New baby

Comes into the world and all this g-emo (cursed combo of goth+emo) can think to say is,”Tell it to cherish the years free of exams and before life brings out its crushing cynicism.”

Kid_goth

For me, those days probably ended shortly before (or after) R.E.M’s fantastic album Monster came out. In the golden year in music that was 1994. At the ripe old age of 11 for me. So long ago, I’d totally forgotten about it. Until the fated day I was distracted from studying from my first wretched mid-term exam in a decade, drenched in emo, and YouTube thought it was appropriate to mess with me further by taking me back.

Both a blessing and a curse, like so many things as of late. And maybe like the baby too. I digress. People don’t like it when you’re down on babies. But no one reads this, so I shall speak my mind. Those poor babies, good luck to them down the line. Trying to learn the things they aren’t, tho they paid so much to, then trying to find jobs (through shameless self promotion, faking it, and people they ‘know’ vs. skills). Form meaningful, lasting connections with people they can trust, who aren’t looking to just gain something superficial or cruel from them. I imagine it will be infinitely worse than it already is. It’s gotten so much worse than it was several years ago. There’s that cynic tho. Maybe the baby will be JUST FINE (and who knows, maybe even dandy too).

And even if not. For now, baby has nothin to do… ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh!

my genetics

Have programmed me for:

Handling my drinks too well (an inability to vomit, but an extreme sensitivity to visualizing it)

Crying at romantic comedies that likely shouldn’t make one cry (i.e. The 40-year-old Virgin)

Listening to emo (damn the Get Up Kids never getting old. Geeze louise)

Distracting oneself with inability with regards to ‘love’ and ‘relationships’ instead of focusing on the other things that matter in one’s life as an individual

Combined it’s a pretty potent combo. Along with blogging like the 19-yr old I still look like, and at times clearly, feel like. Though I guess in my defense, blogging wasn’t an option then. And I was too off-my-rocker then to manage anyway.

a brief history of…

Sociopaths.

Some less dangerous than others. Some dangerous in more obvious, more definition-of-danger worthy ways. The others much worse in the long run. Those charismatic, handsome fucks that really are no more than the latter. That really have no more worth than, the latter. That manage to climb you like an (albeit rather short) ladder. And what does it say about you that you fall under his charms? That you seek so hard to believe the feigned aspects of interest. Though they leave you under duress?

Those days are over, you say. Those lessons, this time, have been learned. Easy to say this time, in retrospect. In hindsight vision is 20/20 so the cliche says. Meanwhile your new glasses, that you can’t adjust well to your face, somehow leave you motion sick constantly. Though because they are grey, you will never EVER give them up. No not ever.

But you will – return to insurance. Leave the job that looks good ‘on paper’ so to speak. Take a pay cut. Fear a walk around some foreign countryside. Get back to the words. Leave the waste of mind space behind. Monotony and less salary exchanged for sanity. And whenever you have to make such a big decision, at a crucial point, your knees quake. Body aches. Because you are not stable like a crab. Your joints are not reinforced. Like the wood crustacean brought from cuba. That looks at you with sparkly pink eyes. That some poor child, no doubt, created.

You can’t be trusted. But it’s quite contrary to the ways a sociopath is not to be trusted. But your recent encounters with more than one makes you fear for your own superficiality. The cruciality. Of progressing for once, in both thought and deed. While these deranged men work on compulsion, you wish to formulate a difficult, but stick-to worthy plan.

Think about Shoegaze. Think about the many lost days. Your so-many rather lost ways. Think about think about driving yourself mad. Think about your newer of  friends (the others just fed up) telling you they feel so sorry for you, the way you exhaust yourself . Spinning yourself in circles in your head. Think about overtime. Think about doing time. Think about. The ways by which things can be and can’t be. Mine. My  Bloody Valentine (how fitting their best album is called Loveless – a highlight being the circus-whirl of “When you sleep” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l9-NOIalUYU ) and gazing at shoes. That one is never happy with. Too tight against the baby toe corn. Too tight in a way that shows age. The age that no one else can detect. Those bruises and stretch marks, sagging and bagging. I was young. and now it hurts. That youth gone. Those decisions lost never to be found.

