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I wish with all my heart that I knew at the time that I was having the greatest time of my life.  In every oneee of those times, I had no idea.. And only now that I am no longer in that place & time, I look back and realize that those were truly the most wonderful of memories. I wonder if I would have been more delicate with what I had, had I known. But I guess I'll have to keep wondering that. 
Anyway, seems so far away now that it's like watching a movie.
Well, not my most articulate or interesting post but it needed to be said.



drained drained
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I just keep doing this every so often and it's just absolutely traumatizing. But I can't help it. I need to do it like a bad habit. Ew, I actualllyyy make myself sickkkkk. I'm like an addictttt. Why would I stay up and torture myself with things I can't change? Because my name is Tabitha and that's what I do, obviously. Ugh.

I'm just going to go ahead and distract myself by talking to (what is obviously) myself about nothing. Such as:

There is some leftover pad thai in my fridge from my lunch/dinner... linner.. dunch.....(I like dunch better I think.) I've been painfully full since I ate at like 4pm. By painfully full I mean I'm having heart palpitations and I'm in physical pain from being an overstuffed pig. By painfully full I also mean that I haven't even wanted to pick at anything edible (which is a rarity for me seeing as despite how overfull I get during dinner I always have room for dessert/picking at small things in the hours following.) And YET I find myself trying to talk myself into doing something disgusting like having the rest of my pad thai at 2am. It's just SO good. Don't judge me till you've had this pad thai. I'm not even remotely hungry but I really want to eat it. That can't even be healthy? I may or may not have turned into an emotional eater. Because I obviously need another issue.. I don't quite have a full collection yet...

I really should go to sleep now. And by go to sleep I mean continue doing my crossword until my brain feels like mush and I fall asleep whilst crossword puzzling. Because I'd rather not go back to torturing myself. What a healthy, non-masochistic thing to say, right? Thanks I try. 


Goodniiiiight :)


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All of these goddamn cards and little notes and messages. They keep showing up. Of course I go right ahead and read them as they emerge. And I'm a fucking moth. And these pieces of you I keep finding are massive, hot lightbulbs lighting up the porch in August. And I'm the stupid dead moth, burned to a crisp. Because I just wanted to be near the fucking light just a little bit longer.
You know when you do something just to see if you can handle it? I thought that's what I was doing. But maybe I'm just a masochist because the truth is that I know I can't, but I can't stop.

I actually hate how many gross dead moths there always are around porch lights. Poor things though..
I cleaned my room tonight. Anyone that knows me will know that that is a serious accomplishment. I'd bow but I'm exhausted.
I'd really like to keep it like this. We'll see how long it lasts. I think some extra storage is what I need. Ikea<3

Okay time to count some sheep. Ew, actually that always horrified me as a child. I don't know why. I always just thought it was very depressing. Like, where are those sheep going? And where did they come from? And that's all they'll ever do is jump over a little wooden fence? Do sheep even really jump like that? Shouldn't those be horses? Sheep are fucking weird. No one else finds it creepy that theres just an endless stream of sheep coming from no where and disappearing suddenly? Also, I always pictured the sky in the background some ominous colour. Like overcast. I hate when it's overcast. Give me thunderstorms or give me sunshine. Anything between just makes me frustrated, confused and uncomfortable.

Bedtime. Goodnighttttttttttt

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raise your hand if you enjoy endless pits of vignettes and monologues!

"I think one day you'll know. One day you'll just know. And if you don't, it's okay because I'll know. I want you to know I think of you in the most beautiful ways. It's brilliant, and wonderful like looking at the sun. It hurts like hell, but what a thing to behold. I think of us doing things together. Simply. In such fine detail that it's almost blunt. But not the same things we used to. Not the memories. Maybe one day I can think of those too, and be okay. But today, I can think of us. I can think of us together sharing all of these moments and time in my mind that I've made for us. Where you're the you that I love, and I'm the me that you loved. I know they're not real.. they are not memories, and they're never going to be real. But it keeps you here with me and I won't give them up. It lets us love each other that way we did, always. I wonder if you know that I still keep you here with me, like a part of my soul. I think one day you'll know. But if you don't, it's okay. Because I'm going to love you forever, and that will be enough."

