eyes on kjr

I don’t know why I keep pumping food into my body that makes me feel like crap. I tell myself that junk is more cost effective, but that’s just an excuse. It’s cheaper, yes, but I’m getting what I pay for.

My body isn’t nearly as strong as it could be. I have the potential to be tall, lean, muscular. But my willpower is just too damned weak. I don’t know why I dwell on the junk food. I don’t know why I have to have it, but it comforts me. I need it, but I don’t want it anymore.

I want to feel comfortable with myself, being in my own skin. I don’t want to worry anymore that every piece of me is jiggling with every movement I make. Will this be a time of change, or just another pep talk full of empty pacts with myself?

Time to fix me.

Sadly, yes, I believe I can.

Who the hell do you think you are, kid? Coming into this house, acting like you reign over the place, like you got swag, like all the bitches want to hold your hand at lunch time.

This is what happens when kids grow up too fast. They turn into assholes. Mega assholes, who conveniently live in my house and make it impossible for me to get away from them.

If your five year old walks like he has swagger, beat him upside the head until his brain re-formats and he remembers that he will never have swagger until he can pay a goddamned bill. When he pays a bill, he can act like he’s the hot shit. For now? He needs to be scribbling in a coloring book and eating the left-over cookie dough from the mixing bowl.

He also needs to learn to fucking a speak a coherent sentence if he expects ME to converse with him. Is that me being harsh? Maybe. Do I give a crap? Not anymore. He speaks too much slang and I am too far into my English/Literature degree to even begin to comprehend a quarter of what he thinks he’s saying.

Kid, you don’t sound cool. Your five year old slurr and these adult phrases make you sound drunk. Shut your face before I sew it closed.

I almost feel bad about wishing ill-will on a young child. I also almost don’t feel bad at all. I’m at that “in between” stage, I guess. I shouldn’t be a teacher. I shouldn’t be a babysitter either, so don’t ask me to watch this little asshole if you plan on him living to see his sixth birthday at the end of the month.

I need to live alone ASAP.

I wanted to send in to Post Secret all the things I really have to say to you, but I don’t think I can fit all of it onto just one post card. So I suppose my tumblr blog, the one journal you can’t find because you are not technologically literate, will have to suffice.

Since you’ve moved here, you’ve picked up ridiculous quirks and habits that piss me the fuck off. You are not white trash anymore, you are a lady, so fucking act like it.

Thanks for uprooting me from my friends and family and bringing me all the way to “the hood” of Portland. I love not being able to take a walk at night, listening to sirens race past my window all night, and wondering when someone is going to break into our house. This is just splendid.

Where the fuck did that accent come from?!

It’s cute that you try to act like you’re southern. Really, it is. Are you trying to impress him? Because he’s not here anymore, so knock it off. Obviously it didn’t work.

Also, I find it cute that you’re really getting into the “single mother” role. A bit of constructive criticism though: it’d be more believable if you were really on your own and not being supported by BOTH of your ex-husbands. By the way, I’ll buy groceries and pay for my share of the car insurance, but since you now have TWO men supporting you, I don’t believe it’s my responsibility to worry about paying the rent.

For the love of shit, STOP CALLING ME “BABY GIRL.” And stop calling everyone else “baby,” while you’re at it. It’s not authentic, it’s not real, it’s not you. Everytime you say it I want to ring your neck and make your breathing cease.

Please stop trying to tell me what my wedding will look like. Every image that you get from your “visions of the future” is absolutely stupid. It becomes clearer with every “vision” you speak about, that you really have no idea who I am. Awesome.

I’m really done talking about “what happened.” Every time you try to have a deep conversation with me about it, I can tell you are just trying to have one of those cliched chick-flick moments where everything comes together and we become best fucking friends for life. It’s not gonna happen.

I cannot trust you to be honest with me.

I don’t know who you are. Every story you’ve told, from your childhood to your life with Dad to being with Richard, has changed in little ways. But multiple little ways. So many little ways that I’m not sure they actually happened.

