Chronicles of L. VonDeadly

Hokay, So.

What asshole really creates computer viruses as a hobby? Are you really that poor that you need to attempt to steal my personal information? Clearly you have the skills in information technology that you should be able to get a job somewhere. Also, I am not stupid enough to keep documents on my computer with social security numbers and bank account information in them. Besides, you don't WANT my credit information. Apply for a credit card with my name. I dare you. Please record the conversation and let me listen to it later because I can bet they would laugh in your face. Do you really want all of my passwords? Oooo, MySpace, Facebook, Flickr, Hulu, YouTube, Typepad.... There are some interesting websites that no one else in the world uses. Very important information on there. Are you really that bored? Go see a fucking movie. Go bowling. Visit a friend. Are you really that friendless? Join a fucking club and/or organization. Go talk in some geek chat room or post your Yahoo Personals page. But staythefuckaway from my COMPUTER you flaming sack of giraffe shit.

Oh, P.S. hacker freak, I restored my system to a week ago and reinstalled AVG. No more Feedwater virus pour moi. Suck on them dry powdered milk titties.

Here, On The Ground.

Has the strangest sensation of spiritual unrest. That would be my status right now. Do you ever find yourself thinking in status language? While you are eating pistachio ice cream, in your head you think "...is eating pistachio ice cream." Yeah, I do that. Back to the spiritual unrest. That knot you feel in your stomach sometimes. Maybe when you're angry, or scared. I feel that now. But I have no reason to be angry or scared. Just constant anxiety. Heart racing, shallow breathing, butterflies in the stomach, insomnia-ridden anxiety. Unrest. Spiritual unrest. Pouring another drink helps. Sincerely saying out loud all the things that perplex me into the early hours of morning helps too. Dogs can't talk, thank God. I don't even know if they can listen either really, but an attentive yet silent audience far beats a barely listening loud mouth one.

I quit smoking two weeks ago. I started smoking again 13 days ago. It was a good process for me. I felt accomplished. Then the nagging urge to smoke a cigarette, have a cup of coffee, and bitch about my life just resurfaced and I decided that I like my life. Menthols and caffeine and sarcasm included. Then I began to reason with myself, since Chewy was sleeping and I didn't want to wake him. Who decides what a "bad" habit is? Is it bad because it feels good? Because it makes me feel better? That seems to be the only common denominator in all my vices. Smoking calms me down, and fills my body with toxins. [So does eating meat filled with hormones and chemicals.] Caffeine wakes me up, tastes good, and makes my body reliant on an outside substance. [So does taking aspirin, ibuprofen, cold medicine, etc. Which I don't take.] Sarcasm gives me an outlet to be a bigfatwhiner, and has the rare occurrence of pissing people off. If you think that time will change your ways, don't wait too long.

So, in light of the spiritual unrest, I embraced my vices back into welcome arms. One vice I've found that will never cease to MOISTen my soul, music. Not just any music, mind you. Songs that speak. Songs that use words to alter your entire thought process. I love it even better when finding them is a mistake. Something always brings me back to these songs. It never takes too long.

Cheers to the cheapest happiness. 5.49 - Menthol. 3.52 - Caffeine. Free - Sarcasm & Music.

Strange Attractors.

My magnetic muse. Everything in the universe has a magnetic charge. Strange attractors end up together even though they shouldn't belong together. Yet, when they are together, they become super powerful.
 The laws of attraction. Some things have too similar a nature, and they repel each other. Is it possible for a magnet to change reactions? Today, two things drawn together. Tomorrow, violently repelled from each other, seeking solace in the far corners of the universe. The day after that...who knows.

We are like two little oblique magnets, floating around. We violently come together and rip apart as we so please. There's something we forgot. When we attract towards each other, we suck our individual lives with us. And when we tear away from each other, we tear apart our lives that have blended. This is dangerous business, attraction. It could be wrong, to let our hearts ignite. This is out of control. And it feels good.

Love is our Resistance.

Beautiful Mess.

We often plead with others. We say please. Please what? Depends. Please yes? Please, no...Please more. Please less. We beg others to do as we say. It kind of hurts when the kind of words you write kind of turn themselves into blades. 

What happens when we stop for a moment to judge our own lives instead of judging others? It can be painful to step back and see what we've been doing and even more painful to realize we have no intention of stopping. We're still here. In this beautiful mess. The wait was so worth it. Every. Last. Inch.