"in such fine detail that it's almost blunt" doesn't really seem to make sense.. but the more I think about it, the more it does. I guess I could describe it like sand. So imagine grains of sand scattered across a table in a painting. That seems like a lot of detail in the picture right? Right. And then imagine that in another painting there is a sizable (that word is totally spelled wrong) sand-coloured cube on the table. But it's not really a sand coloured cube. If you look closer, it's a cube made out of sand that the painter has painted. So to me, that's even moreee detailed than the grains of sand painted scattered across the table. But it's so very detailed that it just looks blunt and obvious. And in reality, it's actually just more detailed. Does that even make sense? Maybe I should have used pixels on tv for example.. (9283472938742's of tiny tediously coloured and placed pixels to make up a picture of something like a rock). Anyway, I'm sure you get the picture (no pun intended... seriously. I actually hate puns.)
content content
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"And I told him. I told him what the worst part of all of that was. And it was that if I had to re-do all of those years, I'd probably do them all the same. Not in the it's-what-made-me-me-and-i'd-never-want-to-change-that way. I just think I'm so ignorant of cause and effect that I'd do it all again. The same mistakes that I'd regret later. All of it. And you know what he said? He said that was a good thing. He said that means I'm happy with myself. I told him he was some combination of blind, deaf, and dumb as rocks, that's what I said to that. He said he thinks it's beautiful, the whole thing. That explains last week when I was stuck up in the cherry tree with twigs in my hair and scratches head to toe. He yelled up "Angela, you're beautiful" in the midst of my struggle. This man is insane. I'm telling you right now that he wouldn't know beautiful if it smacked him dead in the nose. I think tomorrow I'll smack him in the nose and see if he smiles and tells me that it was beautiful. Then I'll know to run away, and run away fast. He always smiles when I do something ape-shit crazy, you know? Remember when I had to run out of church on Easter Day. It was the pastor, I'm telling you Loraine, I couldn't take his voice and the way he kept yelling "Jesus!". And then when it was time for communion, I couldn't do it. I couldn't receive JESUS! from him. Don't look at me like that, that's how he was yelling Jesus. I couldn't. You can't receive communion with such a bad feeling in your heart. You think I wanna go to hell? No, Loraine. Well, I may go anyway, but it won't be for that. So, anyway, I was next in line for communion and I saw the exit and I made a run for it. Well, he came calling an hour later and burst in through the kitchen door while I was taking my unleavened bread out of then oven. I told him why I had to leave, all serious. He said not a word to me and just asked why I was making unleavened bread. It's cause I missed it in church, I had to have it somehow. Even if it wasn't Christ, it was better like this. And all he did was smile at me. This great big smile like I'd just agreed to marry him. Well, I didn't know how to react to that, so I offered him bread. He took the bread, gave it to his disciples and said... no, I'm just kidding Lor. He took the bread, stuffed it into my mouth and kissed me hard right on the lips. Honestly, it was so forceful you'd think he was trying to leave an imprint or something. You know what it reminded me of? When they stamp your letters with the "Air Mail" ink stamp. The press hard, hold it for a few seconds and release. And everyone stamps everything like that. It's like there was a stamping class and everyone who has ever operated an ink stamp has attended. So, that's how he kissed me. With impostor communion in my mouth. I don't know what I'm going to do with him, to tell you the truth Loraine. If he asks me to marry him one more time I'm just going to have to say yes. I can't take this anymore, you know? This romantic shit, It's too much. Besides, around here, no one is still in love after a couple years and a couple kids. If he still loves me after that, well I'd say I'd kill myself but that would just be too wonderfully tragic. He'd probably write a book about his beloved dead wife, make a fortune out of some immortalized love bullshit, then I'd have to rise from the dead and kill myself all over again. And Lor, that's just too much work. Just thinking about it exhausts me. Of course I could love him back and save myself a whole lot of hassle. But I wouldn't know where to begin, see. And even if I figured it out by some miracle, I don't know how I'd tell him. He's come home to find the barn burned down...twice, cows in the kitchen--oh that was an accident and you know it--a hole in the living room ceiling the size of Texas... and he's not the slightest bit surprised. But the day he comes home and I say "I love you", is the day he'll drop dead of a heart attack for the shock of it. And there goes all my hard work down the drain. So, I don't know about this love business. Maybe I'll move to Montana and raise chickens instead. I don't see what other option I have."
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 I hate sunsets

