Let's talk about how fucked up my sleep cycle is. I have horrible insomnia. And before you go telling I need Melatonin, Ambien, Lunesta, warm milk, chamomile tea....I've already tried it. All of it. Every single thing probably ever invented in the whole wide world for insomnia -- I've tried it. In fact, I took some Melatonin about three hours ago. I'm wide awake, obviously.
I'm allergic to Ambien. Not the 'Oh I'm still awake so I'm having hallucinations' type of fake allergic that Adderall fueled sorority girls talk about over their Starbucks frappes and skinny jeans. Hahah....I WISH A BITCH WOULD HALLUCINATE. Instead, I get these disgusting hives all over my body. Everywhere. And I faint. I straight up pass the fuck out. It was super fun finding this out, too.
I was in the hospital for your everyday, routine mental health checkup. (Doth thou detect sarcasm?) I couldn't sleep. At the time, Ambien was still relatively new, so the doctor prescribed it -- along with what seemed like a thousand other things -- and, duh, I took it. I didn't sleep. I didn't hallucinate. I stayed up all night watching VHS copies of The Big Lebowski and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
(They allowed my mom to bring my VHS collection of movies to me....I complained that I couldn't sleep and watching these movies that were so familiar to me might give me some comfort....heh) The next morning I was on probably the most uncomfortable couch type apparatus I've ever been on, watching The Big Lebowski, when the nurse called me to take my morning medication. I had been on that couch all night long, watching movies. She looked at me and immediately sucked her breath in through her teeth and came out from behind the plexiglass window used to issue meds. (Apparently I was in the looney bin with some folks who had been in jail?) She put her arm around me and steered me towards my room carefully. Thankfully I was pretty bitchy so I got the pleasure of a private room. She directed me to the bathroom and instructed me to remove my shirt. Immediately I was alarmed, because why is this fucking stranger trying to look at my tits? So I resisted a little but eventually I stripped my shirt. While I was at it I took off my pants too....what's the point in just being topless? Again, she sucked her breath in through her teeth and then spun me around to face the mirror. I had these awful, giant red blisters all over my body. My forehead to the tips of my toes were covered in red, splotchy patches. They didn't hurt, they didn't itch, but they sure as fuck didn't look very cute. Ambien was the only thing added to my prescription diet, so it was the variable.
So yeah. Very, very allergic to the Ambien. Melatonin and I have a love/hate relationship. Sometimes it really works for me, sometimes it makes me want to vomit, and sometimes it makes me hyper. I have ADHD and I don't take medication for it. When I did, I actually slept quite regularly. I would pass right out the minute the medication wore off and wake up almost exactly 7.5 hours later. I should probably look into taking that stuff again...except it makes me kind of pissy. I don't want to be pissy.
Chamomile tea is for pussies. I said it. Come at me bro. I'll fall asleep after three pots of coffee faster than I will a cup of stupid flower tea.
Lunesta really doesn't work for me. At all. None. The last time I took Lunesta, it was two Christmases ago. I was fighting with Boyfriend and we had broken up, so my heart was shredded -- as was his, because we're still together -- and I couldn't sleep after all the shock of everything. So I took a Lunesta and went to bed with a movie. Sounds like a reasonable request to want to sleep for a little while after a life-altering event like that, right? My body wasn't ready. I took the Lunesta around 8 p.m. At 12 midnight I was still wide awake, crying, staring at my ceiling fan, thinking about everything that had happened, what I did wrong, what could I do to make it better in the future, why my ass had gotten so fat, would it continue to get so fat, what about those plans I had for my life, why doesn't anyone love me, I am a horrible person, horrible mother, horrible sister, horrible daughter, I need a cat, I miss my dog...the usual cycle I go through at night. I decided I would take some Melatonin -- along with my regular meds, including Klonopin -- and take my ass to sleep. Three hours later I was STILL wide awake, contemplating all my horrible life decisions. So I packed a bag or two, wrote a note for my mom, wrote a letter for my Peanut, and hopped in my car and drove to my family in Nashville.
