 |
November 29, 2003
Packing is like digging a hole in soft sand.
My shit just keeps filling in on itself.
I have 14 hours to get my house in moving order. Plus sleep.
In the meantime, I am suffering from a severe allergy attack that my medicine is not helping, which of course brings on the asthma and now if I do any work for more than 10 minutes I get the wind "knocked" out of me and fall down gasping. While I'm flopping around trying to calm myself down to take small breaths so I can get my air back, the stuff unpacks itself and puts itself in weird places that I never thought to clean. Underneath the kitchen sink. In the back of the top of the closet in the room that we never use. In rooms I have already cleaned.
The tenses are all wrong in that paragraph but I'm trying to concentrate on something other than the fact I can't breathe and it hurts and I coughed so much because I couldn't breathe so I pee'd. What? I'm not modest.
14 hours and nothing has been vacuumed, bathtub hasn't been cleaned, there's still canned food in the cupboards, I overpacked my 421093482502730498234 books and the boxes are so heavy I have to slide them across the floor by pushing them with my legs and scooting along on my butt and I can't lift anything more than 10 pounds or I begin the fall-down-wheeze-cough-can't-breathe-panic-panic-gasp-cough-cough-pee dance all over again.
Remind me to never ever move ever again.
posted at 10:52 PM
--
November 27, 2003
As of midnight Sunday night/Monday morning this site will no longer exist.
Please change all appropriate links to the following page:
http://home.comcast.net/~imacolatazombie
Due to the inadequacy of Comcast, I am unable to transfer the imacolata name to my new account.
Bugger.
Also, please take note: the new email address will be imacolatazombie at comcast dot net
In the meantime, I'll be packing cos I have to be out of here by Sunday night...and there's still so much left to do :(
PS: I love spell check. It asked me to change imacolatazombie to inoculation.
Perhaps I should.
posted at 9:23 PM
--
November 22, 2003
I'm sorry if you've commented and I haven't responded. My comments are wonky. Thanks.
posted at 8:44 PM
--
November 21, 2003
And another goddamned thing.
I've written, in my lifetime, a total of like 4 *Big air quotes* famous bloggers *big air quotes some more*.
You know, only two of those people have written me back.
One, is my favorite person in the whole wide world, Em because she's just an incredibly wonderful person. The other is monique who is really very, very nice.
The other two are fuckholes. I wrote them nice notes telling them that I respected what they had to say, some other bullshit stuff, one about the guy being a good dad and stuff, the other about how I admire his writing and can identify with him so well because I too am confused about my heritage -- (where do I belong, I don't fit in with the whiteys or the asians...even though I look white, I am asian, too. it's really a confusing thing when you're mixed, honestly.)
Neither of those people wrote me back. I wrote them very nice things complimenting them and all sorts of other fucking ass shit bullshit and they didn't even have the decency to write back to even say "don't write me again you crazy idiot. you suck and I hate you and you're fat too! HAHAH!"
I wouldn't be mad at them. i wouldn't hate them. I would say "hey, that's awesome. they wrote back. good for them. they're honest. "
but I'm mad at them.
Fuck those people who are so full of themselves they can't even take two seconds to say "thanks for writing. -sincerely, me"
TWO MOTHER GOD DAMN FUCKING SON OF A BITCHING SECONDS.
You're not GOD. You're not EVEN A REAL GOD DAMNED CELEBRITY. You're writing your life on the motherfucking internet. It doesn't make you any better than me!! I am the same as you, assholes! (except, I swear ten times more than most people)
FUCK YOU!
You know, when it comes down to it, I don't really give a care, I don't. I just get riled up. Now I'm fine.
Those guys are still jerks, though.
posted at 11:06 PM
--
It's like I'm full of rage and hate. Instead of piss and vinegar.
I'm afraid that one day I'm going to turn into this giant Kaneda-ulceric-tumor that throbs and screams hatred across the land. I'll have one mighty arm/tentacle that will slash and stab on command.
Actually, if I'm going to be turning into any sort of Japanese movie character, I'd like to turn into Tetsuo the Iron man. I want to turn into a machine of rage and hatred that throws machine parts and injects people with machine things and becomes a whirlwind of machine hate.
I'm so angry that I honestly don't know what to do about it.
I'm angry about every little goddamned thing.
I'm angry that my computer at work takes 5 minutes and 13 seconds to reboot.
I'm angry that I am moving next weekend and it doesn't look like I have done any packing at all.
I'm angry that I am who I am.
I hate and I hate and I hate the fact that I hate.
and to all of you who say "don't be angry, just do something about it" you're going to be the first motherfuckers to die.
In some, not so hostile news, my ten year class reunion is also next weekend. I am not going. I do not want to go. I would be full of ten times more rage if I decided to go. Small talk with those fucking people. ...sidetracked...anyway.
I decided what to put for my paragraph that is appearing in the "memory book" that is going to be handed to everyone who attends.
What have you been up to for the last 10 years? it asks...
"I am a business woman. I invented the post it."
Thank you, goodnight. I'll be here all week. Try the fish.
