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Feeling: Calm. Loving my life. |
Eating: Um... life?
Wearing: Jeans, black tank top with built in bra, lavender panties, eith a little sleeping kitty on them, my claddagh, green choker and matching earrings, contacts, vestiges of the day's make-up, black belt.
Listening to: *Hummmmrumblerumblerumble* It's my washing machione making contented noises.
Chatting with: Keeping my own counsel.
Thinking: "I need to concentrate on my posture more."
Remembering: Dave's tongue ring.
Glad for: My ability to move past fear into growth.
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Today is: 2002-08-23 - @ 10:26 a.m.
dreams, and news, and bad, and just , well, random. all time - is relative
OOOoooOO!!! Good news!!! My mother, also known as evil life-sucking bitch from hell, is finally giving into my charms (yeah, right) and is going to talk to my dad about reinstating my aol account. Which means I can get back to updating more than whenever I can get to the library. Woohoo! Wow, I just realized how empty my life is if getting my aol account reinstated makes my day.
Recently I realized that Craig, my ex-boyfriend, treated me pretty damm crappily. I did stuff for him constantly. I made fudge for him. I brought breakfast to school for him. I always paid for lunch. I went out of my way to get kickass presents for his birthday and valentines day, which included making my own chocolates and hand-dipped chocolate strawberries. Goddamit. I'm sitting here, intending to write a scathing entry about him, and all I end up doing is reminding myself of how much I miss him and the good times we had. You try explaining to perfect strangers why yoyu are crying while on the library's computer. Goddammit. Everything was so much easier when it was just me and a vibrator.
I had this dream, and because you are my captive audience, you are forced to hear it. So there!!! Hahahah! (Sort of. No, please don't go! I'm sorry! Please read my stupid meanderings!) It is extremely odd, like all my dreams, so I'm just going to put it down as I remeber. Yes, this really is how my dreams play out. Dream opens to a skinny, tall, red-headed guy in a dreary apartment wrapping up his arm with bandages and medical tape. Except his arm stops at his wrist. Blood seeps through the bandage and the red-headed man grits his teeth and tries not to look at what he is doing. His apartment is really just a studio, and a crappy one at that. Feeble and dirty sunlight stumbles through the studio lighting the unfortunate scene. Everything is a nondescript mildewing brown, and the stench of rotting wood and food permeates the air. It hasn't been cleaned in a very long time. There is only a few articles of furniture, and they are all old and worthless. Ripped pictures are on the wall of the redheaded man and a pretty girl, although it is hard to tell where they were taken or when, as the are angrily ripped down the middle. Close scene. Open next scene in hospital, albeit a cheap one, with flickering light and not enough funding. Doctor is rewrapping redheaded man's arm and asking his how it happened. "I passed out on the train tracks, and the train ran over my hand," he answers, looking down. Scene closes. Scene opens back in his studio, night again. Dingy light comes from an undisclosed source, only half lighting his studio.He lies there, staring off at the wall, at a picture of him and the girl. He clutches his injured arm close to him and rocks slightly, making little moans of pain occasionally. He doesn't have enough money for the pain killers the doctor perscribed. Suddenly he doubles over and screams in intense agony. Whimpering, he curls up on his dirty bed, clutching close the picture of the girl, and falls asleep. Scene closes. Reopens in the morning to man moaning in bed, in too much pain to get up. He slowly unwraps his arm. The bandages drop to the floor with astonishment. From the base of his nonexsistent wrist, a small bulge has formed, with little red hairs the same color as his own. Scene closes. Scene reopens in hosiptal room again. Same doctor walks into the room carrying a case of x-rays. His face is as white as his coat, and he does not speak. He walks over to the viewing light, wear the red-headed man is waiting in anticipation. The arm is unwrapped, and the bulge more noticiable, with the hair thicker. The doctor lifts one of the x-rays and places it on the veiwing rack, rambling incoherently, scrambling for the light switch to illuminate the x-ray. The light flickers on. The x-ray is on his arm. From elbow up it is normal, until it reaches to about 3 inches below where the wrist should be. Nestled inside his arm is a tiny skull. Doctor is apparently drunk now, with brandy flas in sight. Redheaded man starts hyperventialating, grasping the edge of the tawdry hospital bed with his one normal arms. He stumbles out, leaving the babbling doctor in the room, grabbing a stack of painkillers on his way out. Scene closes. Reopens to studio. Light is flickering now, night. He is lying on his bed, moaning in great pain, popping pills irregularly. Outside, the feeble sun rises and sets, and rises and sets, to show passage of many days. Slowly the head from his wrist emerges. It looks exactly like him, only psychotic, with a constant leering grin, and little sharp teeth. The man is in constant pain as the head pushes his way out of his body. Then, one dreary and lonely night. It begins to whisper. Slightly at first, then more. Then louder. Telling him that he didn't deserve to live. Forcing the man to preparing raw meat for the head to eat, so there were constant bloodstains around his mouth. The head laughed at the pictures on the walls, mocking the man. Then, one night, it came to a crescendo. The head began to scream at him. The man screamed back.The head demanded to be let out, to be free, or else he would tell everyone what really happened to his hand, and he knew it wasn't a train, oh no, no a train. The man began to weep, and tore down the pictures. "I can't remeber!!!" He screamed. "I can't fucking remeber what happened that night, I swear!" The head just laughed, and begun to tell a story. He told a story about a young man, who was very much in love with a very pretty girl. However, she didn't love him back. The man became obbsessive, stalking the girl, following her everywhere. She became frieghtened. She got a restraining order. He stayed away, until one night, when she went on a date, and didn't come home until late. He was waiting for her, demanding to know who the guy was, what did she do with him? He became unstable, screaming at her, gesturing with a knife. She tried to force him out. He turns on her, jabs half-heartedly with the knife. He didn't really want to hurt her, only get her to listen, to love him. Doesn`t she know how much he cares? She turned around and grabbbed a butcher knnife behind her, and brought it forcefuly down on his hand. Severing it completely. He went insane, and started pushing her, spraying his blood on her. She screams and turns to run. And slips on his blood. Falls out the picture window. Down, down, down, the many stories. He listened ot her scream as she fell, then the silence after she hits with thudding finality. The he walked home. The head ends the story with a cackling, unending laugh. Scene, and dream, ends with man sobbing on his bed with head cackling.
Yes, I know. I'm psycho.
Quote for the Entry: "Yeah, you can go." -My mom, when I asked her about going out tonight. The sweetest thing I have heard in along while.
all time - is relative