I drove five hours to Nashville after consuming Lunesta, Melatonin, AND Klonopin. Sleep meds DO NOT FUCKING WORK on me.
You know what does? Snoring. Specifically, Boyfriend's snoring. Something about his snoring puts me right to sleep. Sometimes he doesn't even need to be snoring, he just needs to be in the general proximity and I am immediately calmer. It's so strange, I've never experienced anything like it before. Nobody has ever been able to make me feel calm just by knowing they are near me. Not my Mom, not my ex-husband (BWAHHAHA -- nobody ever felt calm around that mother fucker, trust.)...nobody. And we don't live together. We haven't gotten to that part yet. So the night's he is with me, I sleep so well. And the nights he isn't...well, I don't. It's not his fault, so don't go reading this thinking I'm blaming someone else for my problem that I've had since I was twelve. Nope. I just think it's kind of nice that there is a person out there in the world that can make me feel calm enough to just fall asleep. And I think I do that to him too, because we sure do sleep a lot. Since my work schedule is kind of insane and sometimes I work at midnight and and sometimes I work at 8 a.m. I have the most fucked up sleep schedule ever. I will get the best sleep ever from about 5 - 9 p.m., stay up until 3 a.m., wake up at 6 a.m., and GO GO GO GO GO from 6 am to 5 pm when I pass out again. Or should I say when I WANT to pass out again. More often than not I am working during these hours, or doing homework with my Peanut, cooking, grocery shopping, etc, and can't sleep....which sucks balls. I think my Circadian rhythm is mad at me.
Now....if you have any tips or tricks that don't involve meditation -- I am FAR TOO ADHD FOR THAT -- or any of the aforementioned remedies, I would LOVE to hear them. I am always open for ideas.
Sweet dreams, ya'll.
K
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Thursday, February 12, 2015
Sometimes You Know, Sometimes You Don't
Sometimes you don't know where to start. Other times you don't know when to stop. Sometimes you're forced to stop doing something you love in order to save yourself.
I have been to school at JSU, Auburn, and a host of community colleges in between. Got a few degrees under my belt....fat load of good it's doing me. All I ever seriously wanted was to do hair. Well, do hair, be a lawyer, a doctor, a bartender....I'm wandering off here. Shit. Sorry. I have ADHD that is completely unmedicated.
I've wanted to be a cosmetologist since I was sixteen years old. That's all. I found a serious passion and I just knew it was for me. I let my parents, my ex husband, my friends, all of the people in my life EXCEPT ME tell me what to do. And it certainly wasn't 'Hey, girl, go do hair! You go be Dolly Parton in Steel Magnolias and WERK HUNTY'. No. They did NOT say that. They said it wasn't a real career. I needed to study business. I needed to study politics. 'You're so good at arguing, you'd make a perfect defense attorney...' 'You need to study marketing. Look at me, I make a hapgiliionn dollars a year and my life is a mess but outwardly I'm HAPPYYYYYYY [but I'm dying inside from all the cheeseburgers and nights alone] and it's a great life!'
They all told me no. And I listened. Until one day I didn't anymore. I was divorced a little over a year and had come to the realization that studying for my master's degree wasn't gonna cut it for me. I was really sick of academia. I wanted to study what the fuck I wanted. Dammit. So I did. I had ONE place in mind. The IVY LEAGUE OF BEAUTY SCHOOLS -- Aveda. One day I woke up, drove my ass up to Birmingham, and applied. I begged the application money from my folks (I think) and I got in. My friends helped me make a kick ass dress out of smashed beer bottle caps and I won a scholarship. I was PUMPED.
My journey began. God I was so happy. I had to be in Birmingham three and four days a week, 18 hour days -- counting my trip -- and I was deliriously happy. I missed my kid. I missed my boyfriend. But I was doing really fucking well and I was loving what I was doing and feeling challenged and good.
