I want to self-sabotage. I want to ruin everything and make sure there is no hope. I admit that. I don’t want this to work; for once I want the failure, if only for a reason, a little shove.

My mom was giving me a long talk this morning, the kind that is supposed to be comforting. She was telling me what I should do, I got annoyed, and said something like, “Yes, I know”, which prompted her to say some words, that at the time, I took the wrong way.

“You always make so many mistakes.”

A long pause.

“Why, because I’m a fucking failure?”

I said it out loud, I said it. I said it in that bitter, if-you-only-knew voice, and smiled grimly even though I knew I sounded childish. Of course she says she didn’t mean it that way. She makes the point that I always come back after doing something and talk about what I should have done, that I should try to be more prepared this time, since I always forget what I’m supposed to say or ask. 

Yes, because I can’t get anything right. I know. You wouldn’t believe how acutely aware I am of it.

It was just not the time to say it, not at all. I felt like it was all glaring back at me, laughing, mocking me. Sometimes I think the past is what kills me, more so than the future. It seems to transcend time and taint any positive thoughts I have left. I let it get to me, because in some ways, I feel it’s what I need to force myself to make some sort of move and end my idleness. I play it over and over because I want to drive myself crazy. I want to snap. I want to look at the world as more vile and ugly than anything else, and see not a single redeeming quality in it. Just to make it easy. Just to make it worth leaving, even if it isn’t entirely true. I’d use a lie if it could make it simple. I’d end as a hypocrite, quite contentedly.

I went to the city, did what I needed to do. Put resumes and cover letters in everywhere. I stopped by the Humane Society, put in an application and filled out some other papers so that they might call on me to volunteer sooner or later. It was very difficult at first, walking in, asking, when I feel so fucking inadequate. I have so much trouble just talking to people. And the more time I spend alone, locked away in this room with all the curtains drawn and the sunlight chased out, the more I let it take its hold.

But the numbness has grown worse as I predicted, and for whatever reason, after the first few times of approaching yet another customer service desk, it didn’t make my hands shake. I was nervous, but it was very diluted and vague, not quite the tangible thing I’m accustomed to. Instead, there was mostly tiredness and a voice in my head that told me darkly, that it is all so pointless. That voice of pitiless truth. Maybe that was why I managed to go through with it.

There always reaches a point where exhaustion is far surpassed, and a strange residual weariness sets in. Instead of walking, you slow to a crawl, dragging your feet, dreading every single step, almost counting them. I always tell myself when I start running, “Just imagine how much it’s going to hurt the further you go”.

I’ve kind of given myself a secret ultimatum. I don’t really like where either option leads, but these days I don’t seem to like much of anything to begin with. I feel like I am sort of at this turning point; perhaps it’s age, but nothing to do with legality or anything of the sort, just an inner feeling I can’t fully put into words. Compelled, is close to what I mean. I’m being drawn in toward something, or maybe subconsciously I am pushing myself in this direction. I think I want black and white, which I know isn’t all that possible, but in this case, it is, oddly enough. I’ve made it that way. I was afforded this one piece of control, this one meaningless life to fuck up if I so choose.

 I was irritable beyond belief for most of the day (my mom got the brunt of it, unfortunately), and putting on a fake smile made me grind my teeth. It took all day to get everything done. But everyone was very friendly; I didn’t meet one person who was rude or who wasn’t willing to help, which was a very pleasant change. When I finally did finish, I was in a better mood because I hadn’t any reason to be angry with what went on. It wasn’t what I expected, and though I had no appetite, I did not feel as ill as I had expected. I wanted nothing all day but for it to be over and night to fall again.

Done, for now. And night has indeed come.


Annoyed. Hopeless.

I’m not in a very pleasant mood. I think I’m just tiring of doing the same old shit all of the time with no way of escape. No one will hire me (and believe me, I’ve applied everywhere), so here I am at home, day after fucking day, doing absolutely nothing. That, and hey, I do have a driver’s license, but I’m not allowed to use it. I feel like everything I’ve tried to do means nothing. It’s all in vain. This is all just a mistake, living is a mistake. All I do is buy useless shit I don’t need, and sit at this computer typing when I don’t even want this.

