Just really pissed off

Okay, now I'm pissed. I ask for something, not in a greedy sense, at least I don't think so. Just a wish, a want, a fantasy that would be great if it came alive. And I'm not talking ponies and castles, but a simple night out, to an event that I want to go see.

And he says okay, that while he can't justify spending money on it, if we invite two people, then it makes more sense to him. Not that I don't deserve it, he says, mind you, but let's invite these two. And I say, okay, that'd be great, I like them, spending time with them, getting to know them more...

Then he asks other two people that I wouldn't really want there. I am selfish. I am immature. But now I'm pissed.

Granted, these people can't go, as it turns out. But he didn't ask me. And should he have? I don't know. What's the etiquette? Now that I agreed to these two people, should I assume that these other two people are fair game as well? I should note that they're all related. I get it, that makes things sticky, makes things more complicated. There's probably no real way to determine what's right or wrong, what a person should expect or not expect....but why am I so angry? Feeling like something was taken out of my hands. Something that I thought was already decided in lieu of what I had asked for.

So yeah, I'm probably asking too much. Too much of everything. Of anything. So is this when I need to speak up? I'll only frustrate him more, I know it. Not that I know it all, far from it. But history has shown that it would be bad news to tell him. So I have to sit. With this anger. This pissed-off-ness. And somehow cope in a healthy way with what just happened.

Get out of my head. Get out of it and breathe and be in the present.

Okay. Fine. I'll try.

Straying from the habit

It's been a long time since I've written. But maybe for some good reasons as I've been writing more on my graphic novel idea. It's good to feel inspired and motivated to work on something I feel good about, at least most of the time. Of course, other reasons I haven't posted my diatribes and ramblings is that I haven't been making use of this blog as a healthy coping skill. Yes, I do sound as if I'm writing straight out of a self-help book. But let's face it, some of those books get published for a reason and frankly, things have been a lot better since I've been shelling out money for some good therapy. A stint in a mental institution also probably helped. Those places don't just get built for kicks. And no, I'm not joking about anything I just wrote, it's the truth. I do spend a lot of time in therapy, and not by choice. And yes, I have been in what you might describe as a rehab situation. I guess all rehabilitation centers are places where you can heal and learn better ways to deal with the stresses of life. And especially better ways to deal with your own self. Meaning me, myself and I. And just in case anyone does actually stumble onto this blog and read this, there are wonderful beautiful strong people in those centers. Some of the bravest and sincere people I've ever met have been from there. I'm lucky to know them.

Anyhow, one of the reasons I'm writing is because I'm peeved from this past Halloween. Let's face it again, the idea of Halloween has always been fun. How can it not be? I have lots of good memories of Halloween from when I was a kid, parties that I've gone to while in school, and I met my soon-to-be husband around Halloween and his family goes ALL OUT. I normally hate writing in all caps, but this was the only way I could get across how intense their Halloweens are. First time I met his whole family was at a Halloween party they were having, with a band, catered food, outrageous costumes, the works. Then I got to participate in their homemade, but very professionally-designed, haunted mazes they would build at my brother-in-law's house. First time was fun, it was brand new, we're still in the throes of early relationship, I was just getting to know people, lots of laughter, kisses, tingling sensations....

Well, now let's fast-forward to several more years in marriage. The haunted maze is exhausting to build, a lot of frustration was surrounding it last year because some people weren't helping out, not enough people came by, no one advertised it. Not to mention some of the rude spoiled kids around. And then there's the piece about "what do the wives and significant others do while their boy-partners play spooky house?" Well, we either help out with the maze and deal with annoying kids, or we sit in the house around some food and talk soccer-mom talk ( I really apologize about this generalization but a large part of the conversation is about people's kids, the sports they play, their school, their competition, etc. And you know what? I don't have any kids.) Basically we wait. Wait until the night is over, kids stop coming by the trick-or treat, and people get tired, and for the slowing arrow to wind it's way around the clock to 10pm. I swear it takes longer that an hour to make a full circle on Halloween night.

