14,716,800 Minutes

Halloween was my birthday.
I am 28.

I’m always sad that getting older is subtle and less like leveling up in a video game… I experienced no change in appearance, no improved skills, and no increase in HP. No, my birthday just brings what it has brought since I turned 25… which is a mild break down and general crisis.

It’s a strange thing, this birthday crisis. It’s atypical behavior for me. You see, I am not in the habit of comparing my life those of others, simply because while I don’t know what I want, I always know what I DO NOT want. I do not want to get married. I do not want to have kids, unless I decide to adopt later in life. I do not want to go back to college again. Knowing these things, it strikes me odd that I would be so moved as to have a crisis over these things that I don’t really want to start with… but that’s what happened.

So it’s Sunday the 30th, and I’m at the grocery with the Mothership, and we’re checking out. I got done first and I was looking at this display. I hate the fact that Christmas stuff starts showing up the day after Halloween… assuming they wait THAT long, but there was a display with three old Christmas movies on it.

holiday

They’re pretty old movies… and I mean ACTUALLY old… Not “90s kids” old, but made in the 60s old. Still, as a 90s kid, I did grow up watching them, just like the generations before me. They’re good Christmas movies. I always had a weird affection for claymation, to be honest.

Anyways, I’m standing there staring at this display, remembering how much I enjoyed these movies and out of nowhere my ovaries go:
YOU SHOULD BUY THESE TO SHOW YOUR KIDS! OH WAIT! YOU DON’T HAVE ANY FUCKING KIDS! AND YOU’RE NOT MARRIED, SO YOU PROBABLY WON’T EVER HAVE ANY KIDS TO SHARE YOUR FAVORITE CHILDHOOD STUFF WITH!”
My ovaries are still not on board with the not-wanting-to-have-kids thing… they are also real fucking mean since I don’t let them even TRY to setup house for a baby anymore. (I love my birth control so much.)

I dunno why, but that really hurt. I started tearing up. I held it in until we got home, and then I started crying in the car. My mom assured me that I have time to change my mind if I want to, seeing as how she didn’t have me until she was 34. I know that I have time and that things can change, but like… I dunno. This is just what I do on my birthday… I look at my life until I hate it.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not HAPPY with my life. There’s a lot of stuff I need to fix, but I’m working on it, however slowly I get things fixed. Even if I wasn’t trying to fix things, though… like… it’s not a BAD life. I’m moderately content. Mostly I just wish I hadn’t taken on the responsibility for 5 animals (never going over 3 again), but I love those animals and I am happy to have them, even if they are a little daunting as a responsibility. I just know, now, that this isn’t ideally what I wanted. (I was very lonely… I tried to fill that loneliness with pets… it worked, but I overdid it….)

It’s Nov 2nd and I’m better now. I still don’t want kids. I’m still not real interested in marriage. Still don’t wanna go back to college again. I still feel a weird little pang of regret that I don’t have anyone to share classic 60s claymation holiday films with… but I’m sure I’ll get over it.

I’m still not happy that I’m 28.

I mean, I don’t want to stay a kid forever or anything, but like… no one wants to get older… you get older and you’re closer to death, no matter how young you are.

Anyways…

Feliz Dia de los Muertos.

muertos-3

In the indigenous, aboriginal perspective on death, both life and death are mere aspects of a common duality or eternal cycle, as denoted in the following Native American poem from North America:

Untitled
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on the snow.
I am the sunlight on the ripened grain.
I am the gentle Autumn’s rain.

When you awaken in the morning hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry:
I am not there, I did not die.

What is Death?
What is death? It is the glass of life broken into a
thousand pieces, where the soul disperses like
perfume from a flask, into the silence of the eternal night.

Unknown Author

Through the Eyes of the Soul, Day of the Dead in Mexico
Unique Life
Be as happy as you can, oh king Tecayehyatzin
You who appreciates the jewels that flourish!
Will we live again?

Your heart knows this:
We only live once!
Vida única
¡Alégrate en extremo, oh rey Tecayehuatzin,
valuador de joyas florecientes!

¿Acaso una vez más vendremos a vivir?
Tu corazón lo sabe así:
¡Sólo una vez venimos a la vida!

Xayacamachan 1510 A.D.

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And… I’m Out

SHIT THAT CROSSES THE LINE:
Not taking shit I say seriously.
Withholding important information.