It’s not a matter of feeling sorry for myself, it’s a matter of realizing there is no reason to be here. I am trapped—chained—to my parents and whatever befalls them. I can’t get away. I could run, sure, but to where? And not to mention, I would have nothing. I have all the comforts in the world here, but the unhappiness wells up so strongly at times that it feels suffocating. This is supposed to be what everyone wants. Being comfortable as well as you can be, all from years of throwing money into the system and accumulating everything you could possibly need. But I don’t need the things half so much as I am starving for just a taste of independence. Of getting the hell away from humanity, away from all the things that pull them down, all the things that are pulling me down because I’ve let this place poison me.

I’m dying slowly. Maybe I do deserve it.

I’m a bipolar whirlwind….

I’ve been so fucked up today. I can’t explain it really. Generally I’m always moody, obviously that’s nothing new, but there are some days where I am just HORRIBLE. Every little thing gets to me, and it can go on for days and days. Most of the time I wind up throwing things and cursing the world for just…existing. I secretly hope for the world to explode so that 1. I’ll be dead and no longer capable of being bothered, or 2. Everyone else will be dead and no longer capable of speaking. Either way, it sounds good.

So yesterday to settle myself down a little I went and downloaded some new stuff to listen to. Naturally, the one song I really wanted isn’t there. So I decided to go check out another site I like to use when I don’t feel like spending money…and of course the song isn’t there either. That alone was enough to set me off for half the night. I don’t know why, I can’t explain it. It’s not a big deal, I don’t even really care, yet I got all pissed and huffy about it anyway. Don’t you hate it when that happens? Then I cooled down and was perfectly alright for a few hours. I wake up this morning in an okay mood, then all of a sudden I turn into a complete bitch again.

Some days I eat once a day, and hardly at all. What’s funny is that the ultra-low calorie intake isn’t doing anything to me physically (I thought I would be a bit weak for awhile, but I’ve actually been feeling quite well lately), though I’m beginning to suspect that it might have something to do with my constant annoyance being worse than ever for seemingly no reason. I don’t really feel hungry anymore; I’ve sort of gotten beyond that point because I fast from about 5:00 in the afternoon to around 3:00-4:00 in the morning. I’m getting used to not eating at all during that time, though there are still the days when all I want to do is ingest an entire carton of ice cream…and who the fuck knows why, though I never let myself. But anyway, I think the entire food denial thing isn’t necessarily helping. At the same time I feel better because my clothes are loose and I practically swim in the shirts that used to be tight on me. It’s the better of two evils sort of thing. Not lesser, better.

I cleaned my room; I used a mop any everything. It’s a bloody fucking miracle! And I updated my fanfiction crap a chapter, which also makes me feel a bit better. Still haven’t been able to find that fucking song on the internet. Oh well. I’ll probably go over to Best Buy in a few days and pick up the damn album, IF they even have it…. They better…. Or else ultimate wrath will ensue.

I’m going to go quading.

Left out, and walking the insane dog.

Yesterday was an…interesting day. I had avoided—yet again—going on one of the shooting excursions with my dad and godfather. Let’s just say that every time I do go with them, I don’t really enjoy myself…at all. They’ve been friends since highschool, so obviously my few flimsy years of contact don’t compare in the least to that sort of relationship. I realize now that going to the shooting range with my dad and godfather is similar to me draging my dad along on one of my trips to the mall that I used to make with my friends centuries ago. Basically it equals a lot of awkward silences, boredom, and the inevitable alienation of the one who doesn’t belong from the rest of the herd. Even if the outsider does have interest in the activities, it makes little difference, as the relationships between the rest of the people are too well-worked and comfortable to accomodate the awkwardness of the newcomer.

I have a very strong interest in guns, and I love shooting, but generally what ends up happening is I sit there bored out of my mind, while they don’t include me in the conversation. I realize they aren’t doing it to be mean, but one can help but feel a bit disheartened when they ask a question and the other people look over then keep talking and laughing about whatever esoteric things pass between friends. And, the other problem is that I never get to shoot, which clearly is the entire point of the activity for someone who isn’t as exprienced with guns. The only way I do get to try things out is if I bother until somebody gives in, which makes me feel like a pest, and all in all a complete moron who doesn’t belong.

