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Mar. 22nd, 2012

Alex and I

(no subject)

One of the first things I learned when I started hanging out with sketchy people was that if you do something illegal, you sure as hell don't tell anyone. This is pretty basic logic, but you'd be surprised - or maybe you wouldn't, in which case, we could be friends - how many people want to brag about this thing they've done. This rule is especially true if you've gotten away with it. (Imagine if O.J. Simpson were to start bragging publicly about how he murdered his wife and got away with it? He would be brought up on charges for something else since he couldn't be tried for the same crime.) 

You start to learn from oberservation that the world doesn't necessarily work the way we think it works. For example, in this great nation of the free, it can sometimes be difficult to remember that we did once condone slavery and racism, that women couldn't vote at one time, that we had a eugenics program and even Japanese intournment camps. Despite our lovely living document the Constitution, we have wrtten so many laws to bypass its authority (IE, The Patriot Act) Is it really so hard to believe that your government is corrupt enought that it really would bring you up on false charges? Regardless, I digress, this is a tangent. 

What I'm really interested in talking about is graffiti. I am in love with this art form. It's assistance as backgrounds in much of my portrait work - also definied as highly uncreative work I do to appease vain clients - inspires me for more real art. I have become obsessed with learning to photograph in the same way graff artists paint, that is, the way they layer their designs. I want to replicate the same mindset a graff artitst has, how he chooses his sites, his composition, etcetera. To do this of course, I would have to be a graff artist, and vandalism is illegal. 

Now, all that stuff I told you before: Forget about it. When you are serving your art muse you can only be focused on that one thing, everything else, your health, your friends, your finances, your opinions, all have to take a backseat to what your art demands you do. I'm not saying I'm some kind of prude with innocent white hands, but when it comes to this sort of thing, I do pause for a moment. Art is holy. Now, whatever feelings you may have about vandalism, especially graffiti, please set them aside for a moment and think: if "god created the world", then aren't we being Christ-like to create? Anything? Period? Yes. Art is holy. 

This having been said, cops just don't fucking agree. They can't, they're actually paid not to. (The shitty part is, we, the artists, pay them. It's ironic really.) And, as a graffititi artitst, one must constantly accept the evenescent quality of their work and do what...? Photograph it, of course! And thus, we have found a way to avoid these dissenting coppers from bringing us up on some wicked charges. How is this? Sometimes when trespassing to photograph abandoned or crippled buildings, a pesky neighbor might phone me in as a vandal. When the cops arrive, however, they find no hoodlum in black jeans breaking shit just for the fun of it, but a verry innocent looking white chick with an extremely nice camera wrapped around her neck ready to present credentials for some bogus online magazine. This capacity to look innocent, when otherwise not being so, has kept me from paying thousands in fines. Any accomplished graff artist carries a point and shoot to capture their art before it's sand blasted away, I'm doing exactly this though without degrading myself with a point and shoot. 

Dec. 16th, 2011

Alex and I

Running on the Hampster Wheel

Several months ago I moved and decided that living in a metro allowed me to walk everywhere instead of drive, so I dropped my car insurance. The insurance company had sent me a letter noting that my coverage would be dropped if I didn't pay some bill to the tune of a hundred dollars. Sounded good to me: keep my money and lose a service that's never done me any good anyway. Unfortunately, someone at that insurance company decided that I still owed that bill and now some collection agency is barking down my neck constantly.

Let me make something absolutely clear for a moment: people don't ignore their bills because they're just mean and want to cause a brawl. In all honestly, if everyone were very wealthy, collection companies would never be needed. The problem with paying bills often arises when one is forced to chose between an immediate necessity (food, shelter, communication, gas, etc.) and something like insurance - which is best described as a large monster that requires money to gobble down lest it eat us all up. Therefore, government and local authorities do their best to ensure you pay your fair dues to the evil beast lest we all be punished. 

I have to my name currently about eighty dollars cash. In less than a week my phone will be shut off unless I can front fifty to keep it on. I still don't have car insurance. If I pay this bill I won't have gas to get to my awesome new job. 

I feel like I've taken a step forward and two steops back, I've done everything I can to keep my head above water without taking advantage of anyone. I don't want to be labeled a failure or a mooch, and despite all of my efforts, I still have been. 

