Tuesday, May 28

Making House. Edition 1

I've been having a so-so week. Two weeks.
Okay, month.

I've been working full time (almost)-- but haven't seen the money from it yet-- I've been sick three-- no, four!-- times, and I'm more broke than I have been in years, really. Even my credit cards are maxed right now, and I promised myself that would never happen.
But it's been my fault.

The money part anyway. When I'm stressed I don't want to cook so I buy food, when I'm depressed I don't want to mope so I shop. Not a good mixture this month.

I live in a nice apartment. In a nice complex. That should be nice.
But, of course, it's not. I'm too busy, stressed, or depressed to keep it clean, decorate it, out just generally make it nice.
I come home, I plop down on the couch or bed, I eat, and I leave my messes everywhere.
 Recently I've been shaking off the excess stress and melancholy that came along with working a job I didn't like for not nearly enough money or sleep, and wanted to fix this problem. Knowing the term is almost over gives me just enough of a boost to get one or two productive things done per day.

Recently, in a spurt of desperation I went to the store and maxed out my credit card (i know, bad idea) on affordable carpets, bed risers, under bed bins, new sheets, and some decor.   ((to be fair, I only spent about $50 and i got all that stuff!))

I got to work making my bed taller, storing unneeded items underneath (and clothes, actually), and pretty-ing up my bedroom.

Oddly enough, the finale didn't come until I used things I already had.
I tacked up some muslin for a makeshift headboard, then dug through my holiday boxes for some makeshift fairy lights. Add in a few old candles I don't use enough, and voila.

The result?
A bedroom I actually am proud to be in, and happy to sleep in.

Sunday, May 26

Beautiful Violin

This is my new workout music.
I need to learn some pretty form of martial arts/dance to go with it...

Friday, May 24

Any love that is love...

So often we worry too much about who our children and friends and families are loving, when we should be worrying about how they're loving.

Is their love deep?
Is their love safe?
Is their love happy?

We forget that these are the important things, even for ourselves.
Who doesn't matter quite as much as how

If their lover returns their affection as deeply, treats them safely, and makes them happy, then why why why does anything else in the world-- their class, their skin color, their race, their sex-- why does anything else matter?

If your lover loves you deeply, treats you safely, and makes you happy, then why be afraid? Why be angry? Why let the little things get in the way?

Sunday, May 19

Guess what !

I'm sick again.
I'm pretty sure that s the sixth or seventh time since the new year.
For starters, I will never be a teacher again. Ever.
Having said that, however, the good news is that while I'm in bed recouping tomorrow instead of working and making it worse, I may have enough brain power left to get some posts done.
Here's done topics that should be coming soon;
Luxurious life 1 &2
Music videos I adore (again)
See you soon!

Friday, May 3

Can't Explain It

I can't explain to him the empty rage like spiders crawling under my skin, whirlwind flames spinning through my brain and cutting off any sane, logical thought process. I can't explain to him the blind fury, desperate and alone but determined and proud. Don't want Don't need I'm fine.
Fingers clench, aching to reach out, to find a strength of will and understanding that isn't there to grasp.
I can't explain to him the knots in my chest, tight and choking, rising up my throat; a scream begging to happen. No reason No purpose I'm fine.
I can't explain to him why I hate him sometimes. That it isn't really him, it's me. The little things he does and forgets bug me, but the extent to which my body reacts makes me furious, my brain lashing out at itself, and him, because he's near.
I can't explain the urge to scream, scratch my eyes out, cry, or pull my hair from my scalp

Oh, it's real enough in my head.
Like a banshee tearing through me.
But the logical part of me knows it's insignificant. That something inside me is taking this miniscule thing, whatever it is, and inflating it, taunting it, urging it on and making it grow into monstrous proportions, throwing my hormones into an emotional frenzy where nothing in the world is GOOD ENOUGH.
and I can't
explain it
to him.

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