So essentially, what I'm trying to say is that, it's really not fun. For me at least. In fact I've started to dread it the last few years. I wish that I'll get really sick and have to stay home. The whole experience is making me resentful and I know that's really unhealthy for my relationship with my husband, but I'm afraid to speak up because he gets defensive.

I know I need to use my voice, be assertive, and do all that strong self-care stuff. But it's not so easy. And it's really not easy when he complains about it, is exhausted from working so long and hard on it, on top of complaining how tired he is from his normal work, and I want to say, well, you have a choice not to do this haunted house thing so really it's no one's fault that you're tired so please don't be all cranky with me about it.

And it doesn't help that I'm already cranky about the whole thing.

I'm just glad it's over, at least until next year.

And I have one more thing to say. Please, don't tell me how to raise my dog. If I want advice, I'll ask for it. But I never asked for an advice, because I didn't want any. So please, don't tell me how to be with my little girl. What makes some people act like they know how things should be, when really, it's just their opinion?

Sorry, I'm bitter. And resentful and frustrated. I just want to be happy and relaxed. And he tells me that that's all he wants me to be. But then I'm asked to do things that make me unhappy and nervous. And I do them because I know that all relationships are about give and take. But then it gets thrown back in my face when I'm not relaxed about it. Would he rather I lie and pretend?

I'm just tired of tiptoeing. I know most of it's my own responsibility in creating these scenarios. But I'd like to think I'm doing some good work all the same.

Alone again

Do you ever feel alone? I'm sure I'm not the only one, the only one who is alone in feeling alone. We should all form a club of alone people and negate the existence of being alone.

But it's hard when the feeling is there. When you talk to someone and they respond in such a short manner. Short as in "angry" short. Short as in so brief and terse that you're left wondering why they were so short with you when you thought you were being so long, so open, so warm and inviting. Well, obviously not. Apparently I'm not being warm and inviting, neither long nor open. Apparently I was being short too, or mean, or annoying, or bothersome or cruel or something justifiably wrong that would explain the shortness that I received on the other end.

That must explain it.

Obviously I'm feeling alone. Sad. And for some reason I can't explain. It's that sadness when you feel you've done something wrong, made other people not like you. So your whole existence seems like it's sad and wrong so all you can feel is sad and wrong and you try and try so hard to figure out why it suddenly became all sad and wrong so you speculate and speculate and spin and spin around in your head so you're even crazier that you were before if that was even possible and now all you're left with is even more sadness and wrongness and an even deeper darker shade of blue. Of blue. Of a sad timid whispering blue.

Things really aren't so bad. I step outside myself. Tell myself to get out of my head, because that's what I'm supposed to do. When I start crazy-making in this great big noggin of mine, I've been told that it's just no longer safe. The best thing to do is step out of it. Focus on something else. Change my environment. Be aware of the present. Just anything that will stop that sucking deep down into the whirlwind of thought. Crazy thoughts. All jammed packed together in a tsunami of aloneness. Feeling alone.

And like I said, things aren't so bad. I actually got a good amount of decent writing done today. Writing towards the stuff I really want to do, you know. Words and rhymes and characters and times. All those things that I want to get down on page. And I read them out loud! Craziness enough for today all ready. Seriously.

I guess things will never be easy. Are they ever? It's all a state of mind, and if my mind is going to be as porous and concrete as it is, well, it's better to not expect anything at all.

But that can be dangerous too, can't it?

Quickly, now

I've forgotten so many things this morning. And not like the random, "where're my keys? have you seen my glasses?" kind of thing. But repeating stories to my husband, forgetting what belongs where, putting the leash on the dog only to discover that I didn't actually put the hook around the ring so she really didn't have the leash on her after all. Brain farts. Many more than normal for my anal-retentive nature. Even my husband seemed concerned, kept asking me if I was okay. I guess I am. I'm alive, breathing, moving, can't want for food, water, shelter or clothing. So of course I'm okay. On the mental front though, who knows. I've had my fair share of medication. More than what I'd prefer which would be never had any at all. But oh well.