I keep little mementos of bad memories

I hate pineapples

But I like hawaiian pizza if I pick off the pineapples

I'd be fine with being legitimately nocturnal

I have an irrational fear of buffets

I'm not sure if I still want the same thing I used to

I'm a little scared of oranges

I don't think I'm ever going to paint again

I have people who are dead still in my phone

And I've gotten a new phone since

I think I'm a terrible mother

I'm glad I have a solid reason/excuse not to talk to you anymore

I enjoy sharing secrets with absolute strangers I'll never see again

I don't know if technology has done me more bad or more good

The time of the day I like best is right before the sun rises

I have no idea what's going to happen

It feels kind of refreshing to not know what's going to happen

I've never been unhappy with my hair before today
pleased pleased
the fridge turn off & on & off & on & off & on...
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 Sooo, it's 4:15 in the AM. So, I figure hey, I think it's time to make some whipped cream.
It's like sortttt of done. The bowl, beater, and semi-finished whipped cream are now in the fridge. I'd like to say it's because the cream as well as all instruments used to make it whipped cream are supposed to be really cold. But I'd be lying. Well, they are supposed to be. And that's my excuse. But in reality, my arm just doesn't have the stamina to whip cream until stiff peaks are formed. Is that pathetic? That might be pathetic. Little old ladies everywhere miraculously form solid whipped cream out of liquid cream everyyyyday (well maybe not everyyyy day.. that would be a little excessive and I can't imagine what little old ladies would need all that whipped cream for... or anyone for that matter) and yet, I cannot finish a session of peak-forming without a break. 
I know I said I would be in bed by 4 at the latest.. but I had the whipped cream thing & I just couldn't make it. But it will definitely be no later than 5. For sure. For sure, sure. Seriously. Especially cause I think my mother is growing suspicious of my nocturnal behavior. I mean, it was different when I was nocturnal at home.. at least she knew it was just cause I was a weird little child. But now, 400+km away from home, I'm not surprised that she assumes the worst (i.e. participating in illicit night activities). It's okay mom, I'm still doing nerdy shit at all hours of the night. Nottttt to worry, I'll always be your weird little child.
Okay, break is over. Time to get back to my semi-whipped cream. If I should perish in my attempt, someone please come rescue my child. His food is under the counter opposite the sink and he must be fed by hand. Thanks. Wish me luck.
determined determined
the cab of death for cutie
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There's something there and I can't find it anywhere here. Or there. But I have to go there to know for sure. I just don't know where there is. But, I'm positive that if I could just go look for it, I could find it. Somewhere. And I know you just want to tell me that it can be here too. But you're wrong. You might be there. But you're definitely not here, so you wouldn't know that it's most definitely not here. I think you might be there and not even know it. I have a couple ideas of where there is and I want to find out. It seems like there is there. But if there isn't there, then it must be first there. And if it is? Then I'm an absolutely moron and I'm coming there right now.

Yeah, anyway...

So there are these gargantuan water droplets dripping onto my balcony from the base of the balcony above mine. And when they hit the ledge, they make this big splash and for like a second, the power lines in the background get magnified about 10x. And since the splash is so large, the range is like 3'x3'. So there's little 3'x3' 10x magnification boxes of power lines appearing and disappearing on the ledge of my balcony as we speak (as I type). Kind of cool, I guess.
disappointed disappointed
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It was the most blissful and saddest moment I have ever experienced; because I knew that nothing else could ever compare to it. I wanted to bottle it, and keep it in a jar next to my bed. You know, the way people do with baby teeth, or tonsils.

Unspeaking and unmoving, except for the periodic contraction of his hand tightening over mine. It could have been hours that we lay there motionless, like statues. I would have thought it was days instead of just a few hours if the blackened sky through the windshield were questionable. The night was the only time we had. We hid under its cover and forgot our names. We didn’t have to be anything, we could just be.

I thought again about statues and how I envied them. They could stay forever just one way. The way they were. “The way we are.”

Swirls of grey-blue smoke danced over our heads to Damien Rice’s acoustics. Gaseous waves ebbed and flowed over the dashboard until they broke and crashed silently on the glass.

The smoke. It could be completely free. It could dance above the heads of statues, or it could ebb and flow like water. Water that can have you floating on top of the world one second, and sinking to the bottom, drowning, the next.

As I lay in the reclined passenger seat, I wondered which I would have preferred. The statue, timeless and imperishable. The smoke, free and evanescing.

Time resumed when I heard a sound in the darkness to my left. I think it was my name. I pretended not to hear. I wanted the stillness back, but the ripples on the pond had begun. I heard the sound again, this time I knew it was my name, and that I had to answer. I turned to look into the driver’s seat, as I looked, he turned away. Some time passed, though it was not the same unmeasured time as before, in fact, I became hyperaware of every second.

“I wish we had more time” in an almost whisper, he spoke to the ceiling. “I just want to be with you. Just be.” Now it was real. The memory I had been fighting began flooding back mercilessly. We couldn’t “just be.” We were human after all, not statues, and humans live under circumstance. Circumstances that, until now, we had been able to evade. Now, time was up and we had to go back to being human. When the last of the smoke seeped out my window, the key turned in the ignition and the engine roared to life. “We have to go.” I nodded.

