A slow begrudging click-clock-click.

Lets start with my first thought:

How, pray tell, is it that over a month can pass by me, days can fliter by, moments in time, blips of my life-- They are all lost. How is it that I go days without once venturing to lie down in my bed to sleep and when I do, I wake up thinking it was all one day. For example, How is today Wednesday already? Am I getting completely lost in a dark circle of self-abandonment? Have I worked so hard to absolve myself of feelings of guilt, self-loathing, anger, depression, worry, and many others that I have some out abandoned myself--- Much like those that have passed in and out of my life over the past 27 years. Have i some how perfected the task of hiding myself, that-- maybe, just maybe, I can't even see myself? Autopilot?

Six months ago I would have blamed this on a constant drug haze, but now-- It's only when I get high that I feel the need to get out of where I am right now. Sober, I just want to sink further into this asinine pit of disillusion and insanity. In this place, there are no tears, there is only what I create. Misconstruction of the human soul and mind. Deconstruction? Self-implosion? Who knows?

Sometimes hours feel like minutes and days feel like hours.

Now, to paint my recent picture for you:

I awoke in a purple and white splotch painted room, a heavy down blanket that was once mine lying heavily over my body. I stretch, fumbling for my cellphone and laptop, pulling it onto the bed. Hair a sundry on my head, I shivered pulling on long sleeves, the wood fire had long gone out. My eyes adjust to the dark of my old high school room, still groggy from a night of smoking and drinking coffee with my mom. I look at the time finally-- It's only 4am and I had just gone to bed maybe 2 hours ago. No one is awake-- There is no TV to watch, no internet to use. Just the quiet of a house that had retired its lively hood for the night. Frustrated and still some what exhausted, but unable to sleep-- I quietly slip to the kitchen, putting on a pot of coffee. I grab all the necessaries on the way back to my room so that I can at least indulge in the fine green leaves my mother had left out for me. Turn on the music, pack a bowl, go grab a cup of coffee. Before I can make it back to my room with a fresh cup of coffee my mom meets me in the hallway, she too can not sleep.

Is it that we have both seen so many of the same undesirables that keeps us close, even when at times I could just scream and rage at her?

We meet in my room, she brings some old rickety heater and we sit there, smoking a bowl and drinking coffee. I stare at her.... She is young, but when you look at her face and into her eyes--- You can see something, I, personally, see all the horror stories. All the blood, tears, screaming, scheming, hiding and running--- For years... Years of being on the run. Have I grown to be addicted to that lifestyle? Is that why I am bored and hiding from myself?

And... Idk.. I'll write more later--- Sorry but it comes in cycles.

A beautiful Tragedy

 What is a beautiful tragedy?  I mean tragedy, in the most tragic of ways--- Not in the Shakespearian humor way.  Although, I suppose one could consider this beautiful tragedy a humor.  Eh, who knows?

Anyway, I met this mysterious man, clad in ACU's, the dust and  blood of war on his boots and a hazy fog of memories he would wish to forget for the rest of his life.  He was, in essence, my perfect my match-- A by-product of suburban life and much to hard work that is war as an Infantry man.  In him, I saw me.  In him, I saw myself settling down, creating a home and, yes, even quite possibly a family (even though the thought of children had always irked me to no end).  Our souls clung to each other, if but only for a moment in time.

The only problem with deep love is that the line between deep love and deep hate is all to close.  How does the old saying go, "We hurt those closest to ourselves the most."  Best friends, lovers, family-- Companions in a road that would be all to bumpy and hectic.  In a way, I will forever cling to the essence of his memory-- Like the smell of fresh brewed coffee first thing in the morning, waking up to that aroma only to drink to much and end up  jittery.

Anyway, I won't particularly bore you with details for there are all to many. And I am sure they will seep through my post little by little.

I should be logged into phonesex already, but its' been a week where the thought of talking to these needy, emotional bastards kills me.  You know what worries me honestly?  The fact that I can create such a powerful allusion of who and what I am, that so many men are instantly drawn to me -- Emotionally, Physically.  They feel obligated to me-- They fall in love with "me."  How is it that I so easily craft this divine goddess for each and every voice over the phone, often times causing a sick addiction for them. Causing them to want me, desire me....even need me, even more so than their own wives, girlfriends and/or family.  I don't even feel that I have to try most days-- It just flows from the silky seduction of my voice. Perfectly saying whatever it is they want to hear-- Painting the image of perfection and desire in their minds eye.  The funny part is, I am not what they think.  Everything I create for them is a false.


Anyway, enough for now-- I must finish my kona coffee and fight off the lingerings of a wine headache.

The beginning

There I stood in the Aldi around the corner from me, staring at the collection of cheap ass wine.  I had given up drinking months ago, but something about today had, well, drawn me back to the sweet cover of this intoxicating beverage.  Just imagine me, standing there in gray, worn capri's, a black short sleeved short, my Droid safely tucked in the chest pocket-- My hair thrown up into a sloppy pony tail, black-rimmed glasses and a long burgendy sweater-coat.  I was a site for sore eyes alright, but, had they any clue the LONG string of events that had brought me to this moment, contemplating my choices of much to cheap wine, they would have quite possibly averted their eyes or, in rare cases, offered me some form of comfort.

I am not here to seek your pity or obtain the advise of all the self-proclaimed psychologist of the internet, no.  I am here, simply to tell you my story.  My hope is that you will find entertainment, open your eyes to the a few of the horrors that life has to offer, and/or to console those that have also seen the darkest of dark places in life.  You are not alone and, alas, neither am I.

I picked up not one, but two bottles of cheap White Zinfandel-- Something produced by a company I have never even heard.  Why two bottles? Any night of drinking, should a long one-- That's all I could figure out.  I suppose I knew it would be a long night of thought.  Pondering on just what it was that had brought me here, to this place, from where I once was---

Isn't that what most of us spend out free moments wondering afterall?  How is it, that I ended here, at least for this moment.

Anyway, today is a little about me.

I am 27. I gradauted with a Master's degree in Psychology about a year ago.  I have been a phonesex operator for a little over 2 years now.  I am married, but not married, meaning legally I am married.  I have not seen my husband in well over a year and rarely talk to him since he left.  This is a whole post of its' own.  A beautiful, yet tragic blimp in a life that is. . . mine.