You didn’t raise me to respect you, you raised me to fear you. Though I do respect you, because you are my mother, and I could never let you actually read these things, it’s not because I admire you, or dream of being like you. I fear what you might think of me, what you might say about me, if I were to finally be myself around you, if I were to allow you into my little world.

Fuck it, Post Secret can get tons of cards from me.

…that aren’t really so altered at all, if I think about it long enough.

Sometimes our dreams crumble right before us. And sometimes that crumbling is just the dream taking a new form.

What the hell am I talking about? Today, I don’t even think I know. But I might be on to something. Or on something. We’ll see.

I’ve been out of school for the last two terms - Winter and Spring. By the day, I’ve felt my intelligence whither down to nothing. I can’t even tell what day it is anymore (Tuesday, right?). It’s like sand in an hourglass. Slowly, slowly, my mind deteriorates and I don’t quite know how to keep it from disappearing, and before I know it, all my thoughts will be a vast emptiness at the top of my glass head.

Awesome.

I wanted the big school University experience. I wanted brick buildings and echoing hallways and millions of steps to ancient buildings that smell like library books and coffee. I wanted quirky professors and auditoriums and maybe I’d join a few clubs? I wanted a lot of things. So far, I’ve experienced only a small fraction.

I suppose I should admit to being a bit of a perfectionist. Southern was not to my standards; it had lost the sheen that it boasted in the spring of 2009, and was just a pile of rubbish full of rubbish-speaking idiots, and all so far away from my friends. I was alone in a pile of bullshit.

I should have chosen Portland State in the beginning. Really. If I’m old enough to have just one regret, that’s it. I’ve been trying to get in, but everything I do goes wrong. I thought I was stuck, but now I see I’ve just been trying to push a door labeled “pull.”

Portland Community College isn’t the big school I had wanted to go to. But it’s something. And it has a dual enrollment. As soon as I finish my AA (not in english, they don’t have an english major…pffffffffft) I can get right into classes at PSU, and continue to be an English major. I’m already far enough along in my education that I might only need to take two terms at PCC. No high hopes there, though - definitely learned that lesson.

And what do I plan on doing with this english major? What is this big dream that I’m talking about? Where does it take me?

I’d like to write. I do write, but I’d like to make it my career at some point. Sooner rather than later, actually. Tomorrow would be ideal. If I could wake up tomorrow morning to a book deal, that’d be horrifically awesome.

I’ve been looking into the Montessori teaching method. I’m not making any big plans here, but if I find myself managing a classroom, it’ll be in a Montessori school. Totally worth the (ever-increasing) debt. But we’ll see.

You both have serious issues. You need a counselor to tell you that? Or does it not count since I have no experience being an adult? You won’t let me be an adult; just putting that out there. That’s beside the point.

I seriously wonder if you two can just have a good-natured, calm evening anymore.

Do you each crave drama so much that you have to seek it and put it front and center? Does watching tv with a beer bore you now? You need to make cryptic remarks through the first half of Pawn Stars, so that you don’t have to bother with the last half because you’ve blown up and made your own reality show?

The audience is annoyed at your lack of creativity. I guess you noticed, so you upped the ante by switching the channel to wrastlin’ shit. Thanks for treating us like intelligent people.

What’s really sick is that this might be the only way your slap and tickle sideshow gets anywhere. Fuckers.

This house isn’t just yours. Unfortunately, there are other people residing in these not-so-thin walls. Remember that the next time you call our father a good-for-nothing-loser, or when you refer to the ex wife as a cock-sucking-cunt. I don’t give a fuck if you’re drunk when you say it, the point is that you say it. So don’t, because it’s disrespectful (oh, you didn’t know that WE wanted respect too!?) to those who can’t not hear it.

Fuckers.

(EDIT: The next time you decide to brawl, don’t leave the garage door open. If I have to clean up another dying pet from the street, I’m leaving and not coming back. You can wash your own dishes.)

One of these days, I will be there.  This photo will be my reality, even for just a moment - however long a moment may be.  Hours, days, weeks?  I don’t know.

It’s crazy that I find myself feeling jealous of those I graduated high school with.  I thought those feelings had passed; that I had grown up and developed to the point where I didn’t much care anymore if they had yet another thing that I did not.  But oh, life is full of surprises.

