Samagination

So, I work at a tow truck company overnight, and DUIs are basically what pays my overnight drivers’ bills. I have two drivers, Scott B and Scott L.

Scott B and I spent the evening teaching each other music from our different generations while we waited for calls, and Scott L sat around at his house waiting for a call.

WELL! We got a DUI, and it was Scott L’s call. This poor woman gets a DUI on a Sunday night, and my driver is a big enough dick to come in the office talking shit because this woman is here drinking while her husband is stationed in California for the Marines.

… Are you fucking kidding me? The woman is not allowed to drink because she has a husband stationed across the fucking country? 

Me: It’s not like he’s stationed in Afghanistan or something. If my husband was stationed in the land where all of the boobs are bigger and I was stuck here, I’d be drinking too.
Scott L: That’s fucked up. If my wife was drinking, I wouldn’t be coming back to her.
Me: Yeah, if she’s lucky.

He’s the biggest misogynistic prick in the universe. This is the same guy who won’t let his wife work out, or wear thongs and mini skirts (yeah, he tells me these things), and puts a lock on her call history so she can’t delete anything.

I fucking HATE him. And I feel much better now. Thank you, Tumblr.

I want:

A green Late Night with Jimmy Fallon T-Shirt
Forever 21 Gift Card
Cake Vodka (which I’ll end up buying myself)
Acoustic Guitar

But don’t get me any of that.
Instead, everyone should ban together
and figure out why my AT&T High Speed Internet
runs like a little bitch all the damn time.

THAT’SALLINEED

Can someone make me some appointments?
I need an eye doctor, a dentist, and a regular old check up. I’m too lazy to do it myself.

Oh, and can you wake me up, feed me, and drive me to my appointment?
I’m sure I’ll be too lazy to do those things too, when the time comes.

Is work almost over?
I feel like I’ve been here since Thursday.

Should I get a haircut?
I really want to grow it out, but at the same time, I hate having hair.

Is it my birthday yet?
IS IT MY BIRTHDAY YET?!
IS IT MY DAMN BIRTHDAY YET?!?!?!

This is what my mother texted me this morning, while I was sitting at my work desk, sitting on hold with a customer. She hasn’t talked to me since I refused to give my meth-addicted bum of a brother a cigarette just after he stole over $45 from me.

My mother likes to blame me for all of their problems.

I vented to her about how my bills were overwhelming me last week, and I said, “I may as well just kill myself”. Of course, I didn’t mean it. And I wasn’t looking for any kind of response. But my mother shrugged both her shoulders and her eyebrows and said “Well…” and walked out of the room.

It’s a good thing I’m only weak in short spurts.
Or I may have actually killed myself.
Or her.

CUNT.

For my entire life, I’ve always had trouble keeping a journal. When things exciting enough to write about happen, I’m usually too into the moment to write about it and by the time I finally gather my thoughts enough to write, too much has happened since that I can’t even recall what I wanted to write about before. 

Another issue I have is that I can barely write how I really feel in the journal that hides deep inside of the hidden folders of my hard drive without speaking in riddles that I won’t understand a year from now, let alone on a website where anyone can read it. I figure it’s due to the same reason I dance around questions and I don’t enjoy relationships; I don’t like people to get too deep in me. I’ll share my love for life, my hopes and dreams, and a million laughs with you, but I don’t enjoy having people know too much about the inner workings of me.

I don’t want people to know the struggles I have with my current living situations, while still being entirely grateful for a studio that I can call my own while I go through these next 32 months of school. I would never feel comfortable sharing the main reason that I chose Music Production as a future career, even though anyone who has a drunken conversation with me about another topic entirely could, but never does, pick up on it quite easily. And I don’t think that I can muster the words out loud of what that other topic is, because it’s a topic I dance around often, and while addressing the subject, I always come at it from impossible to trace angles.

This is what I mean… how are you supposed to follow the nonsense that comes out of my head when I set it up to be undecipherable? Why would anyone want to communicate with someone who can’t even communicate her heart to her brain? What kind of person wants to share feelings with someone who has a short attention span for feelings? When will people start taking me seriously when I warn them that I should come with my own warning label, and to disregard any sort of romantic feelings they develop for me? And at what point will people stop believing that they can “save” me and make me a “better” person?

I like who I am. I like the strength that I get out of detaching myself from situations when they feel detrimental to me. I like that I find myself enthralled by the sweetest and kindest of men, and that I never feel the need to have to settle for them, even though they promise me that no one will ever “put up with my shit” like they do. I like that I can adapt to almost any person, place, or thing, as long as it doesn’t threaten my idea of comfort and happiness. And I like that no matter how many years go by, I haven’t lost the internal workings that make me who I am.

So do your worst, world… do whatever you need to make yourself feel better.
I’m young, I’m independent, and I have the world ahead of me.
Try and stop me.
Just try.

I’m fucking invincible.

(from my LiveJournal)

I love my dad. I do. But I can’t talk to him about anything that means anything to me without getting laughed at or yelled at.

He’s done it for as long as I can remember.
A few examples:

EXAMPLE ONE:
Me: “I got a job as a manager at Tan and Tone!”
Dad: [laughs] “Who’d you have to hold at gun point for that one?”

EXAMPLE TWO:
Me: “I think I need to move. This isn’t working for me, I can’t live in this kind of environment, it’s literally making me sick.”
Dad: [yells] “ARE YOU FUCKING STUPID?”

EXAMPLE THREE:
Me: “Actually, I have been talking to someone. And I really kinda like him. We connect really well, and we have a lot in common.”
Dad: [laughs] “Why? Is he from outerspace? Is he an alien that you have a lot in common with?”

I didn’t even understand that one… and I could give more examples, but just those alone were enough to annoy me.

Do we really just have to do the…
“Hey”
“How ya doin?”
“Hows your day?”
“How’s (insert mutual person of adoration/concern)?”
“Love you, bye”
… every time we have a conversation? Forever?

There’s other things going on in my life that you don’t ask about, and when I try to volunteer that information, in hopes of a parental unit that I can talk to about things I’m interested in, it blows up in my face.

My mother is no better…. my father laughs/yells when I try to talk to him, but my mother just ignores me. If she has no interest, she will literally talk about ANYTHING else as soon as I’m done speaking, or while I’m still speaking.

Why does this always surprise me?
It shouldn’t.

But just as I shouldn’t get so heated that I have parents that could give a shit less about what I want or how I feel, they should stop getting so mad that their daughter is no where near the person they hoped for. I’m not a medical worker, a manual laborer, a wife, or a mother. I have no purpose.

… You’d think twice about that if you knew me, at all.

“Don’t listen to your kooky mother. Remember that dream you had? Where your mother was happy? She went back to college, ate healthy, exercised regularly, and got along with me? You told me she was inspiring? Think about her when you think you need help from your mother. And when your real mother tells you something, know that the other one would say the opposite.

So when she says, ‘Don’t go into the hospital… you’re just gonna have another expensive hospital bill to pay. And DON’T tell them you think you had a seizure, because they’ll take your license. And you have bills to pay!’ … she really means … ‘We’re going to go to the hospital and tell them we think you had a seizure, or some sort of allergic reaction, and we’re going to explain everything that happened. They may take your license, but we’ll find a way to get you to and from work so that you can still get your bills paid.’

Pay the hospital bills if you have to. It’s just money.”

… Thank you, dad. I really needed that.

The money really isn’t a big deal if it can save my life.
Or the lives of others.