This morning in bed I heard my husband get up and go into the next room. Then I heard him exclaim, "Oh Crap!" When he came back into the bedroom I asked him if everything was okay. He was like, yeah, why? "Because I heard you say 'oh crap.'" He said, "I never said anything."

Hmmm, was it the crazies or just dream-fog? Again, who knows. It wasn't as comforting an experience as the other night when I swear I heard people talking in the next room until my husband and I realized that our little doggie was just snoring in her crate. And you have to realize this is a rare occurrence, because she NEVER sleeps, if not for barely a minute. And then I'll move my arm and she'll wake up and look at me to find out what I'm doing. God, I love her. So that was a sweet hearing-misunderstanding. Not voices in my head like this morning.

I feel scattered. My husband told me to just take it slow today. You mean, not be my normal frenetic self? But that's who I am!

Okay, I'll try to slow down today. For the sake of everyone else around me at least.

Here I am now

In this land of opportunity, city of summer, and house of light. This is my home.

Then why do things make me so sad? Why does chance and existence become some sort of meshed-up mind ball, tangled, roped, and to the point of almost writhing in my socks, up my legs and disguising itself as one of the knots in my hair.

Maybe because I don't brush my hair. Well, occasionally I do, when I can't put it in a normal ponytail. When it's become a natty black marshmallow that I'm trying to condense into a liquid string. When it becomes embarrassing to be around me in public.

Sometimes I'm embarrassed to be around me in public.

I frustrate my self. Cravings, desires, wantings and not wantings. Wanting to be able to do everything and nothing all at the same time. Laziness and frenetic-ness all wrapped up like crazy. Crazy glue. How the hell do you get it off?

So I need to really start writing. Working on something, anything, just to keep moving forward. And what will it accomplish? A sense of pride? Maybe. But it will be a little something. Baby steps, as they say. It's hard to move forward. It's easier to stay behind. To complain and moan and gripe, to loll around in misery and stagnancy. Stagnancy stinks. Literally and figuratively. Sitting here stinks.

I want to write something but I don't know what. So I'm writing this. Sitting here, fuming in my stagnancy stink and trying to find the motivation to do. To move. Forward. Something. Anything. What, though. Words, letters, symbols. I yearn to study again. I yearn to talk, to communicate, to learn, to feel the forward motion of all the breaths around me that are heading in the same direction.

But when it's just me here, it's just me. Just my breath, my sighs, my uncertainty. I am alone. In my head. Unsure of where to go. What to say. So I say this. All this stuff that's typed onto this floating page in the system of binary 1's and 0's. The magic web.

I need to regurgitate and fill myself with a new food. An undiscovered food. Something I haven't tasted before. A new recipe. I will devise it, imagine it, create it. Bake it, broil it, stew it, toss it. Share it with the world. Hey! Look at this! Not only is it beautiful, but it tastes delicious too! Come and see! Please, come and have a taste.

I do this literally, the regurgitation. But not the sharing. I need to change it over to my real life. The one that is the real me. Not the hiding me, the pretending me, the mask that is not me. I need to make metaphors with my metaphors, so that I really do exist. So that my breath is the only thing I need to propel forward.

Noble Truths

My dog sleeps at my feet, curled around like a black and white coquina shell. What is it like to be her? What goes on in that little wee head of hers?

We say His Holiness the Dalai Lama this past weekend. He gave a teaching in Long Beach, the Four Noble Truths. Suffering and the cessation of suffering. The Facts of Life. Every sentient being suffers, and every sentient being wants to avoid suffering. All people, all animals, all insect. Like our little dog. She wants to much to be happy, I can tell. Wants to play, run, roll in the grass, eat everything in site. Wants to be around us, with us, held by us, talked to by us. Not much different than a lot of people. Like me. I just want to play and roll around and also eat everything in site. I want to be my own person, but I want to be liked and loved by other people as well.