Last time we went shooting, my dad packed all of his guns and ammo, but failed to pack any of mine. He always is the one to get all of the gun-related items, while I get everything else. It was at that point, right after he sighed in irritation from me asking if he packed the .38s, that I decided that would be my last trip with them. It made me angry, and a little sad. It’s hard to get someone like me to feel “left out”. I’m always the odd one out, no matter where I go or what activity it is, so really it’s nothing new. I rarely experience any sort of emotional reaction to it after this long of becoming accustomed to it. Which is why I still can’t quite figure out why this situation in particular bothered me so much. I guess I’m just tired of his constant preaching that we’re going to go shooting more so I can get better, while in reality all the trips seem to consist of is me standing around while everybody else practices. So to hell with it. Chances are, if I DO manage to get more ammo, I’ll just start taking my gun into the woods and practice on my own. It’s legal to shoot there, which is nice.

So when they left yesterday, my godfather left his dog with us. She’s a German Shorthair: psychotic, energetic, whiny. Not a dog I like to spend mass amounts of time with (I can only take so much…), though I do sometimes enjoy short little exposures here and there to her. Unlike the chihuahua, this dog can actually keep up, and is very fun to chase. So I decided upon waking up from her incessant whining, that I had the PERFECT solution to her energizer bunny activity level. A nice long walk with me in the woods. Hehehe. No one ever said I was nice….

After a shower and a slathering-on of sunscreen, I take her out into the heat and bright sun to see just what will happen. She tugs constantly, so hard she is actually pulling me forward somewhat. I never realized just how strong she is for her size. I have to say I was impressed by how hard she yanked on the leash; I had taken her for a bit of a wuss. I was correct however, in my assumption that she is mainly a sprinter with no long-term endurance. The first 20 minutes, it was mostly me being walked. She picked the pace, and I just followed and made sure she stayed on course, not really wasting any energy to slow her down. My plan was going perfectly…. One of the asshole dogs down the street tried to pick a fight with her, which was…interesting. I towed her away from the scene, snickering to myself as the mean dog got himself in a hissy over her, barking and carrying on. I hate that dog, by the way. Each time I walk by the fence he goes crazy trying to get at me, so it was nice to have a dog with me to bother him further, instead of having only my cruel stares to goad him with. I’m bad like that. I have no fear of dogs and am vaguely open to being attacked just for the sake of seeing who will win.

She didn’t slow down when we got to the entrance, still tugging so hard she was practically choking herself from excitement (she never gets to go for these types of walks). When we got to one of the trails, she finally lost a lot of her extreme energy, and collapsed in the dirt while I tried in vain to get her to drink more than a few licks of water. This was only about a mile of walking at this point. Then we started again, tugging reinitiated. I guess she thinks she’s going to get there faster by pulling…and doesn’t understand that pulling against a stubborn human= pain.

Chipmunks were the main problem we encountered, and put her into an absolute frenzy. If I were to write this dog’s thought process I think it would be something similar to this:

Tree! Chipmunk! Leaf! Faster! Faster! Faster, faster! Human! Tree! Hey look, a chipmunk! Did you hear that? Tree!! Chipmunk! Must eat…chipmunk!

And let’s just make it very clear here…the sight of a chipmunk meant the poor human attached to the other end of the leash was unexpectedly, completely without warning, dragged a few stunned feet in the direction of whatever bush the frightened chipmunk had taken refuge under. I then would have to haul her away from the innocent little creatures and hope that she would forget about the chipmunk in a few steps. Which she always did. Oh, did I mention she has NO attention span. Honestly. Besides a strong desire to capture all little creatures, there’s not much else going on in her head. She’s smart, but she has no focus whatsoever. She forgets what she was doing after a few seconds of not being reminded.

After a few more miles, I took her back home. The return trip was nothing like the trip there. I had the most well-behaved dog. She didn’t tug, didn’t bark at dogs she saw, nothing. Her tongue was lolling out of her mouth, her breathing was ragged. She was basically worn out and hot from the heat of the day as well as the exercise. When I got her in the house she lapped up a bowl of water then collapsed on the floor. It’s always nice when my plans go so well….

The annoying dog.

I’m pretty fed up with him. It’s getting to the point where I hate the fact that he’s still breathing. I’m a bit strange about animals, and though I said I wanted to be a vet when I was a child, I know now although I care for animals, there are some—just like certain people—that the world would be a better place…without.