I see their photos, documenting their adventures outside the boundaries of this country, and it drives me insane.  I want to go.  I want to take photos like a stupid tourist and cherish them as pieces of another world that I could keep all to myself.  I need to go. 

I want, I need, I want, I need.  You’ve heard me say such things until my face went blue.  Well now it’s green, and I’m full of resentment that shouldn’t be inside me in the first place.  This is stupid. 

So I’ve buried myself in The Bachman Books for now.  And in work.  I don’t get a lot of reading done at home, but I do manage to read on my downtime at work.  It keeps my mind off of my wanderlust.  They’re quite good.  I am still reading The Rage at the moment.  Yeah, Stephen King might be a hack with a set storyline formula, but if it works then it works.  The man cracks me up, and that’s all that matters for the most part.

I feel summertime calling me.  I’m restless, even though I’m not in school at the moment.  I think perhaps it’s just me being used to feeling restless at this time of year.  I really want to go to the beach.  I really want to go for a long drive.  I really want to stay up all night and sleep all day.  Do adults do that?  Is that allowed?

Out.

Did you miss it?

Or are you just scoring because you know it’ll drive your dad so insane he’ll give you whatever you want? An apartment? A car? Oh, you want him to kick me out so there’s room for you. Cool, I’ll start packing my things and leave you clean sheets on the bed.

You’re such an ass. One of these days…yeah.

“Don’t send me to the shelter, I’ll get hooked again, and it’ll be all your fault!”

So, I see you’ve turned 12 again. Cool. When your balls drop again, I’m sure you’ll be back - again - begging for help and forgiveness.

Joke’s on you! Resources are dried up, and you just fucked up your last shot. And it’s our fault, not yours. We should have held your hand and slapped at it when you were going to buy the Spice (really? you threw it all away for SPICE? dumbass). But we didn’t! And so WE’RE going to be sorry.

Your dad is awesome, to a fault. He’d do anything for all of his children, even those of us who aren’t biological. You better believe I’m going to be there, buzzing in his ear, when you call again. You can have your relationship; you’re his only son. But you can’t have his wallet. Not again.

Enjoy your scabs and your jailtime, kid. I will not be babysitting you again.

Since I just got promoted, I just thought you two should know - I take my coffee with a little milk, two sugars and a lot less of your bullshit.

Anonymous asked: Would tostadas be better?

Same mess, same flavor. So no.

Tacos. Tired of tacos.

I’m tired of grease-covered tortillas and your mess left on the stove.

I’m tired of the chicken that you constantly over-season with chicken flavoring. How much more chicken flavor do you need on your motherfucking chicken?!?!

I’m tired of the processed cheese shreds from the plastic bag. You know, it doesn’t even taste “festive”, it just tastes like plastic.

I’m tired of throwing away most of a cabbage. You chopped the whole thing up but only sprinkled some of it onto your dinner, leaving the rest to be “dealt” with because you think leftover cabbage doesn’t taste as good.

I really hate to say this, but I’m also sick of the goddamned salsa. How many containers are in the fridge right now, holding salsa? Did you really need to make a huge bowl of fresh salsa?

I’m tired of the huge amounts of leftovers -chicken, beans, ground beef- because no one can estimate how much everyone is going to eat. In that regard, I find that I am also quite tired of the leftovers that I will eventually be throwing out because no one likes reheating and I do not want to eat another fucking taco.

Am I complaining? Fuck yes I am. I’m tired of eating the same goddamned thing over and over.

“If you don’t like it, then make something else!”

Ohhhh but I do! I suggest things for dinner, I offer to cook things for dinner, but nooooo… It takes too long, or it’s not as fun, or you just feel like having salsa, and nothing else goes good with it.

I’m a real bitch, with a silver spoon in my mouth of course, when I opt to eat something else that might include raw veggies and *gasp!* PASTA?! Shiiiiiiiit son. I am a spoiled bitch, yes I am.

NO the tacos you made ARE NOT good enough for me. At least buy a block of cheese and grate it!

Go fuck yourself and your stupid tacos.