It's hard seeing His Holiness. The first day I felt like shit. Not physically, but mentally. I walked out of the afternoon session feeling anger, frustration, and thinking my pissed-off thoughts at all the pissy people who constantly piss me off, and all this while I'm trying to learn to be self-less and compassionate in front of a great lama. Supposed to put myself in other people's shoes. Supposed to see everyone as my mother, my sister, my father, my son.

I wanted to give my next day tickets away because I figured someone else would make better use of them than I would.

I felt so angry, so annoyed, so ultimately irritated at everyone in my life. Not everyone. Just some people. How can I love someone when that person hurts me so much? His Holiness says that we must separate the action from the actor. The actor always deserves love and compassion, but it's okay to be angry at the action. But what if the actions are so painful? So painful that somebody like me can't see past it? Is it better to go or stay? Are these the things I'm supposed to be thinking?

And then the next day, I did feel a little bit better. A little more open, confident, clear-eyed towards the people around me. But then the irritation began to percolate. To bubble and boil until by the afternoon I was the embodiment of irritation. I was the definition of irritable.

I hate this food thing. I hate this need to eat and desire to eat, and wanting to not eat yet wanting to eat everything, and having the whole act of eating surpassing the power it really doesn't deserve because it's just food and eating and I'm lucky to have the food to eat, yet I hate it when others exhibit the same behaviors I do but they can get away with it because they just can and I have to eat to be healthy and isn't that a better thing? But somehow it pisses me off and I almost feel like I have no power and control and am forced to take care of myself while others don't, and doesn't that make for some sort of twisted sense? Shouldn't I be compassionate towards people like her who eat barely nothing at lunch and exclaim how good it was because she didn't have breakfast and she's thin as a rail but drinks a whole hell of a lot, and is beautiful, successful, and I'm me, the awkward insecure four-eyed asian girl who picks her face, has no true career, and has to eat everything on her plate because she's an overall pig, and spends her time obsessing and getting pissed about this when I should be grateful that I just came out of a wonderful opportunity to listen to one of the greatest lamas teach and all I can think about is how much food I ate and how fat I am and how jealous I feel towards her and angry at him and overall confused about what purpose I'm heading towards and what a waste of air I am and I am not satisfied by anything in life which is all my fault.

Sigh. and my dog just sighed too.

I'm going to go pet her now. And give her the love she deserves.

Overreacting?

Yes, I am frustrated. It's hard being a partner with your partner. And it's hard being human and having to harbor feelings of jealousy, inadequacy, insecurity, and having to justify it by throwing blame and constantly being defensive.

I'm not a bad writer. I wish I were a good writer. Maybe I am, I just personally don't believe it. I'm married to my writing partner, for our business that is. And he's a good writer, a very good writer. He may not know it at times, but other people who read his stuff knows he is, as do I.

I don't write stuff. Even though I want to. That's why I write on this blog. Because it gives me something to write, to vent, to explode. All about how I can't write.

Anyways. It's hard when someone says your writing is "almost there" or still "needs some work" or "well, it's still the first draft." I get this, I know that this is the writing process. But it feels different when we're writing for a client and I have done work that isn't asked to be rewritten because they like it on the first go ahead, unlike what's happened to previous mentioned partner (insert snarky look here), yet still there's the idea that my stuff is on the first go around and needs approval by him. This has never been stated. No one has said this at all. But it feels this way to me. Is it overreaction? Extreme defensiveness? Ultimate insecurity? Yes, I know, it's all of the above. But how do I get rid of this frustration without laying blame, accusing, thinking mean little evil thoughts about other people, and wanting to quit. I'd rather move on. But I can't, otherwise I wouldn't be ranting about this.

