimes the people I choose to date are out of their damned minds- moreso than I am- and I end up in a jam that I can't get myself out of because I find out that they're crazy a little too late.

The following story falls into the last two categories.

Last week, a girl- whom I absolutely adored my freshman and sophomore years of highschool- got ahold of me again. We talked a little and, delighted that she remembered me, I asked her on a date. As I was asking her, memories of her from highschool played in my head- she was nice, very smart, pretty, funny, had a lot going for her, a good writer, etc. I was so excited when she said she'd love to go on a date that I nearly knocked over my chair.

We went to a ska show last Tuesday, and on the 2 hour ride to the venue (it was an out-of-state show), I began to realize that she wasn't quite the same as when I last talked with her. She used to be smart, now she was... well, I suspect she's been huffing paints or something. She was funny two years ago, whereas now she was bland and had no sense of humor. She was pretty then- well, okay, she was still pretty. Just ditsy as hell. Still, I decided to give it a try anyway and live out the night, hoping that she was just shy and acting different. Plus, I know how much it sucks to be on a bad date when you're hours from home.

To my dismay, she wasn't just acting. In the two years from the last time I'd met her, she'd turned into a moron. So, I decided to not ask her on anymore dates.

The next day, I woke up to 10 messages on my answering machine and 3 on my MySpace. The first messages were someting along the lines of, "I love you and miss you, blah blah blah, thinking of you". (It was one date! Go somewhere else with that crap!) Then, the messages became a bit more frantic-"I NEED to talk to you! I don't know what I did wrong! Call me back and tell me what I can do different!"

The time between the first and last messages were only spaced an hour apart. According to my observations, the girl I knew two years ago had transformed into an idiot of the worst kind- the psychotic, obsessive idiot. I've only had a little experience to this breed, but my calculations told me that if I didn't deal with this soon, I would soon be bound within the walls of my own house with the curtains drawn, the doors locked, and a broom in my hand in case she tried to break into the house. Tsuki don't play that.

After a very frightening telephone conversation with the crazy girl, she decided that I was joking with her when I said, "Don't call here anymore, you're a little too...um...well, you're nuts," and then broke into my "Here's what wrong with you, and here's why I can't stand you, get out of my face or I'll blow up your car" rant. She also seemed to think that I wanted her to call me every 20 minutes between 8 pm and midnight EVERY NIGHT. She's been doing this every night since Wednesday and can easily leave over 40 messages in one night. I tried to drill it into her head that she's way more crazy than I am (I'm off my rocker, but this girl is insane!), emotionally unstable, highly unsuited to me, and that I'm the type of person who'd have no problem tearing her apart and draping her hide from my ceiling fan should she continue the harassment.

I've finally gotten a night of silence. The phone hasn't rung even once (probably because I threw it against the wall), and it's bliss.

Hmm. Nearly every woman I've dated has turned out to be like this chick. Perhaps I should just stick with men. My luck with men seems it be a little better, because they don't all turn out to be looney-bin escapees. Just some of them.

The more I date, the more I like my pets. People are crazy, and most of them are very insecure, high maintenance, and hopelessly off-balance. Pets, on the other hand, are usually very level-headed, require only food, the occasional bath, and a treat, and are just happy to be alive. People like excessive cheesy romance, pets like sniffing butts. You can't euthanize people, or toss them outside when they get annoying. And people don't shut up if you try and give them a dog biscuit (they usually talk faster and get a little more pissed off if you do, I recently found out).

Hmm....

Oh! On the upside, she's been sending me a lot of gifts that I get to pawn off for a little extra pocket cash.

What? I need cigarette money.

Flea Markets, Blades, Zines, and Espresso OD

This week has been as busy as it was liberating.

Our zine is going amazingly well. We should be printing in September (we're taking our sweet time for the first issue), and it's going to be awesome. We might also be doing a podcast with a friend or two in the Ohio area.

