Puppy love

Some things are always true.

never forget

sometimes I think I am loveable, and start to build confidence. then I read an old text from someone I indirectly crossed, so I may remember that I am nothing but a slut. 

mama's little helper

i am lucky, and i am thankful. so much appreciation.

"i didn't try to hurt you."

I bought a pack of condoms today: durex extra sensitive. this is good for sex,

but i've found sensitivity to be a  hindrance in most other situations.

do my heightened perceptions/reactions mean I am more in touch, or am I just nuts? 

it seems to be a burden on people, whether an acquaintance or family; 

witnessing my upset causes them to feel anything from confused to heartbroken.

so tell me (God?), what benefit does my nature bring me?

maybe if I could find arms long enough to wrap around me completely, 

I'd feel better -- but not exactly ok. 

that's on me.

replete with melancholy

auer rods (our odds)

it is nice to feel pure sadness, free of anxiety and grief. rarely does it come so clean, unfettered. my heart has sunken deep inside my chest, wrapped in wool blankets. read to me. sing to me. let us lie here and rest, please. 

stroke out

http://eatrunplay.com/how-to-properly-implement-a-low-sugar-diet/

real talk

the dashing man attracts, the sensitive boy binds. i don't think i was meant to see; i'm certain that one does not belong to me. 

in absentia

"my mind feels like it's been changed, but i don't remember fussing with it." 


he shrugged and said, "looks the same to me." 

witches it?

could standing at the precipice be precisely this

or looking into truth again 

quelling all life's viciousness, pushing mine further in

curtains velvety little versions part their ways: begin

to right the wrist enclenched embrace

throw those suckers in their place

i have to have it now, please wait

admittance

passion must pass for love to be born.

"i never thought i'd need so many people"

take it back

so, it has finally happened.

only a few days ago i described this love as amazing, unique, because i have been loved without question, tirelessly. no one before has ever been able to sustain such feelings. i am exhausting, i know.

i never try to ruin it. i am too afraid, too stupid, to even know what i'm doing as i do it. but i clutch, and plead, and cry -- even if nothing is out of place. 

my worst characteristic is probably my talking. i say so much, sometimes in innuendo but also directly. i can't explain it anymore. all i know is that i say very few negative things, and reveal no secrets, although i classify almost nothing as secret. i talk about my love and my fear. i want reassurance that the love was real. has he been with others? with you? do you think he loved you? does he love me? why does it hurt so much?

and there is a knowing, all of them noticing every glance, that would not be if it were not for my communicated worries. this is the crime that can't be understood. it is so vague, but i know it is real because it makes me ill to think about it. i know i have betrayed. i know if he witnessed any one of these thousands of words shared, he would be hurt. 

i said i don't acknowledge much as secret. i really only needed to keep one thing quiet, and that is my love itself. i gave it away, everyday. i'm so sorry. now i weep for all the little pieces i've lost. 

i don't know how to love. 

arrest the bleeding

Ernest Hemingway shot himself fifty years ago today. Thanks, NPR.

note: I have not yet slept, so it is still, "today."

get lost

How hard it was to turn back! I circled round and cross, keeping the idea: it's only coincidence. Never mind that I knew the house wasn't for me. No pets allowed. Still, it was enough to justify my looking there.

I'd always hated subdivisions. First, out of jealousy -- I grew up way off-road, and drank water from a cistern. Later, it was an effort to not conform. as in, that'll never happen to me, man. I still can't see the appeal. these neighborhoods strive for uniformity. some even have rules about fences and mailboxes. I would hate to grow old in such a development. I suspect the sameness might contribute to the early-onset dementia I'm certain to develop.

