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"There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein."

Red Smith
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Photo on 2012-11-30 at 14.11Hey peeps, what up.

Just a quick update to say that all is well. I've had some serious ups and downs with Josh, but we are working on shit, so that is good. Neither of us is ready to say goodbye to a relationship that is 90% awesome, 10% bad. I am a little at a loss for how to go about creating change, and so I have a Dr. appointment next week where I will hopefully get some tips and reference numbers for counselors. Then I will go to counseling (which I very much need anyway) and maybe turn that in to a couples counseling for Josh and I.

Whatever happens, I am learning from this experience, just like I have learned from every relationship and experience thus far in my life. Even if we eventually break up, it will not have been "wasted time" to have been with Josh. And now that I've dated him I will never, EVER go back to dating an asshole like Tal (or Jeff...or Madison...etc). Yeah me!

Last time I saw my Dr. (I found a new one I really like, yay!) she recommended a book for me that is giving me tons of insight and advice about anxiety. It's called "Worry," and it's by Edward M. Hallowell. It breaks down all the different kinds of anxiety out there and then goes on to talk about specific coping strategies. I love that my Dr. didn't just prescribe meds, but talked with me for a while and gave me book recommendations.

Speaking of books, the latest one for my book club is called "The Awakening," by Kate Chopin (sorry English nerds, I don't feel like doing the html for underline). It. Is. Amazing. One of the best books I have read in a long while. It's the story of a woman in 1800s upper-class Louisiana, and her slow "awakening" to her true self - a self that wants to be an artist and does not prescribe to the cultural mores of the era in which she lives. It is really hitting me hard because the main character is 28, just like me, and already has a husband and two kids. It has been making me SO GRATEFUL to have been born in the world at the time I was. To be free, in every sense of the word. God I'm getting emotional just thinking about it.

OK, feels good to write, I'm going to try to keep this up (how many times have we heard that before haha). There is this neighborhood cat that constantly bursts into our apartment whenever we open the front door. He is a big fat cat that has been declawed. Immediately upon seeing that he has no claws, we started letting him hang out in our house for a while. He would just curl up on a blanket on the couch and sleep contentedly. Anyway, a couple of days ago we see that he has a collar on, which has his name and the message: Please do not let me inside your home. Damn. So since he is still CONSTANTLY at our door meowing, because he is a declawed cat and thus DOES NOT WANT TO BE OUTSIDE, I have put a box outside with fuzzy clothes inside. He immediately went into it, gratefully. Here is a pic to enjoy.

Current Location: Home
Current Mood: good good
Current Music: When You Took Your Love From Me * O.V. Wright

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One of my Friends made a convincing case for using LJ as a historical record for identifying patterns in ones feelings, and I think that is brilliant. I had always thought the most utilitarian use of LJ was as a way to remember when you last went to the dentist and shit like that. :P

So anyway, second day in a row of updating! Go me. I wonder how many consecutive days of updates will happen before I go a month before writing again? Hah!

I guess I will mark this day by saying that it the day my dad broke up with my siblings and I.

I'd give further detail, but after glancing at the time I think I want to be either reading or sleeping in the near future. Not hashing out details as I simultaneously nod off sleeping on the couch. I'm okay, just disturbed and sad.
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I borrowed the e-book "The Artist's Way Everyday" from the library and so far it has been a profound joy to read. Julia Cameron (or the editor, not sure if this is an original book or a cut-up version of the original Artist's Way) gives daily nuggets of spiritual, practical, and creative advice for writers and, really, all artists. She has a gift for elevating writing and the artistic process into something sacred and in communion with an entity that is larger than ourselves.

One of the themes that I have gleaned from the book is that it is important to just "show up" for writing, whether or not we are in the mood or have anything particularly profound to say. The more we produce, produce, produce, the better it gets and the more likely we are to reveal treasures that would not have popped up had we not been tiling the soil of our minds. And so I am forcing this out despite the sense that I have "nothing to say."

One thing that nobody tells you about fake nails is how much food will accumulate under them. For every meal I eat, there develops a thin, dark layer of matter under the fake nail, right at the point where my real nail ends. In idle moments I find myself trying obsessively to get the food out of there, since, well, it's gross. But unearthing the food is probably grosser.