I went to college because it's what is expected of "successful" people; that landed me in debt over my damn eyeballs.
I tried to pursue a career; that made me feel worthless because there are no jobs.
I tried to do the good legal thing and keep car insurance; that landed me in some legal trouble with the insurance company and has now ruined my credit score... Good thing banks aren't loaning anyway. 

Conclusion: Drugs are a much better reality than the reality of common standards. Success is only successful if you enjoy it, I for one am not. I want my Entactogenesis back, even synthetic happiness is better than misery. 

Nov. 16th, 2011

Alex and I

5 Things That Ruin Good Sex.

Recently I found out that my ex is engaged. We all have to move on eventually, and I'm glad that he is because it never would have worked out between us. (What I mean by that is I'm full of self loathing because he left me for some tiny blonde bimbo who's been cheating on him since January.) Of course, there are ways to deal with that. The first one, of course, it to remain positive, forgiving, and meditate on his happiness to achieve my own. Despite the obvious benefits to getting over a man that clearly doesn't deserve me, it's not exactly my style. Thus, what's behind door number two? The classic rebound. - Never mind that I've been rebounding from Sean for the past two years, this is an excellent time to renew my self loathing and defeat his memory.

Clearly I have sex a lot. Because its so high on my list of priorities, there are a few things that I hate because they inconvenience me when I'm getting down. A big "Fuck You" to the things on this list:

1) Fancy hair.

After spending hours fiddling with hairspray, flat irons, bobby pins, finishing spray and my yorkie barking at the blowdryer, I emerge from the bathroom with a masterpiece atop my head. Voila! Je suis parfait! Je suis belle! Everyone knows that hair can make or break any look and this has translated into a multi-million dollar industry trying to help women primp their coifs without bringing too much damage to their tresses or their wallets. (Remember "Bump Its"? Perfect example.)

The countdown has begun, I have three hours to seduce some poor bloke. If my hair hasn't fallen flat in the first half an hour, what transpires thereafter will make any additional effort I put into my hair completely bunk. If you can makeout, foreplay and fuck without ruining your perfect hair, you're far too vanilla. Hairstyles like the ones seen here tend to end looking like this after a good romping:
"It's not actually as sexy as it looks when it keeps getting stuck under someone's humping."

2. Fake Nails. 

Add this to my list of reasons the French manicure should be banned. You mean well, and yes, they do look very nice, but after all of that cuticle torture that seems to hurt for days and the glue that destroys your real nails, it all seems worthless when a nail (or nails) pop off during sex. In the heat of the moment, it's difficult to control your clawing, let alone the pressure of the clawing. (Seriously, some things are more important.)

Also fake nails are quick way to tell a girl isn't touching herself much (or has a vast collection of vibrators at her immediate disposal) Why is this? Because clitoral orgasm is an intense thing that requires some serious stimulation, if you've got fake nails, your junk is going to look like a prisoner that got caught in razor wire when you're done. There's a lot in the way of pleasuring a man that can't be done with long nails either, real or fake. Tell your beautician I said fuck fake nails.

3. Condoms.

For all of the wonderful good they do in protecting against pregnancy and the spread of noxious diseases, there is nothing more awkward than the five seconds it takes to rip open the foil and clumsily pull on a rubber - but that's only the first reason they suck.

Sometimes men think it's appropriate to go ahead and move along with the foreplay part of a seduction knowing full and well they don't have a condom tucked away in their wallet somewhere. They're honestly hoping that in the heat of your horniness, you'll give them a pass and let them go to town without one. By saying fuck that guy, I mean don't fuck that guy. 

4. Cell Phones.

There I am, in the middle of my moves, I've got this guy wrapped around my fingers. Ironically, society would consider this a good thing at the same time they're considering me a whore, but this is from the same society that invented cell phones. Such useful devices that anyone that has a nice one can't bring themselves out of their own virtual world of Words With Friends, Angry Birds, and Facebook. Given that I myself have panic attacks if I misplace my beloved Blackberry, I fully understand (while also hate) phones going off in the middle of sex. Suddenly all concentration is broken. You're wondering "Who just text me? Was it my boss? Oh shit... Oh fuck..." Believe it or not, that lack of attention seriously ruins good sex. Turn it off or leave it in the car, fuck your phone.  

