When everything is gone

Fuck everything. Just got mugged while getting out of the car in the driveway of The Rabbit‘s place.

They got my purse with my phone and wallet; I hadn’t taken my keys with me, so I still have those… but there’s far more sensitive stuff on my digital device than on my keyring.

Attempted to remotely wipe my phone, but I’m not sure if it actually worked. Changed the master password for my password manager. Tried calling my bank’s automated system, that was a fucking useless waste of time. Same for calling my cellphone company.

The cops were here, took a statement from me, from her. I have very little faith in that accomplishing anything.

I’m going to take a pill and go to sleep, because otherwise I’m gonna just scream and scream and keep on screaming.

Make it simple, to last your whole life long!

At a party, chatting with a few friends I’ve just barely met, and I break into song, because of course. It’s what I do. Something in conversation reminded me of a line or two; my mom calls it “life indexed by sound bite.” One of these friends almost stops me with “OHMIGHOD you have such a beautiful voice!” Apologizes for interrupting, bids me to “please, continue!” Jaw nearly on the floor the entire time.

Sitting with a friend over a couple of beers, and a song she’s jamming to reminds me of another one by the same artist. Convince her to turn that track on, serenade her along with the YouTube video playing, soulful looks with every word and every note. She tells me “you are seriously so fucking hot!” She tells me it’s not just the way I look, but “how much the passion and feeling carry through you as you perform.”

Countless times when I’ve been asked “Oh, do you do karaoke? Your singing is phenomenal!”

No. I don’t really “do” karaoke. I don’t feel comfortable with either school of karaoke, not the “get so fucked-up drunk that you make a fool of yourself for the entertainment of the audience” school or the “give an incredibly perfect rendition of the track that blows the audience away” school. The “for the audience” is what I don’t want.

I do, however, really really really love to show how much I care for someone through song. To sing for someone I care about, someone I love. And it’s quite a moving experience to be on the receiving end of that, so I’ve heard.

And I do, definitely, love to use song as a means of expressing myself. It’s often easier than trying to find spoken words to convey my meaning, and I figure why try to be good at something I’m often shitty at (conversation) when I can be great at something I already do well (singing)?

But what I really want, really need, is to have someone (or several someones) I love, who I can show my love for through music, through impromptu sexy and/or silly song-and-dance numbers. I used to be puzzled by the fact that lots of people seem to want to turn on music while they fuck — it was never anything but a distraction for me, since “listening to music” is its own activity for me, just like reading a book, or eating a meal, or having a conversation, or fucking. Then I figured out that if instead of trying to listen to the music, I use it as backing to my “dancing,” I can… well, let’s just say that she might call it “that incredible thing you do with your tongue, oh god!” but to me it’s more like “impromptu dance routine #4,982.”😛 And I need that again, someone to dance for, to dance with, to fuck me, to pleasure her.

And what I also really want, really need, is to have a group of friends who are as passionate about music as I am, people who make music, to just sit down and jam with. I don’t want regularly scheduled rehearsals, practicing hard for an eventual performance in front of an audience, repeating the same fucking thing over and over and over until I’m way past sick of it and needing to be absolutely perfect for the eventual end product. Fuck that shit. What I want, need, have gone too long without, is others who just “do” music for the sheer pleasure of it, who can’t help but “make music” any more than they can help breathing in and out.

Yes, I have an incredible voice. It’s going to waste. It could do so much. I could do so much with it. But for now, like so many other things, I’m going without my basic needs met.

And on that note (pun intended) I’m off to sleep.

Insomniac’s Chemically-Inspired Sonnet

“So you can rest” proclaims this liquid green,
At least the leading brand would tell you so.
I fill the dosage cup I’ve just rinsed clean,
Then pick it up and swallow in one go.
Another shade of green awaits, breathe deep
And stress and tension quickly disappear.
More aptly I should say they’re things I keep,
But from so high, I don’t care if they’re here.
Then afterwards, decant, sniff, sip, and grin
As lovely warmth starts to descend and spread
Through belly, breast, and everywhere within…
Then finally it makes it to my head.
If NyQuil, weed, and bourbon don’t work, then
It’s time to take a dose of Ambien.

Are you sure? [Y/N]

Heart, hurting, heavy.
Mind, mixed-up, meandering.
The rest of me, a mess, amiss, a mish-mash of Miss Melancholy and mismanaged rest cycles making me moody and moving toward monstrously mad
Rage giving way to resignation before shifting again
Suddenly
Into simmering, stressed-out sub-surface stew
Still often smiling outside
Showing what I want to be
Instead of what I am.

It’s half past two
Two hours ago I had said
“I thought I went to bed two hours ago…”
And yet the clock keeps crawling ahead
With me in bed and wide awake.

“Have you tried turning it off and back on again?”
First diagnostic step.
I’m responding to my own tech support call, here.
When it says “call your sysadmin,” I laugh, because that’s me.
So: you’re having trouble getting the system to shut down?
Send SIGTERM to all processes.
If you need a custom utility to initiate the shutdown procedure, you have several at your disposal.

Choose one, and bring the system down for scheduled maintenance.

You will be logged off in 5… 4… 3… 2…

Goodnight.

One who keeps tearing around, and one who can’t move — but where are the clowns?

It fucking kills me, that I cannot escape MFP‘s influence. I mean, she is — just like she always was — a well-known name in multiple artsy and creative communities around the world, and at least as famous, if not more so, on the internet. She writes and paints and sings and does performance art and all kinds of other random things (and hey, when you’ve got the financial stability under you to sign up for anything you think sounds interesting, why the fuck wouldn’t you?)

But it’s still an unexpected slap to the face every time I’m cruising along through Facebook and someone I know (sometimes even a complete stranger) posts a link to what my ex is saying or doing, occasionally even with her face attached, smiling in a perfectly-posed portrait.

And I’m reminded of how I’m still struggling to make enough connections with people to eventually network my way out of homelessness and poverty. I’m reminded of how she would always wail about being so unknown, how nobody saw her work or valued what she did and who she was… how she didn’t really have any community or following — even after she ravaged not only her extensive community and following but also everyone that I knew in order to talk about how I had been so horrible in breaking up with her. More than a year later, as I was finally catching up with acquaintances that I hadn’t seen in ages, I could no longer even feign surprise when the first thing I heard was “just so you know, I talked at length with MFP about your whole situation.” It hurt, but it was expected.

And I’m reminded yet again that I’m still homeless because I’m still stuck in poverty and depending on a government check. I’m reminded that she didn’t even blink at dropping nearly $2,000 on deposit-and-first-month on her new place a few months before we broke up (it was an attempt to salvage the already-failing relationship. Obviously it didn’t work.) and then immediately followed that up by spending a few thousand more getting furniture (desk! storage cabinets! nightstand!) and appliances (new printer! microwave! toaster oven, with two shelves!) and a fully-stocked kitchen (fill the fridge! fill the cupboards! meat! fresh veggies! and especially a fully-stocked spice rack!) because, I mean, how could you get settled in and comfy in a new place if it’s bare and empty?! Gag. But the rest of that month she kept complaining about how she was so broke, that she didn’t have the funds to go out and do fun stuff.

So, yeah. She’s still out there doing just fucking fine, and still seems to be going on about how she understands what it’s like to struggle in poverty and to have nobody to turn to, nobody to support you or care about you. And she seems to be convincing enough in her performance (though considering her myriad artistic talents and ventures it’s not surprising) that she’s got people lining up to proudly say that they’re throwing their money at her. Yay for supporting “starving” artists, right?

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