A few minutes ago I found the perfect tool: a small, pointed knife from a set of camping utensils. Unlike a butter knife, this had a necessary sharp point, and unlike a steak knife, it was small enough to fit under my fake nail and to trace the cure of the underside entirely. Eagerly I sat on the couch and went to work.

Within just a few minutes, my whole being nearly shook with relief and pleasure. Big chunks of smelly food were scraped out and flaked away. Thoughts or "this is so gross" alternated with "this is so satisfying" in my mind. I'm pretty sure I sighed a few times as a particularly stubborn bit of dirt or meal was unearthed. If there be a hygienic ecstasy, this was it.

(I'll probably set aside this knife and buy another for actual food cutting. Or at least that's what I'm telling you here).
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I'm little and at the birthday part of a friend who lives out in the country, in a place more rural even than the farm town I live in. This house is paradise for a kid: seemingly every kind of animal to play with, four-wheelers, a pond with all sorts of goodies in its depths, and, for when nature fails us, a Nintendo waiting inanimately inside.

We girls are gathered around a big wooden table in the dining room, butchering pieces of sheet cake and chattering to each other in the high-pitched, always-excited language of seven-year-olds. I begin entertaining the crowd, as usual, this time by squirting a huge mound of Cheeze-Whiz directly into my mouth. I hear the delighted squeals of my friends and feel the flush of satisfaction that always comes along with getting a laugh. It is a reward that I will continue to chase like some sort drug high for years to come.

And then, almost within the same beat as I feel that warm glow of having entertained, I sense myself separating from the other girls and in fact the entire party. Despite being in the middle of a raucous time, my soul seems to take a gigantic dip downward, like what a stomach feels as an elevator begins its descent. I'm depressed. I'm terribly, indescribably sad, and the fear of being stuck in that sadness overwhelms the original terrible sensation. Desperately, I try to connect, searching the faces of my friends for the joy I'm supposed to feel, and emulating that joy until I can convince myself that the dark feeling has disappeared - at least for now.

Current Mood: good good
Current Music: Bellamy Brothers bullshit

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I will never forget the day it happened. I was oh, sixteen, maybe seventeen, around that age where everything you do seems illuminated by a spotlight and broadcast for all the world to see. Importantly, I was also around the age where, if an event seemed appealing to me, I was allowed to leave the house to attend it and actually drive myself there. Typically I would beg my mom's minivan in order to meet up with one of my three best friends, either at their houses or at one of Olympia's fine restaurants (like Cattin's, which employed the notorious Green Nose Waitress: a woman with what looked like slightly green play-doh for a nose).

This night, I wanted to go downtown to the Capitol Theater and see a showing of the movie "X," the biopic on--you guessed it--Malcolm X. Somehow, I knew this epic and powerful film would not be best seen with my friends, for we were prone to riffing on films MST3K style and otherwise joking/whispering our way through them (forgive us, we were only teenagers). I didn't know who else to bring along who would be able to sit in silence with me, letting every word of dialogue soak in and barely taking his or her eyes off the screen, as I knew would be the case with me.

And so, I decided with alarming clarity, I must attend this movie myself.

It wasn't easy. I kept telling myself that I was going to look like a weirdo, all by myself in a theater, akin to Pee Wee Herman in that notorious masturbating scandal. I worried that I might see someone I knew and reveal myself a nerd, and what's worse, a loner nerd. But, in the end, my love of movies and my excitement over what I knew was going to be a fantastic time overrode any niggling self-conscious teenage doubts, and I took my seat in the musty theater.

It was amazing. Both the movie and my experience at the theater, I mean. I remember relishing the complete intimacy I had with the screen; I didn't have to split my attention from its flickering images with ANYONE else in that room. No one poked my arm or asked for the popcorn or crawled over me to use the bathroom (I had purposefully sat alone in my own row). For those two plus hours, I was completely enraptured with Washington's performance and Lee's measured direction and the sheer realization that I was pretty brave for a teenager, to be conducting myself in the world without an entourage.