And the utmost frustration, that as your nose changes and you grow to be your mom, who has grown to be your grandmother, everyone still thinks you are 19. Can’t be taken seriously. Or hit on random men your age in public. Because while men allegedly want someone younger, it is still not socially acceptable to approach them. Is it acceptable to approach anything? You really don’t have the heart for it anyway. Nauseate.

Can you wait your whole life waiting to be approached by the right thing when you are so very picky? Picking at all the things you were told not to 17 years ago? 17 years ago. You were full of little scabs to pick at, and nothing more. Things were simple. You were the closest to happy you’d ever been. Even as the ugliest you’d ever been. You were, the leader of the pack. The slightly sought after one. Most sought after of those hardly sought after at all. A confidence you’ve never known since.

Sunday nights. Fear of invisible bugs. Dread of waking to Mondays. Low on sleep. But be happy. It’s what you asked for. It’s what we all live for.

And gazing. Ever. At shoes. Shoes you are perpetually displeased with. Shoes. Bras. Pants. That will never fit. But you will buy more anyway. It’s the one thing you can’t give up on. It will be long before. You get up on. Anything worth noting again. The sky will cave in. Snow will terrify, more than mesmerize, you. As it falls from the sky too  plentiful. Too chaotic. Tom Cruise will remind you of so many men you meet. You never guessed it would be this way. You never guessed. But you didn’t have to guess it was all a game you’d never wanted to play. A game that strained you. That you were forced to play.  A game that you never had time to train for. That never had time to train you. That would betray you, slay you, time and time again.

Delude (le deluge)

Recently I discovered the multi-vitamins I touted on here and was so fond of and have been investing in for 6 months, are virtually useless. I also found the dreamboat of sorts I was somewhat investing in for 6 weeks, was also useless. We delude ourselves. We can’t help it. Even though these things we invest in, grow hopeful of for their ease, for our fondness, for the excitement, always let us down. Nothing can be trusted. But we fall into hope and trust, especially with regards to love, time and time again.

It’s not the 90s. Music sucks and projected sexuality isn’t ‘new’, genuine, avante garde, or empowering, it’s grown tiresome, nasty, phony. We are not in 0ur early 20s. We take it a day at a time, but it’s not the best strategy really, though it’s all we can do for our sanity. No progress is made.

We used to think it was the situation – the city we chose to go to university in. The one that so conveniently allowed excuses for why we had simple jobs. Jobs that required no commitment. That made us no money. But even when we pulled, painfully tore ourselves apart from that existence finally, as the thing we HAD to do, though not regrettable, things didn’t change much. The loss of friends. Loss of love. The challenge of commuting 4 hours daily for a job that is more frustrating than we ever could have imagined. That pays more than any previously, but still somehow, leaves us broker than ever.

Christmas comes and we wish it wouldn’t. Wish we could freeze time Save By The Bell style. Wishing our hair was so full, the way it once was. They way we’d wished it wasn’t. The way we regret having taken for granted.

The holidays cause us to cringe. Want to burrow and hide away like the fattening groundhogs we are at this time of year. Families shrunken by deaths as members age and feuds that ensued in the wake of the loss. Terrified at how quickly a year flew by. A year where many terrible things happened, yet ultimately, hardly anything of consequence. A series of distractions. A series of failed, careless attractions. The latest of which may have left consequences for the rest of one’s life. The kind of thing that would have been excusable in one’s early 20’s, not on the cusp of 30.

 
Things have miraculously always had a way of working out. But luck is something that must essentially run out. Life tries to teach us lessons only so many times. I don’t believe in much, let alone kooky stuff. But I do somehow believe in the ghosts of loved ones. Of things happening for a reason. But if anyone related to me that has passed away could see the whole picture, the big vile thing, and was looking at the way I live my life presently, I imagine they’d feel the need to do something rash, something that would wake me up and force me to get it together.