Is It Dark In Here?

Or is it just me? Is your life easy? If you said yes, then you are a liar. I am faced with so much at once that I feel like it is shoving me off the deep end. I don't particularly want to go off the deep end currently. Honestly? I don't have the time or luxury of doing so. I really wish I could. I wish I could get away with running. Too many people and furry babies depend on me. There are all of these daunting responsibilities and I am all alone, trying to conquer them one at a time but so many things are falling through the cracks. I did so well for so long, but I am slipping. I am dangerously close to my boiling point and the only thing holding me back from it is pride.

You will learn to lose everything.

-A.M.

The Un-Thought Thought.

You will never know what the sensation of desperation feels like when it tingles over your cold skin at night. When you are so tired and your heart just can’t take anymore. Your brain over exerts itself and instead of overheating, goes frigid. And if you were to tell anyone exactly what you were desperate for, they would give you a look of horror and disgust and hope beyond hope that you were making some sick twisted joke. But the joke is on them. They don’t know. You don’t know. But I do. Sometimes I want to just say it out loud. But then, what if the one thing I sometimes want comes true? Why, then I will spend my life convinced that I willed it into existence and that would be a truth too difficult to carry. I would disappear. But carrying it around is clearly too difficult a burden to carry as well so what do I do? I can’t begin to say it out loud. I’ve never even fully thought it in my head. I just know that in the back of my mind, it seems like it would relieve me. I don’t wish this un-thought thought, truly. Out of desperation, it just naturally pops into my head as the solution. Logically my brain found the way in which my suffering can cease. I wonder if you’ve thought it. Some have thought about it, and it happened. Some haven’t thought about it and it happened. Some have thought about it and it didn’t happen. Which category will you fall in? What about me? Here I am, sitting cross-legged at the bottom of a well, and sometimes the ground upon which I sit begins to rise. I feel myself begin inched closer and closer to the light and warmth of the glow above me. Then it shudders to a halt, dropping my stomach and stopping my heart. My hopes diminish as I realize that maybe I will never get there. That’s when the vicious case of the chills sinks in, when the un-thought thought crosses my morbid mind.

 

I will carry on now, etching my sorrows in the dirt on the walls of my abyss. Hoping that it doesn’t happen, hoping I never not-think it again. And hoping, more than any other hope I can hope, that you come home safe.

Love Song For A Vampire.

These people I carry with me everyday and the burden is too much to bear sometimes.

It angers me that you affected my life the most. That I still think of you everyday. I avoid places and situations out of fear. I flinch and panic. How I could possibly fear you now is hard to understand. Yet I do. You've wasted away and your poor soul has been dying for years. Sometimes I wonder when I will get the call that you're dead. I don't think it would relieve any of this. It would almost be worse. I've never gotten the chance to sit in a room with you and tell you exactly what you did. I'm sure you've even done worse since, which leaves me with a feeling of guilt. And I pray your actions were relatively victimless. I've barely talked to anyone about you. I vaguely remember a hug from someone who at the time, meant the world to me. And all I wanted to do was laugh. Here was a vulnerable moment that I was sharing with the one person I held higher than anyone else and all I could do was smile. It felt incredible to relieve myself of the pressure of your existence. Then I told another. And another. And today, I don't smile when I speak of you anymore. Now I wince. I share my past and experiences with people around me, but I never reveal how I feel about them. I don't talk about it. I have to keep that part to myself. If I release that, I give them the power. And then when they leave I have nothing. People always leave. I've learned that. So I tell them about you, how vile and disgusting a point your life must have withered to, and I pray that through knowing me they will know you. And by knowing you, they will find that their sanctity of compassion is renewed.

You stopped making my heart race in a good way a long time ago. I'm sorry to tell you so. But I can't keep living with the passion that you're giving when it rips apart my already weakened soul. I have always given you an open door into myself and it's time to lock it and throw the key into the ocean. I can't stay with you in this game of cat and mouse any longer. You always were stubborn. I always was stubborn. Oil and water? No. Fire and ice? No. All the fire and destruction still burns in me and even scalding water couldn't erode what you've left me with. I do have a number of nights that will eternally hold a special place in my soul and for that I thank you. When I am on the other end of this life and I am retracing my hasty steps, I will remember you and smirk. Then I will crack open a fresh tube of cookie dough and breathe.