I am a good writer. I have to believe this, even if it isn't true. How else can I get myself to write if I think the words that come from my pen, pencil, and keyboard are loads of unreadable crap. So I have to fake it until I make it. But how can I do this without being defensive. With still maintaining my confidence, and not letting my security be bruised. Am I overreacting?

I just want to be good.

Rejoice and Regret

We're supposed to let go of grudges. But how do I do that if they stain?

I'm the worst at laundry. I only started separating colors when I got married, only because there were more clothes so it made logical sense when dividing piles. Delicates? That's just a state of mind. Handwash? My ass. I'd only discover a stain after I washed a shirt and by then it was too late. I mean, I'd still try to wear it, maybe it didn't look too bad, no one would notice. But then I'd look in the mirror and it was like I had been eating grease for lunch and it all dripped down my front. How could I get rid of it? Perish the thought of actually throwing the shirt away. Because god damnit I liked the shirt, liked the cut, how would I ever find another shirt just like it, that felt the same, fit the same, made me feel the way I did, and now there's a nasty locked-in stain and how do I let go?

Story of my life.

Listening to Pema Chodron, she says regret is not the same as guilt. I get it. But I have a hard time actually absorbing that into my brain so that it will actually function that way. I can't even remember the last time I regretted something. Guilt, on the other hand, when have I not felt guilty. Do I actually believe that it will be possible for me to regret all the food I ate but not feel guilty? It almost seems impossible. I don't know what it would feel like. I imagine it would be like a thought that's concrete, no ifs ands or buts. It would sit in my head, clear, concise, and straightforward. I would acknowledge it the way I'd acknowledge a stop sign when driving. I would pause. Be present, pay attention to my surrounds, exist in the moment, heed the circumstances, and then move on.

My god, how many times have I ran a stop sign or didn't even notice it at all?

I'm getting better at rejoicing in my past. Seeing where I've come from and who I am now. And I've gotten better at not regressing to the past or combing over it and imagining "what if" scenarios. I'm not so tied down to praying for a rewind and recording over it with new decisions, new events. I'm also getting better at not praying to hit the stop button and throwing the whole tape in the trash, since we're on the subject.

It's hard to forgive. I don't expect to forget, but the forgiving...ouch. That's hard.

I'm supposed to be working on Hulk right now. Supposed to be, what does that mean? I'm supposed to be doing a lot of things.

It's hard to think right now, about words that sound right, about words that will be read, judged, understood or misunderstood. They're just words, I know. Little letters, symbols, sounds from the tongue and throat. But oh god, they hurt sometimes. To say and hear.

Words. They're just words.

Distracting the Distractions

Here I am again. Stuck in a mind rut that isn't necessarily a mind hole, or brain bump, but rather the treadmill of laziness. I'm doing, things and stuff, googling and "research." Moving moving moving, but not getting anywhere. Basically because I don't feel like it. Don't feel like trying. I'm being lazy. I'm about to say that I am lazy, but then I'll convince myself that that's who I am so it's probably best not to do that. I'm good at convincing myself that I'm bad things. Worthless, boring, not-smart-enough, too shy, too loud, incapable, uptight, too soft. Might as well throw lazy in there, but then it might just be pushing the mean button too far. You think?

This is off topic. Not that there really was a topic. But I'm into bento-making. Granted, I haven't made a bento box, meal, lunch or dinner. But I like the idea of it. I'm ordering some bento bags from a certificate my sister gave me for my birthday. Yes, I'm 32, I'm glad you asked. Anyways. One has a little pig on it, and the other one has a monkey on it. Yes, that's right, I'm 32. I like pigs and monkeys and cute little bags that just may sound like they should be for a grade-school kid. What can I say. I already said it.