That moment, that feeling of utter bliss and enjoyment, while being alone, has spawned a love affair with solitude that has come to help define who I am and embolden my natural Molly-ness. After that night at the theater I slowly began to do other things alone: take myself out to dinner (always with a book, otherwise it's a boring and rather pathetic time), go to a park, clothes shop, you name it. You could say I'm my own number one date (although the self-deprecating dialogue with myself can get to be a bit much). Tomorrow is the opening of the documentary "Tabloid," and thinking about going--and specifically, going alone--spawned this here entry. It's weird, but I'm excited to once again be alone in the theater with my own thoughts and reactions, and without the pressure of making sure anyone else is having a good time.

If you haven't done something in public by yourself, I highly suggest it. And I'd like to add that, despite the voice leftover from adolescence shrilly insisting otherwise, no one is looking at you funny. :)

Current Mood: cheerful cheerful
Current Music: Fan blowing sweet cool air

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How did the not interrupting people or finishing their sentences go for you women? I found it excruciatingly hard. Not finishing others' sentences was especially a challenge; I discovered that I love to find words for people to describe their feelings (the writer in me), and if they're struggling, I jump in with a "labryinthine!" or "robust" or whatever. But if I think about it, finishing other people's sentences probably also ties to my anxiety. If I weren't anxious to please and move the conversation along, I would be much more likely to relax and wait for the other person to complete her or his thought. I will definitely keep working on that one.

<b>8. Do Something Nice for Someone Else--and Don't Tell <i>Anyone</i> About It</b>

While many of us frequently do nice things for others, we are almost certain to mention our acts of kindness to someone else, secretly seeking their approval.

When we share our own niceness or generosity with someone else, it makes us feel like we are thoughtful people, it reminds us how nice we are and how deserving we are of kindness.

While all acts of kindness are inherently wonderful, there is something even more magical about doing something thoughtful but mentioning it to no one, ever. You always feel good when you give to others. Rather than diluting the positive feelings by telling others about your own kindness, by keeping it to yourself you get to retain <i>all</i>the positive feelings.

It's really true that one should give for the sake of giving, not to receive something in return. This is precisely what you are doing when you don't mention your kindness to others--your rewards are the warm feelings that come from the act of giving. The next time you do something really nice for someone else, keep ti to yourself and revel in the abundant joy of giving.
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It's harder than it looks! . *Use the 1st letter of your last name to answer each of the following... *they have to be real places, names, things...nothing made up! Try to use different answers if the person in front of you had the same 1st initial


A 4 letter word:


City / Neighborhood:

Boy Name:

Girl Name:

Wet nurse

Something you could wear:


Something found in a bathroom:

A reason for being late:
Woke up late

Something you shout:
What the fuck!

13. An animal:

A body part:

A word to describe yourself:
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Dear Ankle Wound and Ankle,

Ankle Would: Wow, has it already been over two months since you arrived? It's hard to believe since part of you is still a scab that sticks out from the surrounding and healed skin! But I know that you were serious business; the regimen and pills I was given are evidence enough of that. And I don't want to dwell on the negative anyway. I'm here to thank you, Ankle, for getting me through this.

You are the epitome of human elegance and grace. You fought off two infections and an allergic reaction to an antibiotic. You hardly complained except to warn me that you were literally on fire trying to beat the bacteria that had festered on you. You even brought a little humor by resembling a bloody yolk sitting within the lesser red albumen of skin. Or simply looking like a bullet hole wound to impress young'uns who think violence is cool.

I am blessed and extremely lucky to have a body that cooperates with me through all the shit I put it through. You have not been the first to receive such treatment, Ankle; no, there have been countless burns, bruises, scratches, and a concussion brought about by smacking my head on a stone fireplace after falling from a fort made of cushions. But you fought the strangest and in some ways deadliest of fights for me, and I want to do you good because of it.


The Rest of Your Body (aka Molly)
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In honor of my new icon, I will at least say that I am fantasizing nonstop about an upcoming event. It is the Comicon (sp?) festival in San Diego, and it is going to feature what is essentially a full MST3K reunion. That means Mike, Joel (Mike and Joel together! No, not since Soultaker!)., and old and new Crows being geniuses in one large room. What would happen if they actually somehow riffed together? My heart would pretty much stop beating.

It is next week. And will take around $300 to travel to. And I have barely $300 to put toward my new apartment that I'm supposed to find in 15 days.

They better YouTube this shit, s'all I'm saying.

Current Music: parts: the clonus horror

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