I'd become claustrophobic and dizzy from driving up and down the same connecting streets for twenty minutes. I dared myself to be the chicken who crossed the road. as soon as I pulled in, I laughed at myself and spoke aloud, "stop the car. turn around. you don't want to be this." and I did. I let my real self navigate, for once.

so pleased I was, I thought of enjoying the carnival on the short horizon. I had seen it the week before, so it couldn't have much time left. I wanted to elate and terrify myself on the Ferris wheel. turn, turn, pause. the stops are the hardest part. literally suspended in space, you feel both giant and useless as your every sense absorbs the view. I thought I could probably see downtown from the top if the smog weren't so thick.

then I realized I might see other things very close up. maybe a crisp family dressed to match one another according to age and gender. big, white smiles and curious faces. or, since the evening was almost gone, maybe they'd be tired and rumpled. the father would sway like a heavy tree, his boughs hanging low, barely clutching the children he carries. the very smallest one is feeding, her cheeks sticky with sweat on her mother's breast. no matter, this would be a family content and spent from a long day together.

perhaps I could slip by without notice. I could hide behind a funnel cake or an overstuffed toy I'd won throwing darts at balloons. no one would look at the barely-bathed heavy woman walking alone, anyway.

but to see hurts more than to be seen, and I have no way of hiding happy families. so I drove.

footloose and fancy free

Luna pressed her throat onto my wrist while I obsessed on this damned phone. I felt the cartilage of her windpipe give a little when she swallowed. She licks her lips and swallows quite often; I read that it's a sign of anxiety. She also let out a deep sigh so I'd know she was annoyed as well.

"Come on now, I'm doing this for you. I'm looking for the perfect place for you to play and have a little brother or sister."

She simply raised her eyebrows and looked away. "Whatever."

I wish she could speak English.

which is worse?

a. seeing a giant rat cross the kitchen floor.
b. hallucinating that rat.

please, mr. postman

i have written the most honest letter of my life. sadly, it only scratches the surface of what is true because i don't have words for how sinister i really am.


i've been holding a mirror to you, and haven't understood why i only see myself. now i know. it was always me.

gullnerability

i liked them.
   24/7?
surely not.

untitled

are you sick?
   yes.
does it hurt?
   of course.
they can't stand you.
   i know.
   

vi

"let's be given enough chance. our curse ignores these sweet offerings; not one ever chooses to read them. disconnection! where is the precision? the guts?" my fingers rub the seam of your scalp. i thought of the plain, white bar that scrubs troubles deeper into your head, rather than wash them right out. damn it. soap's stark, square nothingness can't absorb any of this terror. this dearly loved mind is caving in on itself and you don't even feel it. soon i won't understand you at all; your language will be too obscure. a white wall of noisy thoughts will brick up between us.

learn the gestures of love

discard the spasms of selfishness

i'll be peace, you be quiet

yesterday was both wonderful and agonizing. 


i think, by the end of the night, i'd made up my mind. i found support in two of my favorite places -- my grandmother and my best friend.


my gramma surprised me by really listening to me and objectively considering what i had to say. i know her real wish is for me to settle down with a house, husband, and 401k. i tried to explain that pursuing this is me settling down. i can't have those things without first dealing with my internal turbulence. i talked to her about the healing aspect of this and how maybe, just maybe, i might be looking for God, too. i don't want to get her hopes up. more than the nuclear family, what she wants for me is to believe. she seems relieved that i was baptized at one point, that i am saved. i asked her, very carefully, how to talk to God. even here, it's hard for me to say "pray." she was surprised, but ready. first, i should say the Lord's prayer. i started to rattle it off, amused that after all these years it comes back so quickly, like the pledge of allegiance. she stopped me and we went through each line together, translating. after that, i should ask for forgiveness. then, i just talk. also, this should be done at least once a day, every day. a ritual.


there are some instruments at work that are set up to allow the manufacturer to upload information about it at any time. i assumed that a relationship with God would be similar. i mean, it's omnipotent, right? the connection is always open; God can see into my heart at any time, or all the time. last night, i realized that the purpose of prayer is not for God to hear me, but for me to hear God. 


i've been distraught, to say the least, for the last few months. in the past couple of weeks, i've been thinking of heroin. i felt a strong desire to just give my life away to something because i don't seem to have the energy to manage it anymore. the first thing i thought of was dope. i could just float away, into nothing. straightforward suicide just isn't my bag, you know? 


i told my best friend about this desire in a text message two days ago. this is particularly significant because she is a recovering junkie. i worried that it might hurt her to hear me say these things, but i am nothing if not honest. and really, she's the expert. she knows. 


we talked on the phone last night about it, intermixed with my ideas of travel and and spirituality. of course, by then i knew i didn't really want to start shooting dope, but what was i trying to give away? then it just kind of hit me that people finding Faith describe their lives in those kinds of terms. they say, "let go, and let God," or  more directly, "give it up to God." 