Then I crashed. Figuratively. The TN started to seriously flare up from the stress, and from all the chemicals and improper ventilation. I lost my place to stay in town so I was commuting over 60 miles one way. I nearly missed my daughter's entire soccer season, and I had no time in the summer with her. I was losing myself to this horrible disease and to Aveda. And I backslid. I had to stay home. And as a student with special needs, they had to accommodate me, right? But they didn't. They tried to keep me at a remedial level until I gave up. That was the option I was given. To give up. And I did. I had to. I could no longer afford the price of my dream of graduation from Aveda. It wasn't worth any more missed soccer games or bedtime stories or any of that. It wasn't worth my sanity. I was in so much pain, physically and emotionally, that I had to let go.
And I did. I'm still getting over it. I let my entire life, my entire sense of worth and well-being, ride on a variable of a place, of a dream, that existed wherever I made it exist. It wasn't contained in the walls of Aveda. I just figured that out today. I still cry. I still haven't been able to go back to visit friends or get that free blow-out that I don't need but want anyway because I know it will feel good. It makes me sad to think about even walking back through those doors because I feel like I failed. I feel like I failed my daughter, my family, my boyfriend, my friends, and myself. Mostly myself. I have impulse control issues, and I think Aveda may have been one of those impulses to change my life that I could have stepped back from a little bit. But it was soooo easy....so....right there...I wanted to rocket myself into the life I wanted, the life I've been chasing. I knew I was smart enough, I knew I was talented enough. I didn't realize how much it would cost emotionally. I slept my first week off. Just slept.
I still cry. I still cry over knowing I will never graduate with my class on June 13.
I've found my calling a little closer to home. While it's not Aveda, it's still damn good. And I'm damn good, and I'm going to be damn good at it.
Sometimes I think it's okay to give up if it means you gain something better in the end.
I have been to school at JSU, Auburn, and a host of community colleges in between. Got a few degrees under my belt....fat load of good it's doing me. All I ever seriously wanted was to do hair. Well, do hair, be a lawyer, a doctor, a bartender....I'm wandering off here. Shit. Sorry. I have ADHD that is completely unmedicated.
I've wanted to be a cosmetologist since I was sixteen years old. That's all. I found a serious passion and I just knew it was for me. I let my parents, my ex husband, my friends, all of the people in my life EXCEPT ME tell me what to do. And it certainly wasn't 'Hey, girl, go do hair! You go be Dolly Parton in Steel Magnolias and WERK HUNTY'. No. They did NOT say that. They said it wasn't a real career. I needed to study business. I needed to study politics. 'You're so good at arguing, you'd make a perfect defense attorney...' 'You need to study marketing. Look at me, I make a hapgiliionn dollars a year and my life is a mess but outwardly I'm HAPPYYYYYYY [but I'm dying inside from all the cheeseburgers and nights alone] and it's a great life!'
They all told me no. And I listened. Until one day I didn't anymore. I was divorced a little over a year and had come to the realization that studying for my master's degree wasn't gonna cut it for me. I was really sick of academia. I wanted to study what the fuck I wanted. Dammit. So I did. I had ONE place in mind. The IVY LEAGUE OF BEAUTY SCHOOLS -- Aveda. One day I woke up, drove my ass up to Birmingham, and applied. I begged the application money from my folks (I think) and I got in. My friends helped me make a kick ass dress out of smashed beer bottle caps and I won a scholarship. I was PUMPED.
My journey began. God I was so happy. I had to be in Birmingham three and four days a week, 18 hour days -- counting my trip -- and I was deliriously happy. I missed my kid. I missed my boyfriend. But I was doing really fucking well and I was loving what I was doing and feeling challenged and good.