Despite the fact that we're taking our time on the zine, we're still pretty busy. I have three interviews to take care of in four days, along with pictures. Then, editting. Then, writing. Then more editting (managing the writing is something I have to do at least four times a day. I've been BREATHING zine content for weeks). Then, we make more patches. Then, we set up another meeting so we can review stuff as a group and make sure we're all on the same page. Then, layout and fighting about the logo. Then, MySpace maintenance. This includes pictures, blogs, bulletins, managing the friends and setting up more stuff with the bands. Then, I check the Yahoo mail and organize the applications for models, writers, artists-everyone, really- and decide who's best suited for the first issue.

That's just the stuff I have to do. Krista (my partner in crime) is just as busy. She takes other submissions, does more interviews than me, and is taking care of layout design, MySpace layout, and setting up a show. It's a shorter list, but it takes just as much time and consideration.

We've been this busy for months. Now we finally have some concrete direction, whereas before we were wondering in the dark, and that helps a lot.

BUT yesterday, I finally got a bit of free time, so I went to the flea market with fifty bucks. I spent all day there, meaning to look for stuff I needed (i.e. toothbrush, tweezers, clothes). Instead, I came home with a sword (real from Pakistan, heehee), two knives, goggles, paintbrushes, a Halloween cape, pepperspray, and a two pirate bandanas (along with other trivial stuff that I'll never need). Hmm.... Still, it was fun. And I love wearing my pirate caps with the Halloween cape and goggles with the sword attached to my belt.

Today, I found a few hours of free time as well, but they were spent thinking I was going to explode. I had gone to a coffee shop in hopes of a tasty chai latte, but the lady working the counter was new and clueless. I left there drinking a "chai" that was more bitter than Lewis Black and had about seven shots of espresso in it. I didn't complain because she was new and I just wanted caffeine.

About an hour later, I walked past the coffee shop again on my way to the bus stop, and the newly hired lady pops her head out and says, "I found out what I did wrong with the chai, come in and I'll make you another cup for free, and I hope it'll taste better." So, I obliged. This cup was stronger, yet not as bitter, as the first cup. Again, she was new, so again, I left without complaint. I drank the whole thing (even though it wasn't my chai latte, it was still pretty good). Now, I have about fourteen or more shots of espresso in me, and the whole way home on the bus, I thought I was going to have a heartattack. I was jittery, my heart was racing, my hands were shaking, and every time the bus hit a bump, I screamed and nearly flipped out (not to mention that I was also talking faster than Speedy Gonzales).

The caffeine effects are wearing off now (though, I'm still typing at turbo speed and ready to blow off the handle at any time), and I'm starting to simmer down a little. That's good, because I have an interview in an hour and still have a bunch of stuff to comb through, not to mention more brainstorming about the podcast.

*sigh* I think I'll go play with my sword and pirate cap until I chill down completely.

Ode to the Lazy Man

After my "I hate my job!" e-blowout, I mellowed out and settled down for a bit.


No, that's a lie. "I marinaded for a little bit" would be more accurate. I steeped in my angry stew for a few more days and then, *poof*, Tsuki went off the semi-deep end:

I had finished making a call with a particularly nasty person, when all my rage floated back up. I cussed out the next person on the phone, threw my headset at the person next to me (it ricochetted and busted one of the low-hanging lights), grabbed my stuff, told my supervisor to go screw himself (He ran over after I cussed out the lady and started telling me off), then I walked the four miles home in 92 degree weather without any water (I had to walk on the side of the highway, where some creepy guy tried to pick me up. I dug my nails into his face and nearly knocked him senseless while he was still in his car. He almost didn't escape).

And now, here I sit, unemployed, lazing about, and happy as could be, with a few pending applications at the nearest parking garages and Wiccan shops. Ah, bliss....

Ode to the Working Man

Two words. New job.

Two more words. It sucks.

One more word. Balls.