You forgot me. Tried to forget me? Didn't forget me? Wanted to forget me? Do you even know anymore? Was it all in my mind? You'll have to excuse me if it was, I often find that it is 6 days later than I thought and I have a vague memory of real life, and a vivid memory of the life I live in my head. All I need to know is that it was real. Even a minuscule part of it. I need to calm the angry voices in my mind that are telling me I imagined your existence. The idea that you exist, even if I may never see you again, is true relief. Give me relief. Just say yes.

Goodnight.

Mon Cœur S'ouvre À Ta Voix.

How much love would it take to make me whole? Do you have enough love inside your soul? Could you ever be that person for me? Can you clear out this emotional debris?

You trick your lovers that you're wicked and divine,
You may be a sinner, but your innocence is mine.

My Muse.

Hunter S. Thompson.

"Like most of the others, I was a seeker, a mover, a malcontent, and at times a stupid hell-raiser. I was never idle long enough to do much thinking, but I felt somehow that my instincts were right. I shared a vagrant optimism that some of us were making real progress, that we had taken an honest road, and that the best of us would inevitably make it over the top. At the same time, I shared a dark suspicion that the life we were leading was a lost cause, that we were all actors, kidding ourselves along on a senseless odyssey. It was the tension between these two poles--a restless idealism on one hand and a sense of impending doom on the other--that kept me going."

-Rum Diary

Fifty Cents: Any Takers?

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

 

I feel like a used coffee table at a second rate thrift store selling for fifty cents just so they can get rid of it sometimes. People don't buy it as is to use it. They buy it to fix it up to their standards. Sand it, change the legs, oil it, and varnish it. Why can't it be left alone and cherished for every ding, scratch, and morph in the wood?

 

Lauren, don't do this. Lauren, don't do that. Don't act that way in front of company! How dare you be yourself in public, don't you know that people can hear those burps and curse words? Put on that smile and charm and cutesy fake giggle and go blend in with the rest of them…. [If this is being read aloud, insert awkward cough here, please.] Am I just being stubborn, or does it seem like people are trying to mold me into what they think I should be like? Why can't you accept me for my faults, and love me that much more because of them? So what if I didn't feel like taking the time to wash, blow dry, and straighten my hair today? So what if my fingernail polish is chipped? So what if I get a little testy when I drive? So what if I'd rather sit in a corner and read my book than mingle with people I don't know? Is the world going to come crashing down if today I am just me? With my dirty hair, chipped polish, road rage, loner and all. I've found people who claim to love all my "little quirks." [Whether that refers to my stature or what, is yet to be seen.] Crooked teeth, snorting, pants constantly falling down, sasquatch toes…the list could go on for longer than I'm willing to share. Well that might be damn well close to the truth. But I'm getting the sneaking suspicion that it's a façade. You might love my trucker's mouth, but when it's aimed at you it becomes unladylike. Surely you can think it's endearing that my nail polish is chipped, even bordering adorable, but when we're going to a family function, it becomes ugly. I'm not going to claim supermodel status, but for fuck's sake I'm a size 0. So if my pants are constantly falling down and I'm constantly pulling them up, get over it. If I flip off the old lady driving to her bridge game because she's going 35 on highway 16, get the hell over it. If I don't feel like telling you every little secret that runs through my mind, get over it. If I'm horrible at videogames and would rather eat a rare bloody steak with my bare hands than ever play them, get the fuck over it. If I smell like smoke and it bothers you, get over it. If I laugh at something so mind numbingly childish that I snort like a farm raised pig and almost pee my pants…Get. Over. It.

 

I've told everyone I meet from the beginning: This is Lauren. She comes as is, with dents and scratches and a little beat up from the bumps in the road on her way here, but she's sturdy and more than worth any price you could pay. So don't try and sand me or oil me or varnish me. I come as is. If you want the pretense of something more, go to Ikea next time.

Well, I still feel this way sometimes. I still act the same, which is a nice reassuring thought. But I am much more comfortable in who I am than I used to be. Not as testy to defend myself. I can easily take small criticisms with a grain of salt and move on from them. It is funny how easy it is to read my emotion, I can remember exactly what tipped this off too.