Then I crashed. Figuratively. The TN started to seriously flare up from the stress, and from all the chemicals and improper ventilation. I lost my place to stay in town so I was commuting over 60 miles one way. I nearly missed my daughter's entire soccer season, and I had no time in the summer with her. I was losing myself to this horrible disease and to Aveda. And I backslid. I had to stay home. And as a student with special needs, they had to accommodate me, right? But they didn't. They tried to keep me at a remedial level until I gave up. That was the option I was given. To give up. And I did. I had to. I could no longer afford the price of my dream of graduation from Aveda. It wasn't worth any more missed soccer games or bedtime stories or any of that. It wasn't worth my sanity. I was in so much pain, physically and emotionally, that I had to let go.
And I did. I'm still getting over it. I let my entire life, my entire sense of worth and well-being, ride on a variable of a place, of a dream, that existed wherever I made it exist. It wasn't contained in the walls of Aveda. I just figured that out today. I still cry. I still haven't been able to go back to visit friends or get that free blow-out that I don't need but want anyway because I know it will feel good. It makes me sad to think about even walking back through those doors because I feel like I failed. I feel like I failed my daughter, my family, my boyfriend, my friends, and myself. Mostly myself. I have impulse control issues, and I think Aveda may have been one of those impulses to change my life that I could have stepped back from a little bit. But it was soooo easy....so....right there...I wanted to rocket myself into the life I wanted, the life I've been chasing. I knew I was smart enough, I knew I was talented enough. I didn't realize how much it would cost emotionally. I slept my first week off. Just slept.
I still cry. I still cry over knowing I will never graduate with my class on June 13.
I've found my calling a little closer to home. While it's not Aveda, it's still damn good. And I'm damn good, and I'm going to be damn good at it.
Sometimes I think it's okay to give up if it means you gain something better in the end.
Sunday, February 8, 2015
The Price of Admission
I have medical issues. Kind of a lot. They keep me home a good bit. I feel cooped up most of the time. I think that's essentially why I started this project. I don't reach out to many people, and the few I do reach out to are awesome, amazing people who help in any way they can. Unfortunately, there isn't much anyone without a prescription pad, pen, or a long career in neurosurgery can do.
I have Trigeminal Neuralgia. I've mentioned it a couple times, I'm sure. It's nicknamed the suicide disease because people kill themselves from lack of relief. It has been said that it's the worst pain known to humans. I don't know if that's true but it does fucking hurt.
As I write this and my face is KILLING me, I just hear rain start to fall. Thank God. Much like arthritis, my face hurts worse when it's about to rain. It's like...being electrocuted in one side of your face, and that side of your face happens to contain eight teeth that are in serious need of a root canal. Add in a healthy dose of burning in your gums, twitching eyes, and topical facial numbness for good measure. That's the best I can describe it. It fucking hurts. Always. Sometimes it hurts worse than others. As I get older it's becoming less manageable. I don't qualify for insurance OR medicaid so I've filed for disability. If that's how I can get treated and get better, fuck it. That's what it's for.
I also suffer from PTSD. My ex husband beat the shit out of me. It is what it is.
I have severe panic attacks, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and Bipolar disorder. I take Zoloft. I recently started taking it again after about a four year break. I'm glad I did. I feel like I was able to realize when I started to kind of spiral out of my normal "crazy" and fall into real "crazy" and catch myself in time. Thankfully I hoard medication so I had plenty of Zoloft lying around. If I had to wait for my doctor to prescribe it again it would have been at least a month before I could get access to any. I might not have made it that long. I was at the point where I felt useless. That might not sound like much, but it's a big fucking deal to me. I'm still struggling, but every day is getting a little easier. I wake up happy and looking forward to waking up like 40% of the time, which is great. I was at about 10%. So that's improvement.
I miss little things about being able to do life. Like being a waitress or bartender. I love that job. It might sound stupid, and that's ok. I was really good at it and I loved doing it. I had to call in sick so much from the pain from the TN that it made me basically unemployable. I get it. It sucks. I had to start working for myself. Making my own hours, etc. It works better for me, but it's still hard.