My new job sucks balls. I decided that, despite my hatred towards telephones, cellphones, adverstising, and credit cards, getting a telemarketing job would be a good idea. Don't ask me how it made sense, even I don't understand it. But now I stand before you all, saying,"Hi! I use telephones for 8-10 hours a day to try and sell people a credit card!" Sure, I get paid decently (about 9 bucks an hour), but man does it suck. I've never been called a "fucking cunt" so many times in my life. I've never been hung up on, cussed out, bitched out, or detested so much in my life. The few people I actually make sales with are blabbering idiots who would take a piece of arsenic coated candy if you show them a little kindness, and the majority of the people I call hate telemarketers as much as I do and show this fact very bluntly.

WHY didn't I just go to Subway, where I can get a free meal everyday? Why didn't I work at Stages, where I can dress however I want and have my hair dyed fun colors because it's a costume shop? Why didn't I paint houses, where my only worry was plunging face first into the ground? WHY, oh, WHY did I have to become a freaking telemarketer? I've only worked the job for a few weeks and I'm already gladly awaiting the day I never have to look at the place again.

Sadly, I desperately need the money if I'm going to act upon my aspirations of travelling a little and living by myself, but damn this isn't the way to do it!

My job has interfered with my sleeping patterns, my reading patterns (It took me from Sunday night to Wednesday morning to finish Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. WAY TOO LONG! I should have had that thing finished by Monday at the VERY latest!), and my over all life patterns. I wake up, I go to work, I get bitched out for what seems like an eternity, then I come home, do what little magazine stuff I can manage to do without having my own computer, then I crash on the couch, hoping to catch a night of peaceful slumber before having to wake up and do it again. I know they say I'm only there for 8-10 hours, but it sure as hell feels like more!

I don't mind having a job, but this is freaking ridiculous. Even the best pacheck couldn't make up for the crap I have to deal with. I detest telephones and I have a strong disliking for meeting people I don't wish to meet, and this job makes me do it every day for far too long.

I know, I know- everyone hates their job. Shut your mouths! Have YOU tried telemarketing? You know all those people you hang up on, or tell them to not call back, or tell them to go screw themselves? I easily make over 1,000 calls a day, and I only make 3-5 sales a day. Guess who the other 995-997 people are? That's right, they're Mr. or Ms. I Hate Telemarketers!

God damn I got to get out of this!

I hate it even more now that I'm talking about it!

I NEVER feel this passionate about anything, unless it's in a good way (such as writing, reading, music, etc). Despite my manner of joking, I have a very cool head, and in most respects, I'm a hard person to piss off. And yet, I've been pissed off every single god damn day since I started this stupid job, and now I can't get out of it because I need money so badly I can taste it and no one else is hiring around our area (really, no one is. It's a ghost town, practically. Oh, no wait- other telemarketers are hiring. God!)

Well, I'm done for today. No amount of complaining- no matter how full of profanities, insults, and exclamation points- can sooth my temper. I'm going to stock off to the couch- my new bed, because I don't want to look at the room I have to act like I'm cleaning every time I get near it- and try to go to sleep.

Oh wait. That's right. I have trouble going to sleep, don't I? Had it for about, forever, haven't I? I can hunker down at 10 pm and won't be asleep until 3 am, at LEAST.

Screw this, I'm living as a bum in a little abandoned van down by the river with a bunch of smelly hippies who have to roast discarded, moldy marshmallows over a lighter they found in the alley. It's WAY better than this sucky Discover credit card crap!

No Karma

I've noticed, especially in recent years, that the best people in the world are the ones who seem to be most likely to suffer the greatest tragedies. While I don't understand the mechanisms behind this, it certainly seems to be a truth in some screwed up way. Is it the tragedies that make the person good, or do good people really just have bad luck?

This made me analyze myself. While I've certainly suffered a great deal of inconveniences, I've never suffered what would be classified as a true tragedy. I wonder if this means I'm a bad person.... Well, regardless of whether I am or not, I can't say it bothers me too much. It's my nature to worry about myself first and foremost the majority of the time, so it's natural that as long as I'm content, being a bad person doesn't bother me. Still, I don't consider myself to be so terrible. I'm not the nicest of people, and I can't even count the number of times I've done things another's expenses, but there's always someone worse out there.