5. Dogs.

Cats are chill. They don't want to have a front row seat to you getting nasty. Dogs are literally a completely different animal. They're always right there with their nose on the edge of the couch / bed / table watching intently. What would you expect from something that greets others by sniffing their butts? Anyone that's ever visited a frat house knows the crazy smells associated with fucking and your dog really wants his nose up in the business to smell all of this.

Thank god my precious little yorkie can barely jump up on the bed, let alone stick her cold little nose on my ass while I'm getting down. If you have a dog, put him in a different room. Nothing is worse than that pair of docile eyes just staring from over the bed. Really, it's unnerving. 

I've actually dealt with the entire slew of bullshit in one night, and yeah, I got over it okay, but if there's one thing this country was based on, it's the right to bitch about things that bother us. In that light, this is probably the most patriotic blog I've ever seen. PLUR. 

Oct. 4th, 2011

Alex and I

The Beginning of the End

My worst fear is becoming an actual, bone fide reality: Sean and Cassidy are engaged. Obviously I am utterly heartbroken, but this is charted territory. I've done this before. Ben Jamin left me for my best friend, and I'm sure that the double betrayal is about equal to a betrayal plus an engagement. Sure, I'm heartbroken, but this situation is deja vu, I'll get through it.

However, just like before, being left for someone as tiny as Cassidy or Vika is incredibly triggering. I've been restricting again little by little since before I left Powell. When I moved to Utah it was even easier to hide because Matt is both insensitive and inattentive, so then the purging began. Now that I'm back to Idaho and there's horrible things happening in my life (Rajah dying, Sean and Cassidy's engagement and of course my lack of employment and debtors calling constantly) I'm restricting with a fervor I've never had before. I work out 4-5 hours a day, drink water by the liter and the house is meticulously clean. The perfectionism is back in black tights and a pink tutu, pirouetting across every aspect of my life... Again.

I partially feel that this sudden force of starvation at it's finest is due to my inability to partake in any substance right now. I'm applying for a good job, a respectable, well paying, actual job with goals and rewards. Unfortunately, it's a very LDS sort of company with periodic drug testing so I have to be a very good girl. No herb. I have some capsules full of mushrooms I ground up and of course I can always order some kratom if things get rough but a poor mindset and lack of funds are preventing both of those options. When one of my vices step back, another steps up to take it's place: Enter Ana in all her glory, shiny gold high heels and a feather boa.

Speaking of which: I recently became friends with a stripper vixen. She told me a lot about her business (because she calls herself an independent contractor in order to deduct EVERYTHING on her taxes.) I wish that there were clubs here, I have absolutely no doubt that I could impress the fuck out of a manager at an audition. Getting a job wouldn't be a problem, finding a club however definitely is. I'm completely fine with an irregular income. (Is it sad that I would prefer to score a job at a club than work at the good, reliable, well paying job that requires slacks and heels? Only if you think that smoking crack is bad.)

May. 7th, 2011

Alex and I

Missing my Beloved

I will never stop loving MCAT and opiates. I know that if something is addictive then it's probably not good, but I love it anyway. I still love Nathan even after he brutally raped me and manipulated me with it for years. I still love Ben, and I would kill if Sean wanted me to but there is one love I hold dearer than even them and I miss her.

I feel myself relapsing again, I didn't notice it until tonight though. It's so weird when you return to old habits in new ways. I've been sabotaging relationships again, I do it to isolate myself so that no one will be around to hear me purge. I insult people so that if they do hear, they hate me enough to not say anything. I started taking my toothbrush into the shower again and making mental tick marks whenever I eat, small vital calculations. I hate that I'm doing this again, but I'm so happy. I'm healthy right now, neurotic yes, but physically healthy for the most part. The stress of moving again, the anticipation for my new apartment and worry about finances and seeing my family again are taking a solid tole on me.