Last night I went to a movie with SupaNerd. The last entry toyed with the idea that I wasn’t sure that I liked him, so much as I wanted to like him. That thought hadn’t left my mind, but he asked and I like having plans. So we went to see Zootopia. I actually saw it yesterday morning with mothership, but it’s a really good movie. It’s a really good movie about discrimination, and equality, and I was really impressed with the whole thing. I hadn’t heard any reviews, and no one I knew was excited to see it, so I was just going because I like having breakfast with the mothership and watching a movie. Anyways, SupaNerd didn’t get off work till 8, so by the time he swung by to pick me up we had limited viewing options. Fortunately it’s a good movie.

Now, I know that I have a lot of pet peeves. Too many: I’ll throw it out there that I have too many pet peeves, but if I tell you that I have pet peeve that’s not a playful invitation to irritate me until I want to bash your teeth out with a brick. In fact, I would not recommend that. I have been known to enact physical violence on people that poke at a pet peeve. I don’t have a good tolerance for it.

That being said, when SupaNerd first tried to touch my curly hair, I told him I don’t play that. I also let him know that I smacked a bitch at work for touching my hair. It’s a thing. I like space. Stay the fuck away from my face and/or hair. I was nice about it. I didn’t snap at him. I didn’t swat his hand away. I didn’t punch him in the throat. I later decided that I should have prolly punched him in the throat, cuz all he did was proceed to poke at my face and hair. I hate that shit. I hate it so much…

I kind of hate people touching me at all. For whatever reason, he feels the need to do it constantly. My mom says my dad was like that, too. Just had to touch her ALL THE TIME. Why? Why can’t you just be a human being over there in your own human being bubble? There’s a time and place, motherfucker. You don’t need to touch me all the time. Since he was a such a fuckwad about my face and hair pet peeve, I allowed him to touch my thigh, instead. I still didn’t like it. I still hated it. I still wanted to beat his face in with something hard and sandpapery. Still, it was better than him trying to fuck with my face.

Another pet peeve is being OVERLY cheap. You wanna use a coupon on our date? Great. Whip that shit out. What else you got a coupon for? You wanna argue with a waitress about the DOLLAR that it costs to sub out french fries for sweet potato fries? Too cheap. He managed to con her into sending out a refill on my coke cray-early so he could have a free coke, since he was ordering water. Really? REALLY? 

Now, if he was cray broke and counting every penny, I could understand being cheap, but I still think it’s some rude ass shit to argue with a powerless waitress about the price of Coca-Cola and fries… Thing is, though, he’s not broke. He’s got a really good job. We discussed this previously because he eats shrimp and scallops all the damn time. I can’t afford shrimp and scallops on the daily, but he can. Can he afford that because he’s arguing with waitresses over a dollar? No. I don’t think so. It’s unnecessarily cheap, and it’s motherfucking rude. That waitress didn’t make the prices. I wanted to curl up and die… 

So, then we were watching previews. There’s this movie coming out called Storks. Looks cute, but makes me cringe cuz it’s about babies. Out of nowhere, SupaNerd says: “That’s how I’m going to teach Johnny about where babies come from.” Who’s Johnny? I, too, was curious. Nephew? I know his sister has a kid. Little brother? Cousin, perhaps?

NOPE. HE HAS A KID.

Now, don’t misread me. I don’t mind people with kids. I’ve dated a number of guys that had kids. I love other people’s kids. I could totally be a step-mom. What pissed me off is that it’s been too fucking long to have not mentioned this previously. His defense was simply that he forgot to mention it. Whoops.

Fuck that noise.

If you can forget to mention that you have procreated… what else have you neglected to tell me? Are you married? Are you married to like seven different people across the US who all have the same story of you leaving your wife and six children behind? Are you a felon? Do you have the Herp? Are you a Russian sleeper cell sent here by Vladimir Putin to recruit me? Are you the leader of a new cult and you need me to be the creepy serial-killery enforcer at your side? Do you sacrifice infants to the dark lord under a blood moon to gain the knowledge of the universe and the powers of night?

This kid is like new, too. New enough to need a talk about where babies come from. Like… A, when does he ever see little Johnny? Is that REALLY why he goes back to Wichita every other week? 2, Why does the mother have full custody? It’s not the 80s anymore… a father can get full custody, especially if the mother is as cray as he’d have me believe she is. D, HOW DO YOU FUCKING FORGET TO MENTION THAT YOU HAVE OFFSPRING?! That’s a big thing.