There's something about the creation of food as a visual that also complements the palate. I like that kind of synchronization. I used to think of it in the same way as I thought of film-making. Blending writing and photography together to create an entire new piece of art. 'Course, now that I've studied film production, it's a whole lot more than that, I realize. But drained down to the essence, it's a melding of the visual and the aural. Just like bento-making is a mixture of visual, smell and taste pleasures. Never thought that film-making and bento-making were so similar, huh? Yeah, that's what happens when I waste the time I have on my hands. Create similarities for unsimilars. And look, I also made a new word!

I should stop this and get to work now. Shouldn't I?

What?

So what exactly am I looking for? I hate the internet and love it. It's sucks my attention like a drain that's been cleared of muck and wants to clog its pipes again with my brain cells.

I always have an agenda to start off with, the standard email and hey, what's going on with that person's blog, and oh, I wanted to look up a recipe for Vietnamese sandwiches.

But then I'm reading about the best and worst pizzas in the nation, not based on flavor, but caloric and sodium content. Obviously, the more of each, the worst the pizza. Anyways, exactly! Off on tangents and information which truly isn't necessary for my already wee-sized brain space. Then I'm googling stuff about dogs, I love our dog, but it can border on an obsession for information. And hey, what about that Doghouse wine we had this summer. Well now I know the places to buy it because I went to their website, watched the cute little flash video and searched for stores nearby me that sell it. Informative, but essentially useless.

I guess that's a judgement, but time ticks and tocks away again. Not really, but in my head mentally, and another sunset lays down on our tiny condo neighborhood and what exactly have I accomplished and learned?

-I had no new emails except for a coupon for Borders.

-Everyone else on their blogs seem to be having a very exciting life, they must be or why else would I read about what they had for lunch and how long they exercised at the gym for?

-I already had a recipe for Vietnamese sandwiches, I just felt like one wasn't enough, but now I know that one is.

-Other people are obsessed about their dogs as much as me, they even refer to them as their children.

-The next time I'm driving on Alicia, I can look for a liquor store that sells Doghouse wine, because that's what I need in my life, more alcohol.

Phew, thank god for the Internet. Otherwise I'd be doing something else with my time, like paying attention to the physical world I'm in, reading a book, or God forbid, communicate with someone using my own voice.

Oh well, see you on the internet again tomorrow.

Today My Eyes are Burning, but I Think I'm Okay

I think it's that it's been so hot lately and the sun so electrifying that my eyes start to burn in their socks. It's a dry achy burn that I can only guess is from all the blinding reflection from pavement, buildings, and just everything in general.

I'm okay though, today was busy, but not busy. I feel as if things got done but I'm not sure what because I still have that sense of un-accomplishment in my bones. But it's also almost 6pm which means that nothing would get done even if I tried. Which means that I obviously wouldn't be trying very hard. Which means I didn't really want to try. So in all honesty, I've decided to let go of today and live in the evening and try to just be, with my husband lying on the couch and our dog who's beating herself up with her toys. It's a game for her. She's quite spastic.

I want to work on appreciating these moments. Hot sterile heat. A quiet shallow calm. Just resting on the surface. No one wants to move too much. It's easier and less taxing to be prone, but don't let let your legs touch your own leg. It's a sweat gatherer and it's much more relaxing to be dry.

I have nothing much to say but that. I want to read, but my eyes hurt so much. But that I'll try. Obviously I want to read.

So Mired

I'm am so stuck in my head right now, as if my thoughts were branches just completely drenched in the muck that swims in my skull. And you can't pull them out. You wouldn't even want to because they're old and decaying branches and even if you did try to get one out, only part of it would tear off and it would be a soggy piece of bark that looked and smelled like shit.

I don't know what to do with myself. I don't know what to do with my thoughts, my stuckness, my rippingly tense frustrations at me, myself and i and everything else that I want to blame on my un-motivation. My can't think. My too much thoughts. My nothingness and my everythingness that doesn't have an in between. Not yet at least.

I hope.

So I write this. This mired musing which is basically a self-pitying rant at a nothing that appears productive but isn't because I'm just thinking about how sucky this is and the little digits on my computer time clock are slowly increasing at the minute space.

