Mothers, Be Good To Your Daughters, too...

Do you remember that day when we went to the zoo, Mom? When the sun was shining down on us, and you chaperoned my group, and we watched the fish? You bought me a stuffed animal, and told me that you wanted me to remember it forever. I remember. There were lots of choices, but I picked the kangaroo with her joey tucked into her pouch, because I wanted it to be you and I- me tucked against you.


Do you remember when I was eight, and you thought I was going to start my period early, so you told me all about it, and gave me “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.” I started watching right then, and by the time I was twelve, I started to wonder if I was a man, because I had no distinguishable breasts and I wasn’t bleeding. I was so relieved that I was a girl when it finally came that I cried, all alone in my bedroom that night. You don’t remember, but I do.

Do you remember when I was thirteen, and you had to pick me up at school because they asked me to leave, and we went and got pizza and ice cream before you booked me an appointment with the therapist, under the agreement that I wouldn’t “pretend to have problems” anymore? She thought I was the most intelligent child ever to come in her office, but we both knew that I was smarter than I let on.

Do you remember when I was fourteen, and you found out that I had kissed that girl from church? You threatened her with a lawsuit, and said she couldn’t come over anymore, and I didn’t understand how my mom could have suddenly become so mean. Back then, I thought girls who wore pink were the worst thing in the world, and when you threatened me with a one, I started seeing boys again.

Do you remember when those boys decided that my hand wasn’t enough to hold, and you got another call from the school? Heavy sweaters that had no zips became my uniform, and you wondered why I hated the low cut tops you thought would suit me or dated the boys who carried instrument cases and makeup bags.

Do you remember when we went on diets together, and I lost weight? We went shopping, just the two of us, and you talked about what we could buy if I was just a little thinner, just a little taller. I wondered if I’d ever be pretty enough to find a boy that liked me for my personality, and made you happy, so you didn’t have to make fun of me anymore.

Do you remember when I was happy, Mom? Before homework replaced watching television with you and my cell phone took silly text messages instead of business calls; do you remember when I would make dolls and line them up on the kitchen counters, all smiling and bright blue eyes- soft ones that looked like me, and sharp ones that looked like you?

Do you remember when I was sixteen, and I realized that I couldn’t be the daughter you wanted me to be? Do you remember how you wondered how I could be so mean to you? Do you remember how my moods changed faster than lightning strikes- my calculated words falling away to reveal aggravation and contempt?

Do you remember when I was three, and you told me I would always be your favorite little girl, no matter what?

I remember Mom. I remember.

Hypocrisy & Insecurity

Hypocrisy.
It's been on my mind a lot today. Last night, a friend of mine came out to me. It really upset me.
Now, I can hear what you're saying. "She, self proclaimed Dyke-in-the-Box, was pissed because someone came out of the closet? What a hypocrite."
Well, yeah. But I'm not the only one.
Notice that I say "friend". Its rare that I have just "friends". I'm sure you've noticed- I have loves of my life, I have best friends, I have close friends. Few "friends".
What, you ask, demoted this girl to friend?
A few weeks ago, I decided to come out to her. I was ready for her to know. I was ready to tell someone who wasn't anonymous, who doesn't know everything about me. Her response was thus: "You're not trying to tell me you're bi, right? I have way too many friends who are bi. I don't need another one."
My response? "No, I'm definately not bi. :) Hey, I've got stuff to do. Bye!"
I'm a wimp. I know. So when she texted me last night, asking for acceptance and love... I gave it.
I still love and care for her. She's an amazing kid- I've had a crush on her for a couple months now, actually. Not enough to toss away our friendship to tell her I like her, but you know... I wouldn't say no to a movie. ;)
Anyway. Back to the point. She's great. But it really hurt that she wants me to accept her when she can't accept me.

The Dream (Fiction)

I'm officially a terrible person. Everyone has their motives, and mine were pure enough to start, I suppose, but there's a line where wrong and right are divided, and I have firmly crossed into the wrong.

