Cos we live in a time When meaning falls in splinters from our lives…

Happy Thanksgiving.

I'm not dead yet.

Neither is Mother Liz, my stepmother's mother…so I guess she is my step-grandmother. And she is not dead, but it's coming.

I am, morally, against the withholding of food and water as a means to hasten death. While I fully support voluntary suicide and euthanasia — including voluntary terminal dehydration (VTD), if that's what blows your skirt up — I strongly believe that a systematic withholding cannot be tolerated because of the potential for a slippery slope-type justification for the denial of fundamental Human rights.

And, coincidentally enough, I believe access to food and water is a fundamental Human right. I would be happy to help out if someone needs to park a bullet in their brain, but I want them to have a nice lunch first. That's how I roll.

So this was my 2014 Thanksgiving, because my family raises the bar on dysfunction every single year: while Mother Liz is VTD'ing it, and went non-responsive a little over a day ago, we did Thanksgiving.

It's demented and sick, sure.

My offers to help out were dismissed, largely because, I think, my relatives are a pack of pussies. Or they enjoy misery, both their own and others'. Who knows? I *do* know that I would never let someone I loved go through that; if she wants out, fucking help her out. Damn.

Why is everyone so damned weird?

Wow. I just hung up with my father, and AGAIN I offered help, and again he got all defensive, saying that his wife is doing a fine job of taking care of her mother. Fuck this shit. I told him that he has my phone number and morphine, and I have the Vistaril and glucophage, so quit being stupid. He said he'd phone if help turning her was needed again. Whatever.

Yeah, my morality says I have to hear it from my stepmother. I can't just go all vigilante, even if it's clear that *someone* needs to. Fuck, this makes me angry. And sad. Angry and sad. I really liked Mother Liz; I kind of loved her, really. She reminded me of Mom a lot.

I'm going to pretend this shit isn't happening and watch movies. I'm home now. And I moved. More about that later.

Hugs and love.




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Le tiers livre des faicts et dicts héroïques du bon Ancodie.

Ok; things are changing, I think for the better. I hope. Soon, I can possibly afford to have a sense of humour again. And maybe a life.

This is good. And so is Cookie; she is the best pill-taker there ever was. She approaches cathood as if it were a job, and I have never seen an employee so eager to get promoted (to what, Cookie? Head cat???).

Ok; I am going to either watch Columbo or find god-awful movies on You Tube from the '70s and '80s. Or play Infinite Poker on #121. Or I might watch Maude. I missed Logo's Maude Festival because I was in my cups for Mother's Day.

Oblivion, ho!



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I wasn't Cleopatra.

I clearly have been a raging bastard to someone in a former life.

Right now is proof positive that when I need rescuing, no-one is there. Mary is right; I should never worry myself with another's problems ever again.

Sigh.



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Swim big fish.

I am trying to move. This sucks, as well as the suck part of trying to sustain an increased level of output just to find out that some petty person can interfere so with their stupidity.

I am not giving up, I just came very close today.





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Potentially Useless Post

Here's to hoping that tomorrow works out for me. ::clink glasses::




- Posted using an app that I drew on an Etch-a-Sketch modified to run Free BSD.

Random thoughts

When my eldest aunt, my mother's sister, died, I suppose that I was not prepared.

Christ, I still haven't dealt with Weebie's death.

I have been operating for so long in what Mary calls 'survival mode' that, basically, I am fresh out of deal and cope.

Butsoanyway.

My aunt's children, and *their* children, are despicable, mostly. I cannot stomach listing off everything that had happened, so there is no purpose in naming them; their names would be reminiscent of Thirteen Ghosts, anyway.

They did NOTHING to help her. NOTHING to try to save her. They had her home cleared out before she was cold in her grave, and I am not joking — my mother's youngest sister kept them from clearing out the house before the funeral, but guess what happened that afternoon/evening? Yes; even her prescription medicine was taken (by a particularly worthless cousin-in-law). Thinking about it makes me rage. Wondering how Mummers could have had, in comparison, such decent children leaves my head spinning. I did not need to find out that one of my cousins is moonlighting as a drunk; I did not need to find out that one particularly wicked wench to whom I have the misfortune of being related tried to turn the entire funeral into an audience. I just …

I don't need this shite in my life. Nothing and no-one can fix this. Ever.