City lights blurred, wind whipped. I had to keep my window down to force air into my protesting lungs. “It will be okay, it won’t be forever.” What if I didn’t want it to be okay? I wanted it to be this, whatever this was it was what I wanted. But what I wanted couldn’t stop the car; it couldn’t stop us from driving East towards the rising sun. Towards the beginning of the end.

There was smoke in the car again, dancing freely. As the statues crumbled, the smoke spun silently. The car silently, spun to face the other direction. We drove on, chasing the night.

You know when you don't even know why you like something or feel a certain way about something until someone else points it out to you? Someone pointed out to me a while ago when I showed them the above text that it reminded them of my favourite book, White Oleander by Janet Fitch. And only then I realized my affinity to it. How did I not even make that connection to my ownnnn favorite book? I have no idea.
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Once upon a time, a long time ago, I saw a psychiatrist. Yes, I did. If you think that makes me crazy, that's fine.

Now, I usually would not do such a thing as actually go to see a psychiatrist, as I don't know if I believe in it quite yet. Well, I probably believe in it a little more now than I did then. But anyway.

I went on the suggestion of a friend, who also happens to be a therapist. Being someone who looks down their nose at self-help books, naturally, I was against the idea. As my anxiety attacks grew worse, and my life became more complicated, however, I gave in and made an appointment. It's not that I suddenly believed that a few sessions with a psychiatrist would turn my life around and make me "whole" again (or whatever the hell people supposedly achieve with such sessions). But I did, and still do, believe in proper medicine. I'm not saying that everyone should be on anti-depressants. That would depress me. I believe that if you are sick, you need to medicate. So, I went to this... doctor... (wow, that was hard to even type) so that he could do his job. Which should be to diagnose and medicate in the way that he sees fit as a medical professional.

I arrived for my appointment and was soon called in. The first thing he said to me: "So, Tabitha, what can I do for you today?" So, I started telling him about my anxiety, etc, etc. After telling him what's wrong and having him apparently ignore me completely, he pulled out a notepad and began to write my biography. He literally asked me my life history. As we finished the biography part of the biography part of the appointment, it became clear (or I thought it would have) that certain past events have shaped my outlook and my interaction with certain parts of my environment. However, no such conclusion was made by Dr. Iwenttoonlinemedschool (name has been somewhat altered for confidentiality). Instead he closed his notepad and asked me if I drink coffee, which I do, so I answered "yes." He then asked me how many cups of coffee I drink on a regular day. At the time it was about two but never more than 3, and only 3 on rare occasions (as it was then). So that's what I told him that. I changed the topic immediately, as I saw where that was going. I asked him what he thinks about my history and current situation. It went like this:

Me:"I just want to know if there is something I can do about how I am feeling right now. Because I don't think it's very healthy to feel like this all the time."
Him:"Well, it seems that this is an issue for you."
Him:"I think it is rooted in your past. What do you think?"
Me:"I'm sure it must be. With members of my family dropping dead all the time and my obvious father issues."
Him:"I don't believe that you are unjust with feeling the way you do, considering your history"
Me:"...Neither do I..."
Him:"Good then. So you now know that it's okay to feel the way you're feeling."
Me:"I don't feel guilty for feeling that way. I'm just saying that it's not a very happy place."
Him:"Of course it isn't..."
Me:"Um.. so what should I do? About these.. 'abandonment issues' I guess I would call it"
Him:"Abandonment issues! Now, that's a good term for it!"
Him:"I'm going to tell you to stop drinking coffee. Okay? No more coffee."
Me:"Because I have abandonment issues?"
Him:"Yes, that and your anxiety."

He then asked me if there was anything more he could do for me. I actually let out a small laugh as that statement made the assumption that he had already done something for me. Looking back though, it probably made me look a little nuts. Not that he would have noticed if I was.

Basically, I had to tell HIM what my issue is (the abandonment thing). And his cure for that, as well as severe anxiety? Quit coffee. 1. So that I can be tired, as wellllll as anxious? Hmm, no thanks. 2. FUCK THAT SHIT. Don't FUCK with my caffeine.

So, to anyone who: has had parents/close family members die spontaneously multiple times throughout their life (including orphans, people from war torn countries); has had an unhealthy relationship with someone years older who is actually attempting to devastate you mentally; has had a childhood that includes witnessing divorce/estrangement; has severe anxiety attacks due to the aforementioned and/or moderate to high stress situations that occur in everyday life. Put down that coffee cup. Right now. It will save your life. Think there's something else you can do about it? Think again. "But I don't even drink coffee" you say? Well, you're fucked. Good luck with that.
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