But I’m not sure what ‘it’ is or how on earth to put it together. I was never good at building. At fixing. Problem solving. Progress. Coping. Save for by destructive mechanisms. Flawed things. When someone perceived to be promising draws near, my less than endearing crazy scares them away. I am a great lover, but there is a price to pay. And pursuing love, costs me much along the way. I am eternally the crab moving sideways. Moving backwards. Snapping claws. Retreating into shell. And when I can’t because my schedule won’t allow for such things, that shell weakens, grows cracks. Erroneous flawed thing that spirals so close to the very bottom. Of a cold sea while snow fails to fall on the Toronto Beaches. Because snow doesn’t fall here. Doesn’t stall here. Refuses to freeze things the way we’d sometimes like them to be. The way Montreal did for nearly a decade. And it’s not that we crave to freeze time because the situation is ideal, by any means. But just to pause for a moment, and stop all the uncontrollable chaos. To let us pretend, for once, there is no impending, disastrous, end. Like the Nada Surf lyric from one of my all-time favourite songs of their’s, called “Amateur” off their fantastic, timeless album The Proximity Effect, that used to strike such a chord with me 10 years ago when my life seemed to be a constant stream of endings –  “Every day is new year’s eve. Every time is the last time.”

maybe (a name can’t be put to it)

coworkers have nightmares about proofing pages. one poor, sweet guy unable to fall asleep proofing pages that don’t exist. even the ones that do are thrown in the trash moments after, often before, their purpose is served. we care too much. we say we won’t let ourselves but we do (though me least of all. delinquent. slacker. burnout in the sociology textbooks i wrote a paper defending. and i am. so burnt out.) and our team at work. we sell our souls and scratch our arms and pull out hairs. greying faster than they should. we gain wrinkles. down drinks. smoke smokes instead of staving off cancer. we do all this to pay the bills. to support the habits that help us get through it all.

we all initially put our feet down on weekend work. but slowly they cave. not i, said the me. i will keep my weekend open for the possibility of a tall dreamy thing. that stresses me. that i am torn between being the likely strange-seeming, open, honest thing that is ‘me’ and the playing-it-cool-thing dating requires of me.

i have nightmares about shopping. before and after two coats in 30 minutes flat. the void that can never be filled. $200 a week. a visa that won’t quit. loans that won’t be paid. all because of man that hasn’t been found. that will protect us from old creeps next door. that we’re too polite to not tell our apartment number to. like an idiot. proof once again an education says nothing about one’s smarts. even those of us that pride ourselves on our street smarts. maybe all it’s been is a matter of luck nothing bad has happened to us stalker-wise.

and i digress further than what i thought was the last point of digression – 19. a decade ago. i end up somewhere more innocent, where i was when i was 14. the emo and pop punk that i thought i’d cringe at if revisted, instead i listen to it nightly. and feel bad for keeping the old lady neighbors up with it. lonely. all of us. the curse of being on a floor with all single ladies. i blame the floor. i always look for something to blame. it’s the only way i get by, in truth. it always has been. it was the bad friends. it was the illicit drugs. it was the legit drugs i took in lew of the drugs. i thought i was someone else, but when all that falls away, i’m still the same person today.

what the 14-yd old vice is i can’t even bear to blog about it, and i tried. but deleted it. even though no one would see it…


this should be embarrassing, but is nothing compared to that: wanting a guy like paul mullen in this photo. the same way i would have wanted him when i was 14. 19. 24. and i had versions of him along the way. but none of them stuck. the newest ones no different, though we pretend the stray gray hairs, the 3 instead of 2 at the start of the age, might make them. maybe none of them will stick. so smooth to slide across. hairless and boyish. flawed being constructed internally as perfect. maybe it is always superficial. though addictive. enthralling. (at times, worth it). there is no solution. we are attracted to what we are attracted to.  seek solace in the things that soothe us, even while stressing us.