Dogs are a species that I can barely tolerate. Animal racism if you will. The sniffing of asses, crotches, shit, and every other imaginable thing—not for me. My cat may use his tongue for toilet paper, but at least he doesn’t try to share his siliva with my mouth. I think that’s what I hate most about dogs, the accursed licking. My cat licks me, sure, his little attempt to groom me, but he refrains from licking my face unless he is trying to seek revenge by licking and then biting my chin for some minor indesgression (such as giving him too tight a hug). That I can handle, but Malcolm, the dog, goes STRAIGHT for the mouth. This is after he was just outside, his nose all over the nice present some random dog left in the yard, or after he finished grooming his undercarriage for five minutes. No thanks. No really, no thanks.


I don’t care if he’s cute, I don’t care if he has big eyes and a misproportioned head…cuteness does not buy my affection. Actually, pretty much nothing but evilness does, but that’s beside the point. The fact that everyone LOVES him on sight is…well…disgusting. It’s like how people treat other people: according to their looks. Just because it’s cute doesn’t mean that it is sweet or loving.

What problems do I have? The fact that he’s stupid. I honestly am beginning to question whether or not he even knows what his name is. I won’t judge an animal for being a little dim-witted, there’s nothing wrong with that, but this dog…. I say Malcolm ten times and he continues to lay on the floor. The only way he’ll come to me is if I’m near the door. What’s strange about this is that he is like a shadow, won’t leave your side for hardly anything, yet he doesn’t come when you call him…hmmm…. He’s not deaf either, he can hear just fine. My cat comes running to me if I call him any assortment of nicknames (i.e. Fatboy, Fatso, Say-Say, Kitty, Cat, Bastard), yet that damn dog won’t come for “Mal” or “Malcolm”. I just don’t get it. Salem (the cat) even knows what “stop stalking the dog” means. And then the other thing. Potty trained? No, more like “mills around outside”. The mosquitoes are terrible, yet Dad takes the dog out every night, sometimes with NO result. He won’t even pee sometimes. And the other day after we took him out, he got flustered by the ferret (who by the way, officially refuses to take shit from the dog anymore) and pissed on the floor. He’s a wuss. Can’t take anything. I’m used to the excessively mean, don’t-take-shit-from-anybody chihuahuas I had when I was young. They didn’t like, you they bit.

The lino in the bathroom is slowly being destroyed as well. He rips it up again and again in a bid for freedom. He stays in there until I get up to let him out, he has food, water, toys, and bedding, yet does nothing but sit by the door digging at the lino and WHINING. He doesn’t eat until AFTER I let him out. The tape we keep applying to the doorway to keep the lino down he tears up into tiny pieces, even after we attempted to foil him by coating it with hot sauce (yes we really did, because we got sick of fixing it, and it getting worse and worse). Then when I DO let him out, all he does is sit on the rug by the door for hours on end. How exactly that is different from being in the bathroom is beyond me.

He’s not that bad of a dog (believe me, we’ve had some terrors…I don’t even want to think about it…), but I am already sick to death of taking care of him. He’s useless, dumb, and too clingly. He climbs all over me like I’m a moutain, and has to be in contact with your body if you’re sitting on the couch or lying down. I get that I’m supposed to like that he likes people, but I don’t. I’m an incredibly unaffectionate person…I don’t like being touched or hugged or kissed by any animals (human beings included). My wonderful hangups…but anyway, it’s like my mom in dog form (probably why he’s HER dog). I payed for him. Bought him for her because I knew she was lonely. I’m not exactly pleasant company all of the time, I know, so I figured the dog would help, but all of the problems he causes, especially with the cat (he tried to bully the cat in his first weeks here, and now Salem HATES him, and attacks on sight) make me regret my choice sometimes.

Yes, I realize that I whine and bitch about stupid things. And I don’t have problems and blah blah blah, but I have to vent it, or else it will just keep irritating me to an extreme. I have no respect for tiny little dogs who think they’re rottweilers, yet won’t even stand up to a cat. I guess that’s what I hate about him; he reflects weakness. And I despise weakness. He’s like all of those people I hate: submissive and codependent. It’s highly unfortunate that I’m stuck as sole caretaker for the next few weeks, if not month. *grumble*