funny thing

a few months ago, my psychiatrist diagnosed me with something called Borderline Personality Disorder: a mental illness that affects the ability to create and maintain lasting relationships.
fair enough.
my biggest beef is that she based some (maybe most) of her diagnosis on my many facial piercings and brightly colored hair and tattoos, because apparently that is "self-mutilation."
ouch, right?
i am especially insulted because, after doing some research on BPD (also the acronym for boone police department. fun fact!), i discovered that i barely, or don't at all, fit the other major symptoms. also, she had diagnosed my boyfriend with the very same diagnosis less than a month prior.
those odds are staggering.
piercings and blue hair and tattoos = self-mutilation? i'm calling bunk.
it is fair to say that i am certainly subscribing to a lifestyle that will probably permanently alienate me from Mainstream Society, which, i'm not gonna front, is desirable. anything to get away from Mother Culture, right?
but, am i "mutilating" myself because i hate myself and want to make myself as freakish as possible so i can justify my feelings that i am doomed to experience nothing but exile and my only choice is withdrawal from, what is considered to be, normalcy?
jeez louise!

i actually think a lot about why i love piercings and tattoos so much... i am planning several more piercings. i have a queue, including my septum (the space between the nostrils), which is probably one of the more controversial piercings.
though, i have definitely seen an increase in ladies with the septum piercing. i think it's charming, and only vaguely intimidating.
but i digress.
maybe, i have such an affinity for these body modifications because i am tiny and adorable, and i feel discredited by these factors. i use tattoos and piercings to feel more confident in my assertiveness, and it really has done wonders for my self-esteem.
weird, that my psychiatrist should be so convinced that my piercings are because of self-loathing, when i'm pretty sure they are a support system.
maybe i'm just proving her point by needing body modification to feel better about myself.

what the fuck ever. i'm still getting my septum pierced and expanding my half-sleeve.

WHAT, BITCH?

you haven't looked at me that way in years

Yes. Well. Here we are.

I will ignore the fact that just a few blog posts away, I was proclaiming my vow to the Unnamed God to update "weekly. hell, daily!" and jump into something New and Exciting and Worthy of Internet Publishing.

Sigh.

I haven't updated in over a year. Lots of things have happened, things that I don't feel like getting into right now as they have dominated my life and conversation with unsettling regularity and by god I'm moving Forward, Dammit, Forward! and I suppose I'll let it slip out eventually, but this post is about now. And now is not the time for unpleasant memories.

Greyson turned 2 this week. His party was a success, I think. I told most of my family that Greyson wanted books for his birthday, and he got some interesting titles... he also got a Darth Vader helmet and a stuffed koala. Go figure.

I spent a majority of the party trying to corral him while he chased bubbles and tried to dip everything in salsa.

I suppose that's all I've got... writing has just become physically painful and I think I'll bring this to a close before I completely melt-down.

Maybe sometime soon, I'll be back.

glorious, glorious

I have a typewriter under my bed. It is dusty, and blue, and probably a breeding ground for spiders of all shapes and sizes (tho all feared with equal severity). It does not breed creativity, as previously imagined. As previously imagined when I lugged it down King Street, 30-dollars poorer and pregnant, no less!
Countless nights, clicking out abstract poetry and tinkering with ink tapes, thinking about time-lines... my pregnancy was a creative upheaval. Hopefully, this means I've birthed the next John Lennon. (I'll settle for Heath Ledger) Where did that Lillian go?
No time or free space for projects, she rationalizes. Babies need lots of attention; the rest of the time is for rest or productivity.
But there is always time. I literally will fucking kill myself if I have to spend the rest of my life being domestic. Being selfish is a luxury.
I'm tired and need. more. time. But it's not all terrible; I am being totally melodramatic.
I have had time to knit baby pants and write in my journal enough to have nearly calmed my brimming soul. I have had plenty of time to think, just not enough time to create!
Idle hands do the devils work, you know.

take me to the movies, 'cause I like to sit in the dark

Drove to Harris Teeter tonight, even though slightly buzzed and kind of spacey; couldn't stop humming "Such Great Heights" by The Postal Service.

Sometimes I feel like all I ever write about anymore is how much I hate my job, or how much I love my son. Trust me, both of these feelings are heartfelt, but I can't go on like this. Something needs to happen. I need to join a club, or go on a trip, or learn a new hobby, or something, or anything.
My life is dull.
I aim to change that.

In other news, there is a Jet Li movie playing in the other room; it would be a shame to waste it.

will the wind ever remember?

Weather-wise, it is a beautiful day. But there is a dark cloud hovering over my happiness; its name is Time Management.
I spent much of my day wandering Walmart (not as thrilling as it sounds), and the other being disapproved of by other moms at the park, but here is how I would have liked to spend it: getting a shamrock tattoo for free at the local parlor.
For. Free.
If there were ever any two words to catch my attention, they would be "free tattoos."
But it seems that, in my hatred for making plans, I have foiled myself. Luke is going on an adventure with friends, my mother is going to be here in less than an hour to babysit Greyson, and I hardly have enough time to make it into town for a tattoo (even one as small as a shamrock).
Happy fucking Saint Patrick's Day.

her smile is contagious; i was born to love her.

It has been quite a while since I've posted... I can't even remember exactly what I wrote. But, sitting in my kitchen (the only place in the house I get wifi signal) on an exercise ball and reading my good friend Caroline Monday's blog, I am overwhelmed with the desire to rekindle mine.
It is my only real writing conduit, besides my personal journal, and I am now going to work on strict schedule of updates. Weekly. Hell, daily! I am a grown woman!
By god, I'll do it!
Besides not updating my blog, I've been busy trying to plan my son's first birthday party, keeping some semblance of a social life, and working at a job that insults my intelligence.
As far as social lives go, mine is suitable. Close, comfortable visits with friends and the occasional foray into dinner parties has kept my inner hostess satisfied, but the rare amount of contact doesn't overload my wallflower. The only complaint is that the winter months has limited these visits mostly to indoor adventures (see: DVDs of Planet Earth, drugs), and I am eager to leave my un-vacuumed apartment and lie in grass for a change.
Greyson is going to be one year old in April. Everyday he looks more and more like a child and less like a wiggly lump of flesh and drool; I look forward to taking birthday pictures and feeling like a mommy.
Knitting and crafts are becoming a part of my life again as Greyson becomes more independent. Without a squirming baby to entertain, I have had time to make a birthday banner, knit a hat, and re-start a yoga mat bag 4 times. Granted, most of these things have been accomplished at work, with business slow and not picking up until the summer.
Regal Cinemas hasn't changed much, the only difference is I have time for crossword puzzles.
I should try to get a job at a funeral home; then I'd have plenty of time for crossword puzzles.

I will think of this when I'm dead in my grave

The Very Hungry Caterpillar. A staple in every child's development.

Today, Greyson acquired a stuffed Hungry Caterpillar. It is very fuzzy, and green. I worry that the green fibers are going to start showing up in his diaper; it can't be healthy to be eating so much caterpillar.

There is something in my eye.

That is all.