arts degrees should be illegal. everyone i know left helpless in the ‘working world’. i hate companies, yet i want to work for one. a good one. a big one. just to be comfortable. just to have an easy job and pay my bills. and feel appreciated. in some small way. maybe the smallest of ways.

i can’t remember the last time i read a book because my relationship with writing has grown so fraught. antag.onistic. the writer i wanted to be. the writer i never had the heart to be. the writer that wasted many years and many moneys on trying to one day be the writer i’ll never be. everyone can write. it’s not even a skill. the prerequisite for the only even remotely well-paid ‘writer’ jobs require a business degree today attests to this fact. i could have been a secretary out of high school. with a house and a husband and no debt. making $70 000 a year.

and if i sound somewhat emo (and i most certainly do) maybe it’s that which i fill my ears with. prevent tears with. maybe it’s the time of the year. the time of the month. the situational state. the lack of food on my plate. the surplus of booze in my belly. the loneliness i do what i can to deal with and tell myself i don’t really feel. but my phone as my appendage speaks volumes. these rants that warrant a new section on the blog, speak excessive decibels. at least the title of this post would make an excellent title for a book. a collection of words. that is surely to never be. and oh there i go sounding like morrissey. or wilde.

maybe it’s definitely maybe. maybe that was a great album title and wasted on a band like oasis.maybe it’s all of that. maybe it’s none of that. maybe it doesn’t matter. and maybe, that’s not a maybe at all.

maybe. the word of the day (of the century, of the lifetime, for me – skipping ahead with possibilities, convincing myself of the worst possible ones) is. maybe.

the gut (another lazy rant)

sometimes the gut tells you to buy smokes. you’re too cold and lazy to check your pack. but the gut was right. you will have to leave early and brave the stress of the commuters trampling you. subway delays. you hold your breath. you clench your fists. your still somewhat new nails scratching your sweaty palms.

sometimes the gut tells you that the hot guy you did it with is no longer interested after you said something stupid. when your empty stomach was full of booze.

sometimes the gut is empty of everything but booze.
what do the organs think? what does the brain think? while intoxicated? later on?

oh consequences, consequences.

someone said ‘the voice in your stomach is jesus’. and maybe it was true. but you still didn’t know when to listen to him and when not to.
maybe you were more religious than you gave yourself credit for. maybe not since you wouldn’t give it a second cursory thought.

maybe you didn’t give yourself credit ever. you spent so much credit. interest for years on the line of credit. ‘if credit’s what matters, i’ll take credit’ screamed those hot snakes. snakes really couldn’t get any hotter. though they were some ugly motherfuckers.

that empty stomach booze gut became who you really were. that’s who you were underneath it all. underneath it all. you were acid reflux. you were self destruction. you were 19 still, 10 years later.
and later and later you stayed up. less and less sleep and food you ran on.
you ran off. your mouth.
always managing to mess things up. like the shag on tall, thin, dreamy-thing heads. you’d somehow managed to catch briefly. trick, maybe?

where was the gut then? dissuaded persuaded by booze.
to mess things up. til they were so down down down. 19-stylez.

unable to save. unable to decide. unable to hunker down. unable to create. unable to elate.
but magically, like the gut. you manage to deflate.

and oh all the times you were told not to rhyme.
it never fazed you.  and your lazy ways.  moving sideways continually like the crustacean you are. snapping stupid claws at anyone sweet enough to trust you. come close. let you lick them for a select few evenings.

the emo haunting you “all good things. have endings’

and looking back this isn’t all that different than the kinds of shit you spewed out back then. what’s changed really? the pressures, sure enough. but not much else. loopster would say it’s all ‘legit stress’ now. which it wasn’t then. but it’s the unchanged coping mechanisms that concern you most. the laziness. let the words tumble and fall drunkenly forward. they aren’t worth the time or effort to shape into something special. something worthy of someone else’s time. the words and unnamed things that comprise you may not be either. how does anyone do it, really? when it’s so hard to coerce anything created into something celebrated.

what does jesus say to that? just a hurt gurgle. fuel for further libations. and this emo. this emo could very well do us in.