I'm lucky. I have family, and although we don't really get along, they help me when I cannot help myself. My Peanut is amazing and makes me eggs when my face hurts and I can't really chew. Boyfriend sometimes brings me soup and will sit with me and hold my hand when I can't take it. I have these amazing friends that understand when I cancel plans at the last minute....I'm not being flaky. I'm just in pain.
I've never been shy about the TN, or the panic attacks. But I've told very few people about the depression. But it's very real, and if you are suffering, think you might be suffering, or know someone who is, fucking reach out. Please. Just do that for me. Fuck...I'll talk to you man. May be just some internet talk but that's fine. Reach out. It's gonna be okay.
I have Trigeminal Neuralgia. I've mentioned it a couple times, I'm sure. It's nicknamed the suicide disease because people kill themselves from lack of relief. It has been said that it's the worst pain known to humans. I don't know if that's true but it does fucking hurt.
As I write this and my face is KILLING me, I just hear rain start to fall. Thank God. Much like arthritis, my face hurts worse when it's about to rain. It's like...being electrocuted in one side of your face, and that side of your face happens to contain eight teeth that are in serious need of a root canal. Add in a healthy dose of burning in your gums, twitching eyes, and topical facial numbness for good measure. That's the best I can describe it. It fucking hurts. Always. Sometimes it hurts worse than others. As I get older it's becoming less manageable. I don't qualify for insurance OR medicaid so I've filed for disability. If that's how I can get treated and get better, fuck it. That's what it's for.
I also suffer from PTSD. My ex husband beat the shit out of me. It is what it is.
I have severe panic attacks, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and Bipolar disorder. I take Zoloft. I recently started taking it again after about a four year break. I'm glad I did. I feel like I was able to realize when I started to kind of spiral out of my normal "crazy" and fall into real "crazy" and catch myself in time. Thankfully I hoard medication so I had plenty of Zoloft lying around. If I had to wait for my doctor to prescribe it again it would have been at least a month before I could get access to any. I might not have made it that long. I was at the point where I felt useless. That might not sound like much, but it's a big fucking deal to me. I'm still struggling, but every day is getting a little easier. I wake up happy and looking forward to waking up like 40% of the time, which is great. I was at about 10%. So that's improvement.
I miss little things about being able to do life. Like being a waitress or bartender. I love that job. It might sound stupid, and that's ok. I was really good at it and I loved doing it. I had to call in sick so much from the pain from the TN that it made me basically unemployable. I get it. It sucks. I had to start working for myself. Making my own hours, etc. It works better for me, but it's still hard.
I'm lucky. I have family, and although we don't really get along, they help me when I cannot help myself. My Peanut is amazing and makes me eggs when my face hurts and I can't really chew. Boyfriend sometimes brings me soup and will sit with me and hold my hand when I can't take it. I have these amazing friends that understand when I cancel plans at the last minute....I'm not being flaky. I'm just in pain.
I've never been shy about the TN, or the panic attacks. But I've told very few people about the depression. But it's very real, and if you are suffering, think you might be suffering, or know someone who is, fucking reach out. Please. Just do that for me. Fuck...I'll talk to you man. May be just some internet talk but that's fine. Reach out. It's gonna be okay.
Comfort Food
This is my 'I just had a fucked up nightmare and will only sleep and hour plus I'm starting a ketogenic diet tomorrow' comfort food. A fat ass Philly Cheesesteak. Yassss.
Also Suki wants to stab me and steal my food.
Sweet dreams Princesses.
I'm So Happy I Peed Before I Left The House
Always pee before you leave the house. Seriously. Trust me on this. All those years of your mom or dad or your weird cousin that sometimes took care of you telling you "Pee before you get in the car!" -- they were right. Listen to me -- pee before you leave. You never know what will happen.
Let me set the scene a little. It's Friday night. It's my birthday. I didn't make a big deal out of it, not this year. Last year, fuck yeah I did. But not this year. I was happy about it too. Boyfriend tells me a couple days before my birthday that two of Our Good Friends wanted to take us to dinner for my birthday. It's a couple we both know, and I've known both of them kind of forever anyway, so I was really excited. It's nice to have another sane* couple to hang with.