There are days, like today, when I have an unusual peace. Yesterday evening, I went to see Victor at my new massage place (I have had to change a few haunts to ensure that I avoid the demented stalker), and there was something so perfect about the atmosphere that I felt peaceful, and it has lasted through today. I mostly credit listening to Klaus Nomi's Valentine's Day as I drove through the sunset.

I have an application to get off, and I will finish that today, but in the meantime I am writing (here), cleaning a little, laundrymaking, and distracting myself from anything too serious by cataloguing the e/s I desperately need from Ingsoc…err…Inglot.

Fuck that; I am still going to call the brand Ingsoc.

…and wishing I were at the Quite Overcast beach today. When this is over — and it will be soon — I am going to treat myself, not that sheer peace shouldn't be treat enough. I need a break. I have needed one for a long, long time.

And I swear this Holiday Season will be nothing short of completely magical.



- Posted using an app that I drew on an Etch-a-Sketch modified to run Free BSD.

My desktop wallpaper.

- Posted using an app that I drew on an Etch-a-Sketch modified to run Free BSD.

aventures dans le divorce

Je me souviens de quitter le palais de justice avec le nouvel avocat de ma mère. Il a roulé avec nous, et m'a appris à jurer en français tandis que ma mère était au volant. Nous nous sommes arrêtés dans un magasin de vins et spiritueux où l'avocat a acheté deux bouteilles avec de l'argent à ma mère lui avait donné. Une bouteille a été mis de côté dans sa serviette. Plus tard, au collège, on me dit plus d'une fois que mon accent était Québécois mauvais, mais à l'époque ... eh bien, après quelques verres, je suppose que tout le monde semble bon. Nous avons parlé en français pour le reste du voyage à son bureau. Il n'avait de voiture.

Ce que je viens de me rappeler après avoir commencé à regarder Lethal mais belle et de voir comment le médecin a secouer. Bien sûr, à l'époque je comprenais pas. Ma mère comprenait pas non plus.


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And come what may, gonna dance the day away...

I think I am taking another week from Mary; I am apparently not ready for anyone's humour but my own. I have to recover in my own time.

The hardest part about selling oneself is the fear; fear of change, fear of failure, just plain fear. I am pushing through anyway.

No, there is no one to be proud, but that's Life.




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Jocamo fi na ye (the black cat returns!)

I am running out of song lyrics; I am down to translating. XD

I skipped with Mary this week, for a number of reasons: First, I am tired of being so bloody self-obsessed. The amount of time I have spent in contemplation of All That is Ancodia in the past few months exceeds the amount of time spent in the same way for, oh, MY ENTIRE LIFE, by a magnitude of exactly eleventy-billion and six.

I am officially quite over myself, thank you very much.

Second, I am as uncomfortable with her talk of 'healthy sexuality' and my need to partner up as I am with my father's occasional talk omitting 'healthy sexuality' and focussing on my need to partner up. I feel no such need. I have felt, known really, that no such beast exists for many years now. The number of people who want to walk through an abandoned amusement park -- taking pictures, talking about robots and zombie apocalypses, discussing serial and spree killers and arguing over whether Phil Hartman (z"l) was channelling a dollop of Jack Cassidy (z"l), or if the persona was just a zeitgeist-like coincidence -- numbers exactly one:

Me.

Third ... I'm bored. I went to buy makeup. I got Too Faced's lip plumping krappe even though my lips need plumping like Joan Rivers needs another face lift, but, alas, the shite doesn't work. Or my lips are as fat as they are going to get, period. I may try Lip Fusion, but back to my story. I also got TF's smexy powder and kabuki brush, so I shan't be shiny any longer, thanks for caring. While I was at Whatzit, I saw a new brand that is called something like Ingsoc (no, seriously), and it is cheap and the shadows are something like 78% pigment for $7.50, so you know I'll be back this weekend, and I'll drag Meg. They had some stupendous orange and yellow hues, and orange and yellow are the new 'fuck you, I want to put this on my eyelids'. Everybody knows that.

Ok, well, you know it *now*.