I've found that so many people are very against my drug use because they see it as unhealthy, very dangerous and unethical. If they only knew that my drug usage was the vice that got me to eat again, I'm sure they would condone it more, it's a much slower death than my ED tends to be. I swing away, gain weight, even develop a decent self image, but the bug in my psyche has to go somewhere. It manifests as delusions, psychosis and anxiety. I stop eating, and all of that goes away, a constant focus to keep this demon busy. It starts simple enough with some revulsion at food, contempt for my arms and then slowly but surely the restricting begins. I only eat shredded lettuce and insist on not sitting with anyone at dinner. Soon I'm skipping meals altogether. The water bottle comes next, I'm constantly drinking trying to flush out water weight. I start playing games, using the lightheadedness and nirvana fasting affords me, I develop a whole new system of escapism. I talk to the moths that eat at my stomach and look up thinspo every morning after I weight myself naked. I am a slave to my routine when she is here. I imagine her looking just like Hana: beautiful and difficult to appease, a lost cause that I would literally die for.

I don't think I ever told Matt about my eating disorder; it should be easy to hide everything once I'm finally back in Salt Lake.

Apr. 28th, 2011

Alex and I

Recess for Adults

My kratom is finally here! In combination with the the fantastic high quality Tongan kava I bought, I feel base-line sane again... almost. Opiate highs are great feminist highs, and do you want me to tell you why? Because opiates don't tell you how to feel. Weed is an entheogen, it usually makes you feel insightful and lighthearted. MDMA is an entactogen, it makes you really fucking glad to be alive. Alcohol will make you incredibly... Something... but generally not something you necessarily want to be in public. Opiates are amazing because they offer a delicious body high, but it doesn't tell you how to feel. If you want to be depressed as hell and lay on your bed and write very bad emo poetry and just be high, you can. It gives you this big blanket made entirely out of peace and escapism to curl up in and just feel your own emotions. Opiates are lovely. Unfortunately however, both kava and kratom seem to have a side effect for me that I don't remember reading about online, and that is that they both make me incredibly horny. I can't lay in bed, take a shower, work on images, listen to music, digitally freshen up, or carry on a semi lucid conversation without soaking my panties. It's wonderful.

The whole thing started out innocently enough; masturbating constantly, watching porn and sending naughty pictures to a few of my favorite boys. Then one of those boys, my beloved Mister Matt decided to work me up more than any amount of kava ever could by describing how he's been fantasizing about tying me up in our new apartment. That would have been enough to bother me all afternoon if he hadn't started mentioning swinger parties. Had I not already been pretty worked up and high on kratom, I probably would have been alarmed when he asked me what my fantasy is, but as things went, I was not.

- I want two men inside me at once while I make out with and possibly pleasure some super voluptuous fox with great cock sucking lips... Oh and we'll all be rolling... On MCAT...

- That's beautiful.

"That's beautiful"?! Is it? Then you can imagine my surprise when he says it's all mine, that I can bring home anyone I want, I can be his concubine and in fact, we should start a harem. Now normally I would be pissed at being called a concubine in a general sense, but when it comes to actuality, that's probably a fantasy of mine too. I want him to own me, parade me around at his little parties, or lock me in the closet for sport. When it comes to sex, being bossed around even to an abusive level is a huge turn on for me. I've fantasized about being sold into human trafficking, the idea of my roommate tying me up and making me suck his cock sounds awesome.

The intrigue thickens though; Mister Matt has promised to take me to a swinger party where hopefully we can dose with several other like minded adults and all have a fucking great time (pun intended).

When I was a little girl I used to love to get on the swing set. I would swing higher than anyone else on the playground and close my eyes and pretend I was a bird. The air blowing in my hair was like ecstasy. I think that this is just another kind of playground and this is just another kind of swing, but there will still be ecstasy and I'll still be the best at it. I consider it a sort of sexual boot camp and I can't wait to be taught a lesson.