The trouble stemmed from two distinct problems. The first being that my mother has always had migraines- intense migraines. The type that for all purposes paralyze her with pain and nausea. The second is my intense hatred of the beach. These two made me the obvious choice to go and purchase medication from one of the boardwalk shops.

Now, despite my hatred of the beach, I adore boardwalk shops. Being unfamiliar with this beach gave me the excuse of heading into a variety of places in search of some Advil- Advil specifically. "Don't bring me that ibuprofen crap. I want real Advil." she had thrown at me as I walked up the sand.

Dollar stores have always been one of my favorites. This one was dingy, with bad, beach lighting and racks too close together. The floor was grimy, and cases of soda with store-brand knockoff names like "Fantasia" and "Mr. Pep" were stacked underneath cat clocks and bottles of sand. A quick scan told me that there was no medicine section- I hadn't had much hope, but the flickering "Dollar D nes" sign out front had drawn me in. It's 'n' seemed to have been long blacked out with the beer bottle still nestled into the space, but the other letters clung to life. As I joined the queue to pay for my can of Coo-coo Cola, the man in front of me realized he'd lost his wallet. The baby in his arms gurgled and smiled as he juggled her to find his billfold. Finally he turned to me. "Can you watch her for a few minutes? I'd take her with me, but I'll go much faster on my own..." For whatever reason, I nodded, holding out my arms to receive her. Her soft red hair reminded me of peaches, and she smelled sweet. As we stood, she pointed at objects, making nonsense words that came close to the names. "Ca!" "San!" "Fana!" Time passed, and I was wondering if the man would ever return. When he finally did, my mission returned to me. Advil.

My phone began to buzz against my thigh. The screen read 'Jessica'. My ex. What could she want? The message itself seemed nonsense- "A lotus grows in mud. The deeper the mud, the more beautiful the flower. You are standing in mud- though you look nothing like a lotus." I brushed it off- her nastiness was commonplace. I began to walk with a nasty squelch. Mud had seeped into my sandals. I turned around, and saw her. She was beautiful as ever, with her long brown hair loose to the wind. I'd never seen her in a bikini before, but it suited her, her pale flat stomach accented by the harsh black. "Hey there, stranger." she said coolly, whipping around with sunglasses in hand. "Have the squirrels been treating you well?" On the subject of my ex- she is unusual. Most would say insane. She always dresses in black, always talks about strange and random things, always gets angry at the slightest comment. Like a fire- that's Jessica, or as she always insisted I call her, Z. "Yeah." I mumbled. "I gotta get some Advil. Mom's head, you know?" I walked away, and she skipped to catch up. "Look, I know them. You gotta meet. College friends!" She pointed ahead to a dark haired boy and a bleached blonde with abnormally pointed breasts. She pulled me over. "Garrett, this is my ex. This is... Do I know you?" she said nastily to the blonde, flipping her hair back. "I'm-" the girl started, but Zara was too quick. "Fabulous. Well, we've got to be going now. Bye!" she said, dragging me into a CVS. "Find your medicine." She barked. It was just like old times, really. She gave the orders, and I followed them without question. I wandered about, finding only a 500 count bottle- which with beach prices, was twenty-six seventy five. I turned it over in my hands. With the soda money, Mom had given me twenty- not nearly enough. My phone began ringing- this time a call. "I just stabbed the girl in aisle twelve. Lets go." Flip flops pounding on the tile, she came hurtling towards me. I turned to leave with her. A glance over my shoulder showed Z being grabbed by a pimply cashier wearing a smock and an aged pharmacist with blue hair. She didn't seem upset- she laughed, anyway, and didn't fight as they held her against a display of cough syrup.

As I fell into the sand by my mother, I couldn't help but wonder if I'd done the wrong thing. There were many ways I could have changed the situation. I could have walked away from her on the boardwalk. I could have refused to follow her orders. I could have probably saved the girl in the drugstore. I could have fought for Z. I could have done a lot of things different.