EDIT: I like the fact that during spell check it asks me if I would like to replace "motherfuckers" with "motorbikes" or Goodnight with "Codington".
It's the small things that give me pleasure. Fleeting but fun.
posted at 10:46 PM
--
My self loathing has reached new heights. I've taken to repeatedly punching myself in the face as hard as I can on a daily basis.
No, I kid. I do not do this, though I might as well be.
I need to get off my ass and stop bitching about everything.
Do you ever have one of those days where you can't think of one positive thing to say, at all? I'm having one of those weeks. To top it off, this is my last weekend to really get everything packed because next weekend is moving weekend and I want to have stuff actually ready to move rather than ready to get put into boxes to be moved. I am planning on just doing finishing touches and some cleaning next weekend. But. The kicker. I hurt my back yesterday doing some serious moving of furnature at work. Heavy lifting. Moving heavy boxes.
OW! My sciatica!
I don't know, but whatever it is, it's causing a lot of pain in my lower left back next to my spine. Son of a bitch!
COMPLAIN! BITCH!
posted at 4:15 PM
--
November 18, 2003
In keeping with my self analyses regarding my critical self, I thought I'd post something from this popular meme going around.
Take the month of your birth and cross out things that aren't a part of your nature. See how many different forms of "critical" you can find!
SEPTEMBER:
Suave and compromising. Careful, cautious and organized. Likes to point out people's mistakes. Likes to criticize. Stubborn. Quiet but able to talk well. Calm and cool. Kind and sympathetic. Concerned and detailed. Loyal but not always honest. Does work well. Very confident. Sensitive. Thinking generous. Good memory. Clever and knowledgeable. Loves to look for information. Must control oneself when criticizing. Able to motivate oneself. Understanding. Fun to be around. Secretive. Loves sports, leisure and traveling. Hardly shows emotions. Tends to bottle up feelings. Very choosy, especially in relationships. Systematic.
I have the worlds worst memory for things I should remember. I can remember what you did wrong 23 years ago, but I can't remember what I wore to work yesterday. And, I do kind of hide my emotions -- when it has to deal with conflict. I bitch a lot but when it comes down to it, I'd rather just tear myself up inside. But, if I'm happy, I let you know it and I clap my hands *clap clap* and I get weepy pretty easy too. I'm all crazy emotional.
So, is it an excuse, then, to say I can't help my critical side? It's already been predestined. I'm supposed to be this way because I am a Virgo. I'm sorry. I can't change.
Excuses.
posted at 8:57 AM
--
November 17, 2003
I've read hundreds of thousands of books. Millions. Trillions. I'm never not reading a book and I've been that way for as long as I can ever remember. I love books.
I remember books that have changed me and scuffled me into the person I am today.
I read The Little House on the prairie books with a voracious appetite. I loved them.
I was 11 when I read Stephen King's It. My first "real adult" novel. I still remember that book better than any others.
I remember when I got my first Clive Barker book. It was in the small bookstore in the basement of Hudsons back when they used to sell books and stuff (and were still called Hudsons). My grandma bought it for me. I bought it because Stephen King said "I have seen the future of horror and his name is Clive Barker." I was 13.
I read Weaveworld and my world changed.
I remember the book I will hate with every ounce of my being -- The Red Badge of Courage. That son of a bitch book.
The Griffin and Sabine books made me fall in love with collage art.
But never before in my entire life have I been inspired like the book "Geek Love" by Katherine Dunn.
I don't know what it is about the book but it changed my way of looking at words. I look at words and fall in love with the way they sound, the way they feel when I say them. It made me think about the words I choose when I write, to listen to how they sound as well as how they read. Sound is so important when writing.
The subject matter, the way it was written, how it was written...Inspires me every day.
In the little piddly shit I do at work ..."blah blah quality blah blah best workmanship" ...to this stuff to my 'real' writing I do at home.
However, the problem with being so consumed by this book is that it indirectly influences everything I write.
I've come to the conclusion that I want to write about the carnival side show geek stuff. But not in the way she did. I don't want to write about a family of seriously messed up freaks.
I want to write about one lady. One sad, fat lady. Who just so happens to work in the sideshow.
I read a (real) story about this one sideshow fat lady who, when born, weighed 25 pounds. She wound up killing her mom in childbirth she was so huge. Turns out she was not only destined to be the huge fat lady in a fair, but she was also a dwarf too. She was only, I believe, 4'2" or something.
Very small and very fat.
I'm really interested in creating a world that explored the emotional sides of these "freaks."
I know that Geek Love sort of did that, but really not in the way that I want to.
I don't know. Maybe it's all been said. Maybe I don't have anything to say at all.
***
I've been learning the fine art of "choosing my battles."
I asked my mom how she deals with not just ripping my dad's head off day after day. My mom and I are so similar in our "particularities" that I don't know how she manages dealing with incompetent people or people doing things other than how you want them done. She says you have to decide two things. 1. Is the reason you want to argue life threatening? 2. Is it easier to just let them think what they want even though you know you are right?
I can't go through my life wanting to correct everyone.
I want to be one of those happy old people. Not the kind that scowl and are lonely all the time.
posted at 9:11 PM
--
November 11, 2003
So it's healing rather nicely, as I am completely anal when it comes to care for tattoos.