Also, he tried to fucking talk to me during the movie… at a fucking theater.
I was so irritated that the sound of his laughter made me want to kill him.

It was all just the topping on the bad ju-ju cake.
I can’t trust him. I can’t tolerate his touchy-feely habit. I already felt like he was clingy and needy. He’s cheap to the point of rudeness. He makes gross noises when he eats, breathes, or generally exists. (Mucus problem? Idk.) He talks during movies. I’d rather have been on a play-date with a 6 year old. It was so bad.

So… I thought about it, and ghosting him wasn’t on the table, because I was in too deep. My friend in California agreed. My friend in Australia said I should just use the kid as a card to play, since a normal person might call it off because they “want to take that journey with someone for the first time.” Which is gross…

I didn’t wanna lie… so I ghosted him, and I don’t give a fuck.

This guy stood me up once. Then ignored me for a month. Then acts like a  freaking needy child AND FORGETS TO TELL ME HE HAS A CHILD. Is it shitty to ghost people? Yes. It’s shitty and total fuckery. And I regret nothing.

I don’t have time for the “but why”  and all the attempts to justify everything they did wrong. Even if you don’t answer their questions, they try to justify everything… and then they might get mad. He might secretly be a psycho. He’s got a shitty “I’m always right” attitude anyways. You should hear the shit he says about his sister just because she’s a single mother. So then a bitch starts to think… would he get more angry if I ignore him or if I tell him it’s over. What if he shows up to my house in an angry fit? These are the things a woman has to consider. Fortunately, I have four dogs and I say creepy serial-killery shit all the time, so he’s naturally a bit wary, but I wouldn’t write him off. He could still snap.

So… that’s the end. I’m out.

I deleted my dating profiles. I’m okay alone. I like being alone. I have honestly missed not having to text people. Yeah, I’d like someone to do stuff with, but I still hold out hope that one of these days I’ll meet someone when I’m out doing the stuff I like to do, and we can build off that…

Mean Kids

I don’t want kids.
If anyone comments that I’ll feel different when I meet the right man and settle down, A, I’d like to remind you that I’m an aromantic asexual, 2, no one asked for your comments, and D, shut up, because saying shit like that to impressionable minds ruins generations of kids that think they’re fucked up for not feeling what people told them they would be feeling. JUST LET ME FEEL WHAT I FEEL.

Anyways, I read an article on some website about reasons Millennials aren’t having kids.
Apparently, I’m not the only one… Reasons for this include:

  • Student loans making financial stability impossible
  • Passing along crazy
  • World already feeling overpopulated
  • Fertility issues
  • Pregnancy being shitty, in general (if not potentially dangerous)
  • Fear of not parenting correctly
  • Lack of maternal instinct
  • The world being seriously fucked up
  • Careers being more important than starting a family
  • Wanting to have a lifestyle that a kid doesn’t fit into, like being a nomad
  • Just not wanting them

I fall into the “mental illness” camp, amongst others.

At this point, whatever is wrong with me, I sure don’t want to pass on to kids. Being a kid was shitty, and being a fucked up kid was hard. More importantly, though, I don’t want to be a mentally ill person raising a kid. I don’t think we mentally ill people really do kids justice when it comes to parenting. People are already just doing the best they can on that front, as it is. When you throw mental illness in there… Things get tricky, and very quickly it can get very unhealthy.

My dad is bipolar. I didn’t grow up with him, but all my shrinks have agreed that I prolly get most of my mental illness from him. My mom has clinical depression. I didn’t used think that her depression effected me much, but I’m beginning to think otherwise.

When I was in high school, I went through puberty, as ya do, but I also started being volatile, self destructive, having mood swings outside the scope of PMS and normal teen girl feelings, and it was the start of my love story with suicide. It was terrible. Long before that, though, I can remember things being wrong.

Growing up, I was adorable. We were broke, but my mom found the best dresses and shit, and made sure I looked great, and that I was happy. I never knew we were poor till way later… like maybe late middle school, early high school. I would say that means she did quite well with me. I was a well-balanced little nerd child with high grades and not a foul thought floating around in my head.

Middle school was hard on me. I’d swapped out of private school to public school when we moved the previous year, so I’d lost all my friends, the curriculum was literally so easy that I didn’t understand it for like a month, and I just wasn’t really fitting in that well. I liked my after-school care, because the adults were cool (the kids weren’t terribly fond of me), but middle school is the end of when you can put kids in after-school care… So, I felt quite alone.