we laughed at me, saying that we couldn't believe i'm thinking about these things, much less expressing them. sarah catton has been a bitter cynic for too long. i've done it with humor, sure, and people have been attracted to that scathing wit, but it's just exhausting now. and i don't really need it anymore. i don't need protection like i did when i was a kid. it's okay to be sincere; my feelings are not a target to be destroyed anymore. 

write it out

i have a terrible time making decisions. once, a therapist told me to write a pros/cons list, and i basically told her to fuck off. lists can't help me because i can make equally convincing arguments for and against each option. paralysis is the only consistent outcome.


i'm lost right now in one of those confusions. on paper, it makes perfect sense. my heart's desires are not so clear. 


the strong Woman inside me believes being in self-exile will show me true freedom. the panicky child can only see isolation and heartbreak. another therapist constantly urged me to re-parent myself. maybe this Woman can console the child and make it work. then again, being a single mother always means struggle.


if i choose pseudo-asceticism, i have to remember that choice every minute of every day. i can't let myself be discouraged by passing loneliness or worry. i must take care of myself.


it's a big jump. really big. i've "wanted" this since my schooldays, right?


the problem is that i'm not really given much time to consider it. it's like freefalling and pulling the ripcord at just the right time. if i'm too hasty or too hesitant, i might not make it. 


paradoxically, the thing that tugs at me to stay is the same thing that motivates me to go. i've become very close to these people, whether they know it or not. have i been putting down roots only to rip them out now? or perhaps i poisoned the tree a long time ago. my absence can give them their normal lives back.


am i martyring myself? it seems that way. i feel like walking away from this intimate, if unrequited, support system i love is the only honorable thing i can do. falling on the sword can bring honor back to them. 


or maybe it isn't for their benefit. maybe i'm martyring myself for myself. i have to sacrifice the external me for the internal. i have to find her.

how sad, how lovely

exchange rate

from the simpsons --




bart: if fairy tales have taught us one thing, it's that first wives are perfect -- second wives are horrible.


homer: just the opposite of real life. 

this and that

i love this ...
feeling
experience
time away
smell of your hair
place where i can be myself
but not you, exactly.

if i had a lover ...

we'd come home from work exhausted, and take a sleepy shower together. after kissing, washing, and drying each other, we'll collapse into bed. the fresh linens are cool and crisp against our still hot skin, and it feels like we are living in luxury. the love we make is slow and sweet, and we finish together. we fall asleep still connected. we are content.

stepping out

uncomfortably full feels uncomfortably good.

04:18

Hulu - Parks and Recreation: Li'l Sebastian: Producer's Cut - Watch the full episode now.

90 mph or mg/dL?

Ford eyes health application for Sync | Detroit Free Press | freep.com

hair-larious

Hair Extension Thefts on the Rise - NYTimes.com

i fought tooth and nail for fame and fortune.

i told my new therapist, suggested to me by a co-worker whose daughter sounds slightly more bonkers than me, that all i want is to be a normal person. that is my number one goal.


what does that mean?


vacuum/dust
grocery shop
laundry
car wash
dog wash
me wash
organize
cook
freeze
scrub tub and toilet
pay bills
sleep properly


these are not lofty goals. it's shameful to even call them goals. these things should be givens for a 31 year old woman. but it's true -- i cannot or will not do these basic life-sustaining tasks. 


right now, the thing i am able to do most effectively is lie on my side and stare, paralyzed by thoughts. 


i am tired.

buy for me

constantine the great wrap around indie ring - $28.99 : ShopRuche.com, Vintage Inspired Clothing, Affordable Clothes, Eco friendly Fashion

no thank you, ma'am/sir

free speech

"you don't get drowned by falling in water, you get drowned by remaining there."