I guess I'm lucky in that I don't suffer much tragedy, so I should take advantage of it while I can. My lucky streak is sure to run out at some point in my life. One day, I'll stand almost alone and all the people I've depended on, loved, and grew up with will be resting in the grave. I'm sure I'll still have people close to me at every point in my life, but thinking about how I will be raised in one environment and will die in an environment that's completely different is very unsettling. But, them's the cards life deals ya.

On another note, I'd like to bitch about myself for a moment (as though I haven't bitched enough already). Throughout the duration of my life, I've gained awards and whatnot for being something "outstanding". In elementary school, they handed out awards at the end of the semester for having good grades or test scores, and the award came with a certificate and a free meal at a nice restaurant. I won this award every semester without exception. At the end of elementary school, I won first place Stifel (it really wasn't earned, since I stopped doing homework in the 3rd grade. The prize was based solely on my end of the year test scores), which came with another pretty certificate and 100 dollars or something. In middle school, it's the same story. Bunch of awards every year, lots of free stuff. In highschool it changed a little because your grades matter more than test scores, but even though I failed most of my classes, I still had awards tossed my way for something or another. I didn't try for any of them, I've just always received them like candy. In this sense, I suppose I'm to be considered a spoiled child, but I never asked for the awards. Even from the beginning, there was always someone more deserving than me and I was very aware of this. Yet, that person always came in second place to me. I don't know how or why it happens.

And now, since I stopped going to public or private school, I don't get awards anymore. 'Finally,' I thought, 'I will get some relief.' I always thought the awards were holding me back. They were the system's way of saying, "This is the best you need to do and no better," and I had gotten that praise without doing anything at all. Those awards have stunted my potential for many years, and schooling myself was my ticket out.

Apparently, it's not. Considering my age, I have quite a few accomplishments backing me up, but none of them mean much to me. My future is brighter and more promising than most kids my age, yet none of my successes mean anything to me (at least, not in the sense of having done something meaningful). It seems like all my life, the only thing I've had to do was take some stupid standardized test and get a bucket of praise to take home. Most people probably don't understand why something like this would bother me, but it does. I've never had the chance to work towards proving myself.

To the people I've discussed this with (despite my being independent for the most part, I love having a few people I can talk to no matter what. I can usually sort things out by myself just fine, but every now and then it's nice to have someone to go and bitch to without receiving any judgment), many of them say that this is my chance to prove myself. I agree, it is. This is the perfect time. Yet, with every small stone I leap across, they too throw praise my way. I don't want praise dammit, save it for someone more deserving! I want the chance to run with whatever I'm doing without hearing a word about it. While this will undoubtedly come as I age, I can't help but feel a little impatient. I know that wishing for no praise is a stupid thing to wish for (especially since I'll probably crave it in a few decades, after it's all wilted away), but even I don't have the power to change my wishes.

But, I have noticed something. The only time I feel truly accomplished is when I'm doing something secretive or mediocre. After an exhausting jam session with friends, I feel great. I've spent hours with a few friends creating music, we worked our butts off, and we don't hear a word of praise. Yet, there's unlimited invigoration in feeling satisfied with the music and the energy you've created. No one else, even the people watching, people in other bands, or the people who listen to the music will ever be able to understand the distinct energies and sense of accomplishment that we feel afterwards. While other musicians certainly understand it, they will never feel it in the exact same way we feel it (though they will, undoubtedly, feel it to the same intensity), and that's what makes it so precious and satisfying to me. It goes the same for writing. No other writer and no reader will feel the sense of accomplishment exactly the way I feel it when I've finished a story.

Why do these mediocre things mean so much to me? Is this what's considered passion? Is it because they're personal to me? Or, is it because these are some of the few things I have to work hard at in order achieve anything at all, yet I receive no praise for it?

I'm a weird kid....