Apr. 19th, 2011

Alex and I

The Other Woman

Ok, I'm officially in the manic stage of my bipolar. I'm very edgy (but a constant flow of high grade kava through my system seems to be helping that) Sometimes the best I can hope for is a fog to view life through and to dull the things that would normally make me irate. This achieved, however, I have this horrible tendency to make bad choices. My most recent being to seduce a guy who's already taken... On another continent... Who just so happens to be prominent in the music industry... and no less than twice my age... (Hi, I would like to clear up any allegations that I may be a gold digger. I feel a bit like Bill Clinton trying to defend myself here.)
The whole thing started out innocently enough as these things usually do; we talked about drugs, some energetic stuff and a couple of his comments helped me through a rough patch I was going through. Unfortunately, that only caused me to think he was pretty rad. At the time, I had no idea that this forty-something oddity--who must clearly possess some kind of dynamic to attract me to him other than his appearance (ICK!)--already had a significant other who lives with him and is apparently very paranoid that he's cheating on her. (I assume this is a regular topic of dinner conversations between the two of them.)

So now, In addition to writing way too much poetry and making much-longer-than-necessary entries in my journal, I feel chained to my computer, chronically checking my Facebook and Gmail accounts for replies or short comments. Hours go by, I can't focus on anything else (except drugs... Odd parallel there that infatuation has similar effects on the brain that cocaine has, but then, I love cocaine.) I keep finding cool chemicals I want to ask him about. He talks like Sean and acts like he truly believes himself to be a shaman. It's laughable, for sure, but the parts that are funny are unidentifiable: Am I amused by this because I am projecting my expectations of Sean onto a stranger? Or is it because, though acutely aware that I'm being manipulated, I continue to walk in a drug induced haze in that direction? Meh. I guess it doesn't really matter, it's still bloody hilarious.

I want to trip on datura. This guy that I am now playing the other woman to (who will remain nameless due to his work) tells me it's amazing. In a retarded way I just want him to be there with me when eat the seeds, and pretty much be my benevolent sitter. Lame, right? I feel like that innocent little girl in a lacy white dress, clutching a teddy bear and just direly wanting to feel safe and loved, and in that, I want to trip? Am I the only one that feels like I might be bashing whatever is left of my innocence over the head with a ten pound bag of chemicals? Maybe Music Maker Man is "editing" me. (Editing meaning, manipulating me to see things the way he wants me to see them. Helping me to point out my insecurities to insinuate a need for protection is the most common version of editing men do and it's likely he's doing it to me now.) OR -- and I'll wager this is the more likely of the two cases -- I'm a train wreck of mental illnesses creating problems for myself to analyze to bride the time it takes him to respond to my emails which is in and of itself creating a drastic downward spiral of insecurity, instability, and is clearly a waste of time. Prognosis: If I stop dwelling on the whole process and actually find something productive to do, it will stop.

Mar. 31st, 2011

Alex and I

Rice Crispy Brains

Last Friday morning I woke up like a zombie: "BRAIIINSSSS!!! I NEED WEEEEEEED!!!!" Yeah, I know. Slightly different tune, yes, but my rebound-rebound (that is my rebound for Dalton who was a rebound for Curtis) got me some DANK leaves. Normally my morning urges beg me for coffee, cocaine, continue with the ever present whining for MCAT or sex, but lately I've been marching to an earthier tune for herb... Particularly that smoked out of an apple with a bit of clove oil. When Calvin heard this, he was only all too eager to oblige. As a dealer and someone who has been trying to recruit "apple junkies" for the last month or so, I'm sure he saw dollar signs when he heard me say that - so much so that he actually dove out of the backseat of Lex's Jeep to hug me. Of course, what do loyal would-be confidants of drug dealers do on special occasions? Offer to smoke the dealer out to earn brownie points, of course. (Which really just entails giving said dealer money since you were going to buy your herb from him anyway.) So when mister dank-nugs decided to have a birthday, oh man. I intended for all of that to happen, of course. All part of the plan and all that, but every calculating criminal knows not to get fucked up when their fucking someone over, I am a retarded criminal and decided it would be completely fine to get baked out of my skull and ended up sleeping with him. (SHIT SHIT SHHHITT!! SHITTTTTT!!! SHHHHHIIIIT!!!)

Naturally, to the unobservant outsider, this seems like a good thing. "Oh, but now that you're his booty call you can get free weed!" Um, only up to the point that the dealer ever actually gets some. There are two types of girls in the criminal world: The booty calls, and the homegirls. When trying to get to homegirl status, it's incredibly important that you don't get the brilliant idea to lower yourself to the easily attained casual fuck. (Um, hello. He's a drug dealer, he can have anyone he wants because he has good shit to sell. I've seen guys offer up their girlfriends for less than weed before.)