Not Jest For Pun: A Surprising History Of Wordplay : NPR

Not Jest For Pun: A Surprising History Of Wordplay : NPR

warnings

i've been training luna since march to be obedient off-leash. the key is to keep her inside an invisible boundary, say, a 50ft radius. i'm really proud of the discipline she's shown in the last two months, but it's all over now. i can't say it was all for nothing, though.

a few nights ago, we went to the field for the first time this season. this is a huge open space where she can run in circles, close to the ground. i stopped in the middle to look at a dandelion about to seed. i wanted to make a wish, but instead i just asked for knowledge. please, tell me what is going on. what should i do? talking to a weed is a distraction, to say the least, so i didn't realize luna had wandered away to the house on the corner. the woman there was outside with her dogs, only one on a leash. luna can't keep herself away from other dogs, friendly ones or not. after lots of barking, inaction on my part, and the woman screaming, "get your fuckin' dog, bitch!" i grabbed her and drug her away. we sat on the curb and i explained that this is the last time she'll be off-leash, ever. 

i carried her 40+ lbs back to the house, surprised and disappointed. 

then i thought about things. she didn't approach those dogs to break a boundary or be disobedient; it is simply her nature. when she sees another dog, any small bit of reasoning she's capable of is gone. given the opportunity, she will always be with dogs. i can't be angry at that.

it was unpleasant and maybe even scary, but i'm glad i was reminded of her limitations in this way. it could have been a bloody mess, something irreparable. maybe a short leash isn't punishment, it's just necessary. 

more than here

i am happy. things are not perfect, but i am comforted by what i know is true. it's a good place to start.

acceptance

some things just are. don't bother trying to change them -- embrace them and be thankful.

1:11

two armsfull of dirty socks
you miss one 
you miss a lot


if i stoop to pick one up
i'd lose something off the top

two armsfull of dirty socks

did you ever try to control your thoughts?
but what you got 
wasn't what you thought you had bought


everything does change
i could never dream anything
so strange


two armsfull of dirty socks
you miss one 
you miss a lot

it's so hard to read
and be on the same page
as everybody
any bodies?
are welcome

smooth criminal

i self-pampered tonight, shearing off my winter wool and massaging oil on the naked parts. the storms here are sharp and stinging, and i couldn't resist feeling it on my newborn self. i stood on the porch, in my favorite blue and green striped long shirt -- the one that falls off my shoulder -- and nothing else. the wind pushed me back and my feet fell apart, and i opened up -- i felt it all. it bit me like ice, but i laughed all the while.


then i wrote this silly fantasy poem (i like to rhyme):


i am determined to find
my spring clean
your sunday-dream
what did you mean?

let's start at the bottom
where my toes are
often forgotten
in your haste to believe


using the sharpest of five 
blades, you say
you will change me over
whisk them away


it tickles when you move
higher and lighter
your smile gets softer
my muscles get tighter


are we there yet?
i haven't felt in years
it's kind of a fear, what
you'll see inside here


ah, but it's lovely!
burnt sienna and crimson
and a secret shy pink
just for your eyes, or so you think.

anything more would be obscene.

sleeping with the enemy

i had deja vu in a dream last night. is that even possible? and i could feel it coming, too. random scenes:

holding a handgun, trying to decide if the safety was on or not
a friend of my boyfriend (jay? jason?) asking, "is this the weirdest girl you could find?" as an insult, of course.
luna eating cheerios
a woman running with her dogs on a beach, and us (?) telling her she is supposed to be in south america.
celebrating my birthday in a restaurant with my 3 best friends from middle school (but who was the 3rd?)

 then i woke up to very loud hip-hop; a stream that had disconnected a few days ago, but i had not closed the window. 

i have trouble sleeping.

read out loud

i am not only distant and graphic in my search for sex-substitutes; i enjoy intimacy, i am sensitive. after some time of watching internet porn (always wanting to see him cum), i grow bored and need better stimulation. erotic literature is a secret treasure i reserve for these times. anais nin's writings are especially evocative; she is able to make us see love without and within love. and it makes me want, want, want.

excerpt of "marianne" in delta of venus by anais nin:

once, when she was expecting him, she tried leaving the door ajar while she was dressing, but he looked away and took up a book.

he was impossible to arouse except by gazing on him. and marianne by now was in a frenzy of desire for him. the drawing was coming to an end. she knew every part of his body, the color of his skin, so golden and light, every shape of his muscles and, above all, the constantly erect sex, smooth, polished, firm, tempting.

she would approach him to arrange a piece of white cardboard near him that would cast a whiter reflection or more shadows on his body. then finally she lost control of herself and fell on her knees before the erect sex. she did not touch it, but merely looked and murmured, "how beautiful it is!"