I learned to be a latch-key kid, take the bus home to an empty house and lock all the doors… never answer the phone till it goes through to voicemail and mom says it’s her… But I still had problems. The overwhelming problem was that a lot of people wanted to pick on me. I WAS a little fat girl with no fashion sense and overdeveloped social skills that kids didn’t get…. so… I guess I was asking for it. It got really bad, though. I’d come home and cry a lot. One day a kid hurled a rock bigger than my fist at my head. It hit me on the back of the skull, knocked me down… there was blood. I went home and cried. I did not go home and tell my mother anything about it.

Here’s the thing. My mom was a great mom. She still is. The thing about my mother, though, is that she’s great at making me feel like my own problems don’t matter. When I was a kid I was hyper-aware that my mom was very busy and very depressed. She went back to work two weeks after I was born, and even when she ended up unemployed she found work to go out and do (selling our stuff on the side of the road in a shit town in Florida). She’s worked everyday of her life to try and give me a great life. Not once have I ever intentionally taken that for granted.

So when I had problems in middle school with shitty boys trying to break my skull open, I went home and cried it out before she got home. When I entered high school started thinking about how much I hate myself, I went home and cried it out before she got home. When I made bad choices and wanted to tell someone about it, I went home and cried it out before she got home. When I felt like I was going crazy and couldn’t control what I was thinking or feeling, I went home and cried it out before she got home. When I thought about killing myself, I went home and stared at my method of choice for hours, and then put it away before she got home.

I didn’t manage to hide everything. She was aware of my failing grades from not going to class. She was aware that I would binge eat. She was aware that I didn’t ask to go hang out with my friends much, which is apparently abnormal. She watched as I spend more and more time plugged into the computer. She was the one that bought me all my goth wear. She was often who took the brunt of my anger when I flew into a rage that I couldn’t explain.

I guess she was just too busy to put all those pieces together.

I told her about the rock incident recently, in passing, and she asked why I didn’t tell her, then. I couldn’t tell her that it was because I didn’t feel like I could tell her most things. My problems haven’t been something I wanted to bother her with for a long time. I like to say that made me independent. I think it’s really made me distant to people.

In high school, when I was slowly losing my mind, I remember us getting in a fight one day, and her telling me that I say terrible things to her. I still don’t think I did. I mean, I knew what my friends said to their parents and I wouldn’t dream of ever saying shit like that to my mother. In retrospect, I think it was the bad mix of a volatile bipolar (amongst other things) teenage girl and a clinically depressed woman. I would yell or be upset and she would take everything to heart. Every word engraved on her fragile psyche, forever.

I’m better now… in the sense that I’m trained to act relatively normal, and then go home and blow up or shut down or whatever in the privacy of my own home, where no one can hear me scream but the dogs. I still go home and cry a lot. I also sometimes go home and drink, or smoke, or take a percocet, or maybe all three if I’m feeling particularly like life is meaningless. I have gotten better about going home and eating, though… so… improvement.

Yesterday I caught myself self-harming. Back in the day I was cutter. Being so pale, as I am, you can’t see most of the scars, though. I’ve since learned that things like that make people aware… so I took a can of air duster, held it upside down, and sprayed it at my arm. I’ve done it before. It hurts, because the fluids inside are cold to keep the air compressed. It’s a biting kind of pain that it comparable to putting your hand on a hot stove. You lurch away from the immediate feeling, but it lingers… spiking now and then. So long as you don’t do it too long, there’s no lasting evidence you did anything. Your skin will get a little red… if you do it often you might get some blistering… Two weeks ago I did it WAY too long and I developed first stages of frostbite. Even now, the skin that took the most damage is just a little scaly. You can’t really see it anymore, but I can feel it when I run my fingers over the spot.

I guess until yesterday I didn’t think of this game as self harm, to be honest. I’ve always like the cold from canned air. I used to play with it all the time. It’s only in the past few years I’ve taken it farther than I used to… pushing my cold limits.

I think I’d be a mostly great mom, just like mine was… but with these habits of mine… with these mood swings and necessity to decompress once a day in a blaze of emotional turmoil… I can’t subject a kid to that. It’s bad enough I subject the dogs to that…

Related/Unrelated: Got the new Ghost Town album today! Here’s a song off of it that’s kinda related to this entry.