I have basically spent the whole week in hiding, but that's ok, 'cos my sertraline got all upped and junk. I don't think it is working. ::taps foot::

Turkey really did a smashing job on my hair. I could cry. I have exactly what I've wanted, a layered hime-style cut with the kind of payos action on the sides. So then I went to buy more makeup, and ended up having the salesgirl try to convince me that Jesus is king and blah. Oh, the hell I go through for being honest. Saying I am not religious does *not* mean I want you to convince me that yours is 'right'. Ever notice that no-one comes up to you and says, 'hey, doll! I'm in the shittiest, stupidest religion of all time, and I'd like to share it with you!'...no? Umm, that would be because everyone thinks *they* are right. Just an observation.

Fourth, I can't think of a fourth reason. I have been on a marathon of Very Old Television practically all week, and I am going to go fall asleep watching a massive crush I have had since I was like, six or seven. No, not Batman. I'd tell you all about it, but someone would just think I am hideously demented.

But Batman was an awesome guess. That one I'll admit to.

Love you, mean it.

Oh! Fourthliest was that I do not want to discuss fucking VD. That's right, Valentine's Day. The end of the Holiday Season, and the worst holiday ever. I have never had a nice one. People suck. I plan to be alone. I did buy Borghese gloves and booties for Meg in case whatever closet fucktard she is dating doesn't give her something. Nobody puts Meg in a corner, and all that schmaltz.

Okay...back to pickling my brain.





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You walk around this town with your head all up in the sky

There are a lot of things that I want. One of them isn't insomnia, but there's not much I can do about that; I am only human.

I do not like the general consensus thing. I don't want to be a part of it. I don't know how much I am getting out of therapy any longer.

Things I've Learnt: I need better boundaries. I need to trust my gut instincts more. I need to be less afraid. I need to make up for not really having a childhood. I need to not feel as if I am responsible for everything, all the time. I have to talk myself up and sell myself more.

Things I Disagree With: There is such a thing as a person who is truly evil. Things are easier when seen in black and white terms. Absolutes (always, never, all, none) are ok. My mother is deserving of condemnation. I exhibit sociopathic traits, but am not a sociopath (don't know if she was joking with this one). I should be benevolent to people who are malevolent towards me (yet this is somehow not ass-kissing, and not at odds with there being evil people undeserving of help). I can't do this alone.

I think I am done. I am debating.

In Other News, I finally fixed my hair; my new stylist is Meg's stylist, and he is awesome (or, as a snowflake unfortunately wrote to me, 'osum'). Meg warmed me that he doesn't talk much, and you know me -- that just won't do. I guess Meg never has *tried* to talk with him; he told me he doesn't talk because his English is bad (he is Turkish). I told him that the general consensus is that my English is hideous. We like each other. Meg is jealous.

I am talking myself up and selling myself this week; that's the reason for the new 'do. I now have side fringe.

Well, Toorkee is Tony & Guy trained; I figure he knows. Meh; what do I know, other than it's funny to call him 'Toorkee'. I think he likes it.

My father's health is declining. He will not do anything about it. More on this later.

Right now, I have to attack this insomnia with a vorpal Benedryl. LYMI.






- Posted using Speak-n-Blog from my Fisher-Price Chatter Pull Telephone

Don't look like much here, but we have everything.

'You know about the machines?'

'Yeah, I repair them.'

'There's one chasing me now, a gunslinger.'

'Gunslinger ... Must be a model 404. Maybe a 406. If he's a 406, he's got all the sensory equipment. It's a beautiful machine!'

'He's after me!'

'I don't doubt it.'

'What can I do?'

'There's nothing you can do; he'll get you. You haven't got a chance.'

'There must be something.'

'Fella, don't kid yourself. There are things you could try: Acid for his visual system; noise for his hearing. No matter what, he'll always be one jump ahead of you! You haven't got a chance!'

'Yes, I do.'




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Sad But True

I watch Match Game to calm down. I am up to Match Game '76.

Mummers' oldest sister died; the funeral was Saturday before last. Perhaps I can discuss this without getting rabies in a few more days.

Mary is right, I cannot save the world; the world doesn't even *want* to be saved. I just need to do me.

I have to get back to Match Game; this Dealing With Reality thing is too much for me.




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