at this he was visibly affected. his whole sex became more rigid with pleasure. she kneeled very near it -- it was almost within reach of her mouth -- but again only said, "how beautiful it is!"

since he did not move, she came closer, her lips parted slightly, and delicately, very delicately, she touched the tip of his sex with her tongue. he did not move away. he was still watching her face and the way her tongue flicked out caressingly to touch the tip of his sex.

she licked it gently, with the delicacy of a cat, then she inserted a small portion of it in her mouth and closed her lips around it. it was quivering. 

she restrained herself from doing more, for fear of encountering resistance. and when she stopped, he did not encourage her to continue. he seemed content. marianne felt that that was all she should ask of him. she sprang to her feet and returned to her work. inwardly she was in a turmoil. violent images passed before her eyes. she was remembering penny movies she had seen once in paris, of figures rolling on the grass, hands fumbling, white pants being opened by eager hands, caresses, caresses, and pleasure making the bodies curl and undulate, pleasure running over their skins like water, causing them to undulate as the wave of pleasure caught their bellies or hips, or as it ran up their spine or down their legs. 

but she controlled herself with the intuitive knowledge a woman has about the tastes of a man she desires. he remained entranced, his sex erect, his body at times shivering slightly, as if pleasure coursed through it at the memory of her mouth parting to touch the smooth penis.

the day after this episode, marianne repeated her worshipful pose, her ecstasy at the beauty of his sex. again she kneeled and prayed to this strange phallus which demanded admiration. again she licked it so neatly and vibrantly, sending shivers of pleasure up from the sex to his body, again she kissed it, enclosing it in her lips like some marvelous fruit, and again he trembled. then, to her amazement, a tiny drop of milky-white, salty substance dissolved in her mouth, the precursor of desire, and she increased the pressure and movements of her tongue. 

when she saw that he was dissolved with pleasure, she stopped, divining that perhaps if she deprived him now he might make a gesture towards fulfillment. at first he made no motion. his sex was quivering, and he was tormented with desire, then suddenly she was amazed to see his hand moving toward his sex as if he were going to satisfy himself. 

marianne grew desperate. she pushed his hand away, took his sex into her mouth again, and with her two hands she encircled his sexual parts, caressed and absorbed him until he came. 

he leaned over with gratitude, tenderness, and murmured, "you are the first woman, the first woman, the first woman..."

anais nin and henry miller

sax me up

leisurely thoughts

the weekend was full of nothing, as promised. 

i collaborated on a music project, but didn't give a proper effort. my contribution was sketchy and random, as i was slightly intoxicated from hanging out with my downstairs neighbor and his buddy. 

i ate plenty of junk food, but none of it tasted good. 

and sex. i thought about sex all weekend. i watched sex all weekend. i gave myself sex all weekend. i spent a significant amount of time watching clips of a specific genre, which did nothing but make me jealous. 


maybe it's not love i want -- just the act of. eh, i'm too old. random hookups aren't even possible because my panicking hormones will try to permanently attach me to any male chemicals i come in contact with.


mmm. cum. this is a sure sign my uterus is trying to catch an embryo. i am more turned on by seeing men cum than anything else. my entire body pulses at the thought of it. it sounds so whorish, i know. it's not sickly psychological, it's not a desire to be submissive, it is purely biological. 


the funny thing is, i've decided (for now) to not pursue my plan of being a single mother. i still want a baby, but i want a baby daddy, too. 


we'll see. until then, there's always mother's little helper. 

sweet-smelling jujube fruit

judge tenderly of me

emily dickinson "i died for beauty"

i died for beauty, but was scarce

adjusted in the tomb

when one who died for truth was lain

in an adjoining room.

he questioned softly why i failed,

"for beauty" i replied.