I love it so much that I can't stop thinking about all the ten thousand other tattoos I'm going to get one day.
Yeah. We'll see about that.
Hm. Anyway. I've come to terms with a particular behavior that has been the cause of much discord throughout my quarter of a century plus 3 lifetime.
I hate it when anyone does anything that I don't want them to do or feel they should do. If I wouldn't do it, neither should you. If I can't do it, nor can you.
It's really a very selfish problem that I've always sort of known about me but finally realized it this week. It's troubling because I know it's not right to make demands of people to do things my way or the highway but it's a very hard habit to break.
I get mad when something isn't done to my (admittedly high) expectations. If you don't work how I would work, you suck. If you don't like or believe what I like, you suck even more.
It's very difficult to form intimate relationships based on this selfish and bossiness.
Why didn't I realize this earlier and try to work on accepting people for who they are, what they are etc? I don't know. I think that I kind of always knew it but never really wanted to admit it was a problem with me.
On the same token, I get really pissy when I am accepting of people and all "live and let live" bullshit and they turn around and put their restrictions onto me. I'm an independent person who doesn't want anyone else to be independent.
Ok. So hypothetically: I don't care if you smoke. I quit smoking on my own accord. Good. Great. Grand. Smoke away, there. BUT. The minute I say I want to start smoking again, don't give me bullshit about it. I want to do what I want to do and the more you protest, the more I want to do it out of spite.
I do things out of spite quite often, much to my chagrin. Sometimes, most times, I don't even want to do whatever it is I'm doing. I do it anyway because you were so adamant against me doing it. Just let me live.
Sometimes, I wonder if I'm even cut out for relationships based on this principle. I hate anyone telling me what to do. And relationships consist of compromise. Sometimes you need to be told something. You have to know when to listen and when to act. When someone tells me what to do, I just think "You bastard, you think I'm not this or doing that up to your standards? Fuck you then."
when all they said was "can you do the dishes?"
I really need to work on this but it's so hard because I feel that the more I try to compromise, the more I'm giving away bits of myself. Ok, so I won't start smoking again. Ok, so I really won't get another 3095283049285 tattoos tomorrow. Ok, so I won't watch horror movies 24 hours a day.
When do I draw the line at losing everything I am and becoming everything you want me to be?
posted at 2:23 PM
--
November 08, 2003
Just about 4 hours old at this point.
I love it.
posted at 6:03 PM
--
November 07, 2003
So many issues for my poor little life. I whine, I complain and they continue to come on full-fledged. Lousy.
I'm moving to a house. In 23 days. I have packed like 10 boxes and that's it. I'm lazy!! I hate packing.
Actually, the packing isn't so bad -- it's the moving that sucks. I hate carrying the boxes because I always accidentally pack them too heavy.
Ah well. So here's the problem. I'm moving my cable modem to a new name and then canceling this one. (for deal purposes. I currently pay too much and they're offering hella better deals right now)
But, in the meantime I'll be without my website. *boohoo* I have to wait to see if I can get imacolata at comcast back once it's closed from the current account. Does this make sense?
Oh well. So if you come here on a regular basis, make sure you take this email address down : imacolatarules at hotmail dot com. That way, if you wind up coming here and I'm disappeared and don't reappear shortly, you can email me and say "where are you" and I can give you my new lousy email address.
I want imacolata at comcast but I don't want to pay the 930485023 dollars I pay a month now.
So I'm basically doing it to myself, but either way it sucks.
Other things. What other things?
I'm constantly in a state between grumpy and sleepy. Sometimes I'm a little happy. I hate it.
I think of so many things throughout the day, important and interesting things that I'd love to talk about -- but I just can't ever remember them. Between scheduling photography shoots and writing 23094823059283509328524 ads and voice overs and making phone calls and update phone calls and returning phone calls and writing these "really quick cos we need it asap" letters, I forget to write them down.
Calgon. Take me away.
Oh and I have completely neglected mentioning my lackluster Halloween. I got like 15 kids. That's it. There were:
5 kids dressed in all black (either in pants and a shirt or a smock type thing)
of those 5, 3 had swords. 1 had a hood.
1 geisha girl (who had the best costume of the night and she was only like 4 years old and so cute)
2 teenagers who wore fox team racing hoodies.
1 fireman
1 policeman
2 spider web girls
1 princess
2 vampires
I wrote them all down, too.
And! I was surprised to see how many kids didn't want to take more than 2 pieces. Except for one fat fucker in the all black outfit. "What are you supposed to be? " I asked him
"I'm dressed in black." he said
"Yeah, but as what? Reaper? Goth? Night?"
"I don't know!"
he grabbed a handful of candy and ran off.
Jerk.
The little geisha girl only took one candy bar. I asked her if she wanted more and told her it was okay, but she just barely whispered "no" and ran back to her dad.
I LOVED seeing the kids out with their parents. I think those are some of my finest memories of my dad -- walking around on Halloween with him. He'd even dress up sometimes. Man. My dad hung the moon.
posted at 2:52 PM
--
|
|