So, given that this place can't afford me the anonymity of the metro, there are people talking about it all over the damn place. Where normally I would be stoked for all of the good publicity, I'm actually freaked out.
He's got a friend "coming from out of town" and he has to "go chill with her for a bit." Crap, I'm out. I speak dealer. Most girls would think they'd been replaced, I know he means he's going on a deal and is being triple chill with me. DAMN. YOU'RE NOT THAT CHILL WITH YOUR HOMEGIRL. DAMMIT! DAMMIT! DAMMMMMIT!!! Ah well. If nothing else, at least I got laid and smoked out a few times.

Hana and I broke up after a horrible trip on DOB in Fort Dodge. That place is bloody sketch, by the way. Literally everyone there is one coke, it's like being in Mexico but with less protection because the government won't propagandize American's dying of overdose on it's own soil. I don't care if people do drugs or not, they can be a good way to expand the mind, escape reality, heal the soul, and have an all around really great time. I have an issue with anyone using that can't control themselves however. If I can't pass up a line when I feel like I'm getting a cold, then I have no business doing coke. Hana isn't one of those people that can pass up the line and rolled up twenty. After dragging me around through the ghetto for two hours saying some horrible things to sketchy people, I had to flip shit on her. I demanded to be back on the bus for home no later than noon the next day. Thank god I did too. She was everything to me, and now she wont even answer my phone calls, going so far as to actually change her number. I think it was time though, a wake up call for her and a 16 hour healing process for me.

While lying alone in the bath tub, horrified by how dirty and disgusting my skin and the tile looked, I had this realization about my life. I don't feel close to very much. Halfway across the country, so far from anything I have history with, I ended up curled up in a ball in the corner with my shoes crying. I've been to concerts in those shoes, ran from cops, broke into buildings, drove stolen cars across state lines, and danced more than most ballet shoes see. My moccasins seemed to epitomize my history for the past 3 years, from the mud caked on the outsides to the dark imprints of my toes on the insides, my shoes are home. I thought about my friends that feel fake, my estrangement from my family, the odd hostility the world seems to have for my future, and I completely broke down. How did I end up in this sketch apartment in Iowa tripping on something that is clearly not acid, alone and begging the Universe to get Sean to answer his phone. Though she abhors any drug use on my part, Jazzy was an angel's voice on my phone that night. I begged the Universe to give me someone I have history with to help make that strange bathroom feel more homey.

Sometimes I wonder why I'm going to school. Working at a hotel cleaning rooms part time and getting high as hell in the evening seems better in a lot of ways. I often frown on escapism as a reason for using drugs, but sometimes I feel like it's as valid a reason as any other, somewhat like the pot calling the kettle black.
Alex and I

back to where we got the job...

It's been so good to be home, no classes, regular hours, close friends and trips to the metro. The parties and alcohol have been plentiful, the drugs super pure and cheap. Seems like an oasis of relaxation and altered states, no?
Unfortunately (or... fortunately...?) I decided to go to SLC for a rave. Initially I decided to throw Dalton's cares to the wind due to my suspicions of his duplicity. I wanted to hit on everyone: Nick, Sean, pretty girls at the rave, creepy men with free drugs, would-be-chemists selling MCAT.
Nick blew me off for some 30 year old anorexic chick with great hair and a plastic face (but a sweet heart). Sean however was everything and more than I remembered him being. He made me feel completely amazing, he watched over me at the rave, hooked me up right with some dank tabs, and paraded me around as his own at his after-party (which was sick). God, I missed him. I forgot how in tune we are with each other. He cares about me so much, when he looks at me, or talks to me, it's so genuine. He's so amazing to be around, it's phenomenal. I completely threw out any enchantment I had with Dalton. I told myself he's silly, and rude, and doesn't care. I'm in love with Sean and that's all I need. Sure, Dalton's pretty but lets just get rid of him and live happily ever after.

(I actually wrote this at the beginning of January, but life happened and it didn't get posted. Blah.)