I didn't pay for the Advil. I walked out of the store- sirens blaring and lights flashing as the cop cars pulled up to take her into custody. I wonder if it says something about my ethics that I didn't flinch. I only wondered if Mom could see the flashing lights on the water the way I could- their beautiful reflections reminding me of the pictures they showed us in school of the Aurora Borealis- and if she could, would she recognize that I'd been feet away from a murder.

More importantly- would she realize that it had been my ex that had committed it?

Its sad that in the case of being an accessory to murder, my biggest worry was that my mother would find out I am a lesbian.

Tonight

Tonight has been one of the worst nights I've had in awhile.
I don't think I've ever been this hurt by someone.
I've come up with a whole collection of novel ways to hurt myself to cover the pain of her, such as scrubbing my face with alcohol pads (now raw).
My chest feels numb, like a stuffy nose.
My nose, on the other hand, is running like a faucet from all the crying.
My stomach is knotted and making sick, gurgling sounds, like it wants me to eat, but I can't think of anything I want to touch- food would be disgusting.
My skin all hurts and itches, and I just want to cut it all off- though I've realized that I've lost all feeling almost everywhere, because I suddenly looked down and realized my leg was bleeding- guess I walked into something. Don't really care.
I just want to stay in bed and never get up.
Fuck, I have to work tomorrow.
Great.
So my options seem to be kill myself or drown in this depression and die anyway.
I feel disgusting.
Why did I ever think someone as great as her would think twice about someone like me?
Someday, its going to hit me that I might not want her initials scarred into my skin, but right now, I feel like if I were allowed, I'd carve her full name- all fifteen letters and two spaces of it- into my most sensitive skin in caligraphy with a dull spoon.
Tomorrow, I'll work on being okay. Tonight... I just need to sleep and cry.

Changes.

Things have changed since I started this blog.
I'm single. Have been for a few months- just never published it. Being disaster's bitch has taken on a new meaning for me now- disaster seems to rule my life, more so than Zara ever did. I'm still a lesbian, but if I was in the closet before, I'm in a box in the closet now. I like it in here, most of the time... except, how many in-the-closet lesbians can find an interesting, eloquent, intelligent girlfriend who likes them back and wants a little house on the outskirts of a city with two gray kittens and black curtains?


Question: Why are girls so complicated?
My answer to myself: Girls are complicated for the same reason I am. Do I like it when other people expect me to be normal and sane? Obviously not... I'm talking to myself.

Question: Why not? I hear lots of perfectly sane people talk to themselves. Its like a commonplace thing nowadays.
My answer to myself: Commonplace or not, its still the first sign of insanity.

Question: Do you suffer from insanity?
My answer to myself: No... I enjoy every minute of it.



No, in all seriousness... Why are girls so complicated?
Here's my theory: we're complicated because we don't want anyone to understand us. We like that enigmatic feeling of being unknown. Not necessarily all the repercussions of being confusing- just the feeling of power that nobody will ever completely own us. Being confusing is our way of being our own person.

Next question... Why do girls drag us around?
I mean... I don't do it, do I? When I like someone, I commit. This is the girl I want to spend the rest of my life loving... at least until my heart becomes broken and I hate her guts. Is that wrong of me?



I mean... Its not like I have all that much to offer. I'm not that pretty and I can be a total freak sometimes. But I'm loyal and I have enough love to fuel a harem. I want my girlfriend to be happy- even if its without me.

However, right now, I'm on the rampage. The girl I love (that's right L-O-V-E) isn't ever going to like (that's L-I-K-E) me enough to take me seriously, even though I could take much better care of her and love her more than any of her one-week flings. Someday, though, she'll come to her senses. Maybe?

Or maybe you know, I'll end up with the same fucking broken heart I've had all along.

Confessions of a Freak

So I've decided to confess all the horrible things that I secretly adore which as a freakish goth lesbian I shouldn't.
1. Books/Movies about cheerleaders.
2. Love notes.
3. Romantic comedies.
4. Cuddling with my best girl mates (in a nonsexual way).
5. Pop bands of the nineties.
6. Food. Food. Food.
7. Sweaters.
8. High heels. *shivers* I adore them.
9. Quilting.

Is it weird that I like stupid things?