Time going away. Or time coming, same thing. But right now, in the present, I'm not sure what this is all about.

Ah. purge. At least that's something.

My Precious Human Life

I forget how lucky I am to be human. No, I'm being serious. I r
eally forget how rare an opportunity it is to be a capable human being, not capable of everything of course, but capable to walk, talk, run, cook, eat, watch movies, laugh, cry, swim, drink, listen to music... well, to just exist as a human. A lot times I don't want to be a human, a lot of times I think how easy it would be to not exist. So I didn't have to walk the walk, talk the talk, run around, worry about what I eat, watch boringness, and cry. To have to feel so much. I don't mind feeling happiness or joy, but those are rarities too. It's the pain and anger and frustration and beaten down expectations, my own humiliations, embarrassments, guilt, it's all so overwhelming and claustrophobic and suffocating that sometimes I do wish it would stop me from breathing and I can forget all the crap that I worry about doing and not doing.

And then. Occasionally I remember how lucky I am. That I'm lucky all the time. Lucky even when I'm drowning in my own sad blue moods, and whimpering about my own aching pain. Lucky to be able to feel and rise out of it. Lucky to be able to know how special it is to feel joy and warmth because to feel the opposite is so excruciating. Lucky to be grateful for those small moments of joy and try to nurture them. Nurture me in the process.

Yeah, I don't always feel lucky to be human. But in truth, I am always lucky, whether I acknowledge it or not.

Trying to Write Real

So today I’m trying to write. Write for real, that is, which means my words have to have some sort of productivity. A goal at the end of each period. A purpose. A purpose that entails all sorts of spiritual growth, personal discovery, development of compassion, and yeah, it would be great if there were dollar signs somewhere amid all the wonderful self-awareness.

I tried blogging before but it became time-consuming. Mostly because it wasn’t me who was blogging, but Pink Monkey who was writing all the words.

www.pinksockmonkey.wordpress.com

It was hard to be me and her, and not her, and not me, yet still remain coherent amid all the blathering. Pink Monkey is still around, but she’s letting me be me for a while. So at least I can figure out who me is before I become someone else. Or something else, like a monkey. Who’s pink. And made of socks.

Anyways. This is the real me. At least the me not trying to pretend, at least consciously.

What I’m trying to write isn’t actually this blog, but other things that I’ve been wanting to do. A novel, an autobiographical graphic novel, a young adult book based on an idea that was originally for a screenplay. It all sounds very complicated but it isn’t because none of it has been done yet. None of it exists so it’s all actually rather simple.

I need to get the demons out of my head and I’m learning that there’s only so many of them I can purge at my therapist before I run out of money, and only so much I can purge at my husband before we’re sleeping in two separate rooms at night.

I could purge my demons out at our new dog, but as smart as she is, I don’t think she understands. I don’t really want to speak for her, because since we’re still trying to get her to not pee in the condo, I figure she’s not one to focus on the things that I care about. It’s okay though, I still love her like crazy.

Journaling should be easy, but I’ve discovered that as the time gap widens between now and the last time I was in school, handwriting on paper for more than a page is quite exhausting and straining on my hand. Sad but true. This is also a painful reminder of the deterioration of my piano-playing skills.

Anyways. So I’ve decided I’m going to try typing out my thoughts, purging the demons onto my computer and sending them out to the vast world that is the web. I mean the Web, capital W. I could keep them on my computer, because naturally you would think that journaling is private and publishing it online leaves it bare and exposed to all of the humanity who has access to Wifi. But when you think about it, leaving it on my computer is actually more personal, more of a presence of my troubles. My demons will be living and thriving on my sleek MacPro so how will I ever be able to escape them every time I look at the freaking computer screen!

Purging it into the Web makes sense. I’ll free my demons so they get lost in all the online chatter. Gone, whoosh, out into all the 1s and 0s and HTML brackets. And besides, who’s going to read this anyways?