Dec. 12th, 2010

Alex and I

Finals Week

I love being busy. It removes so much temptation from my plate, both literally and figuratively speaking. I'm only concerned about my math final really, and the more stressed out we both get, the better the sex is with Dalton. It's so weird after everything I've done to be loyal to one person, but I'm keeping pace pretty successfully. No one's perfect, myself included, but he's a pretty good substitute. It's strange to have a man look me in the eyes when we have sex. It's so much more personal; not even Sean did that. I always had this concept that sex was very isolating. Sure, it requires some team work, but each person is sort of in their own little world. (Usually he's pretty happy and I'm pretty bored.) Yeah, occasionally he resorts back to more selfish manly things but it's completely acceptable after he's addressed my emotional needs. Despite being fairly self absorbed, if I start having a bit of a breakdown, he offers some genuine sympathy and well thought out words of encouragement. I thought I was the only person capable of crafting insightfully supportive sentence structure... Hahahaha!

I got him an Italian book and Inception for Christmas; he's apparently spent close to a grand on my gift... I feel horrible and deliciously special all at the same time. It's really weird to me, a dirty skank, that anyone would legitimately TREASURE me. I feel like the more typical gifts are more appropriate, like the ones Chad would get me: Here's a cheap necklace that I stole from Wal Mart and some chocolates that you won't eat so I'll just let my friends eat them. Thanks for the sweaters and designer watch, by the way. You're a complete sweetheart. Damn... That's so horrible that I still feel that way. I'm genuinely trying to change how I perceive myself though; I'm off MCAT, I weened myself off and the withdrawl was a bitch. I haven't gotten drunk in a couple weeks because Dalton expressed that he's not cool with it. I've been trying to cuss less, and rediscover the princess I was once convinced I was - I even asked for a tiara for Christmas. Despite all of my best efforts, however, my reputation still preceeds me. Dalton's coworkers give him shit for being with a slut; I feel horrible for him that he has to suffer the consequences of my choices, and also ashamed that they would call me that. It's one thing for me to come to terms with it, I'm trying to change, it's another thing for people that I consider my friends to give me such stigmatizing labels.

I got approved to receive an IUD after Christmas. Normally they're $400 but because I'm a broke ass college student, the ARCH Foundation hooked me up with one for free. I'm completely stoked about it because pregnancy is my second greatest fear after going blind and because of my unique blood issues, it would be very dangerous for me to take a pill. Provided I can pass an STD test, then I can get it inserted right after I come back for second semester. Though I've always been good about using condoms, I'm still extremely terrified I could have something. My sexual partners have been notoriously skanky, and that night with Curtis when we were rolling has completely traumatized me. Who knows what he could have picked up in Brazil??! (Brazilian women should come with warning labels... If they start printing them up, maybe I should get one too??) I think more than anything I'm horrified that I've given Dalton something. I know he's not "the guy" because he wants children more than anything, and the concept freaks me the fuck out. I would feel absolutely terrible if I had given him something. I told him I was clean because my last test WAS clean, but the Curtis incident happened since then. He would be extremely upset, and it could impede his ability to find his perfect girl. I've already decided that if push comes to shove and I do have to tell him I've given him some horrible infection, I'll consign to having kids for him. Eugh... Fuck children... Hopefully though, by some miracle of the Universe and by the grace of the Great Integrity my test will come out completely clean, I'll get my IUD put in, and everything will be completely fine. *fingers crossed*

I'll be working for Sean at Naughty or Nice so I should be able to get into the rave for free, plus hopefully score some Unified Chaos yoga pants. Sean and Lil are done. She pretty much decided the same thing I had to, that she prizes her freedom over any amount of Sean's adoration. He's such a wonderful guy. I keep hoping that things will get better for him. I keep thinking about this poor little girl that's growing up somewhere thinking that her daddy doesn't absolutely love her, probably never knowing that he's trying so hard to find her. Damn that baby's momma! I want to try to manifest a better reality for all of them. Poor Sean... Why do such horrible things happen to such genuine people? Damn... He's so loving and sincere, all he wants is to be with his daughter and make some lucky girl incredibly happy but baby's momma is crazy, and he keeps attracting girls that haven't pin pointed who they are yet. (Myself included.) I hope the Universe starts sending him much better cards. I love that man SO much; he's such an inspiration to character and the virtues of perserverence.

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