"and i for truth. themself are one.

we brethren are" he said.

and so, as kinsmen met a night,

we talked between the rooms,

until the moss had reached our lips

and covered up our names.

searching for my love, my beauty

it's a long, long way to trek. i'm far away.

lost weekend

this will be a weekend of consolation and chemicals:  shopping, sleep, tv, cincinnati chili, vibrators, and porn. also, any other purely recreational activity i come across.

great friday

PPE (i have none)

it is not advisable to miss doses of Prozac just before one's Period.  it might make one Emotional.

hysterical grief is in my iranian blood.

party like it's 1994

lovefool

i'm getting older, and time passes more and more quickly (i may be the only person i know to not wish for friday; one more weekend coming is another week lost).

but, it is finally springtime -- awakenings, rebirth, and love.

i'm saying that there is no more time to waste, and more importantly, no more love to waste. i'm going to be selfish now; i'm keeping my love. they've all had their chances, every one of them since i was born. i keep putting off my turn because i'm afraid that if i blink, i'll miss something, someone. 

well, fuck that noise. i'm missing nothing, only myself.

so ... from here on out, i'm leaving my romantic loves alone. the new writings might be boring, full of news about my dog, or something equally mundane. in any case, they will belong to me, and only me. i hope to document the beginnings of a "big life."


to kick it off, i'm deleting all posts related to man-induced heartache that have no constructive/creative value. let it go, baby.

 

sexiest man alive

dan bejar (destroyer)

WWJD?

i might have had a threesome tonight if it weren't for Jesus Christ and a devastating lack of bean burritos.

 

all aboard

i should be packed, fed, clothed, and ready to go. i am not one of these things. jeans are still drying, hair is still dirty, pajamas unfound ... do pop-tarts count as food? ... probably not.

it's like this everytime i travel. at least i have money for the dogsitter.

maybe i am

i am a simple organism. i'm able to change shape to get where i need to go, and i don't hold onto any one form for long. i plan to reproduce alone. i have a singular focus: survival. i'm not complicated enough to manipulate or plan. i react to stimuli genuinely, without foresight. i love what i love and fear what i fear. i don't think about it much further than that.

i am perceptions, emotions, reactions, and affections. i am simple, not lowly. i am pure life.


so, fuck off.

 

 

i have borderline personality disorder. look it up.

or click on this: "You can't regulate your emotions despite your best efforts," says Marsha Linehan, a University of Washington psychologist and leading expert on the disorder.

going to the chapel

the huffington post has an entire section devoted to divorce. here's a gem:

"did you know, deep down, you'd get divorced someday?" 

shared space

the ultimate romantic gesture is to read aloud to your love. what if the distance between you is far? the next best thing may be to read what they are reading and hope the two of you are on the same page.

ma'am, step away from the carbs.

i don't write about real things. i express, complain, cry, and explain -- but i don't really reveal much.

well, here's one: i hate food. they say, "keep your friends close, and your enemies closer," yeah? i guess that's the truth of binge eating. while i do despise food for intangible reasons like shame and fear, i also hate it quite literally. it's difficult to find a food that appeals to me. i guess i've reprogrammed my sense of taste to only respond to foods that set off fireworks in my brain. the ultimate dish to reflect this is cincinnati chili. 


i probably consumed 40-50 pounds of spaghetti (not counting the actual chili and cheese) in 2010, easily. 


i've always doubted it, but maybe people can change. i ate it tonight, being careful to cook only a moderate portion (still overeating, but hey -- baby steps). it was easy to limit how much i made to begin with, but it didn't take long for me to want to cook more. in fact, i had only taken 3 or 4 bites of my heaping bowl when i wanted to cook the rest of the pasta and remaining 1.5 cans of chili. 


that feeling is really strange. how can i want more before i've even eaten what i have? i guess it has something to do with those chemical explosions. i don't want it to end, though it's only just begun, and i'm so focused on that prolonged high that i don't even really enjoy what's at hand.


of course, this applies to other aspects of my life. relationships and sex are probably the most common victims.


like i said, maybe things are changing. i didn't cook or eat more. i did have to talk myself down, which is kind of embarrassing even though i was alone. 


maybe my true feelings are starting to emerge, or maybe i can just recognize them more easily. either way, i didn't have more because i simply didn't want it. is that what they call full? is that satiation? or is it just self-control?


don't get me wrong, i'm still miserable. 


it's important to document small victories, nonetheless.

the resurrection

i sang out last night, for the first time in a long time. i thought i'd lost my lust for it, but nope! i'm still here.

i recorded one of my songs tonight, and loaded it onto you tube for the world to enjoy. my phone is worse than shit, it's full-on feces, so the audio and video fall out of sync almost immediately. it makes it kind of creepy to watch, which i hope will be to my advantage.