(*sane -- not involved in domestic violence, drama, or any outward freak nasty-ness...at least the un-fun kind...)
I decide okay....so we're having dinner. But I kind of want to see my people. I feel like a gathering is in order, and we always hit the local watering hole, so maybe a house party. I asked Boyfriend to ask another one of Our Good Friends -- who happens to be a computer fucking genius, and should you need any help with yours, just ask. I'll hook you up with his number. He's legit. -- to let us host a party at his place. Boyfriend comes back with a YES so I do the logical thing and make a fucking Facebook event. It's just easier. I invited 100+ people because....I did. Whatever. Nobody ever shows up anyway. Not ALL the people. So awesome. Plans are set, I'm feeling good. I hydrated. I rested. I even got some birthday money from my mom. $31. Sweet! (but sweet like pickles, not like cupcakes)
Boyfriend starts feeling a little under the weather. Has a cold. I immediately jump into ACTIVATE SPECIAL NEEDS NURSE MODE and grab all the fixin's for Hot Toddy's, cough drops, cold meds, the works. Even got him some of his favorite ice cream (which he didn't even eat. I'm lactose intolerant. Hellooooo) We spend Thursday and most of Friday in bed, marathoning Entourage. Yes. You read that shit right. I love Jeremy Piven.
Friday evening rolls around. Boyfriend says he feels well enough to go to dinner and the party afterwards. To be completely honest, I kind of felt like crap Thursday and Friday myself, Trigeminal Neuralgia garbage, so I was being pretty self-indulgent AND playing nurse at the same time. Multitasking, bitches. It's a Mom thing. I think. I get dressed. But I'm confused. Boyfriend says, "The reservations are at 8..."
There isn't a damn place in my town that A). takes reservations AND B). isn't fancy. So I'm worried now. I don't want to look fancy. I was doing really good to have pants on. He assured me it wasn't fancy. I MADE him assure me it wasn't fancy. I was legitimately concerned. So I'm dressed. He's dressed. And we're waiting. Says one of Our Good Friends is running a little behind. I think nothing of it because Good Friend works a lot out of town, and I don't know the guy's schedule. Shit, they were buying dinner. I damn sure couldn't complain. But I was concerned about this fucking reservation. What if we lost our table? Where were we going? What the fuck?
And then I thought about it. I said FUCK IT. It's my birthday. I reserve the right to not give a fuck.
We head over to Our Good Friend's house. I always get lost going there. Always. Always. Always. We get out and go in. Our Good Friend answers the door, says her man is just finishing up getting ready.
AND THEN THE HOUSE EXPLODES WITH PEOPLE AND NOISES AND HAPPY BIRTHDAY'S AND HUGS AND LOVE AND KISSES AND JOY.
Boyfriend set me up with a surprise party. I've never had one before. I never suspected a damn thing. I had no fucking clue. At all. And what do I say? What is THE FIRST THING that comes out of my mouth?
"I AM SO GLAD I PEED BEFORE I LEFT. YA'LL SCARED THE SHIT OUT OF ME!"
Birthday was GREAT. And Boyfriend got all the nursing this weekend. Poor guy doesn't feel well right now so I pumped him full of echinacea and antibiotics and Philly cheesesteaks and Tylenol and Advil. Bless that man. He helped me see something I had been missing for awhile : There are people in my life that actually give a shit about me. Depression is difficult and I recently began taking antidepressants again. And I've been struggling with it. Really struggling. And not telling anyone. Not even him. Not even myself, really. But he showed me that I was wrong. My brain is just fritzing because Bipolar. I have the best people around me. And I am goddamn grateful.
I celebrate birthdays for a month. So the next time I feel like getting out and showing out, ya'll better look out. -_-
Thursday, February 5, 2015
On The Edge of 31
A couple more hours and I'll be 31.
I don't even care. It really is just a number. I would NOT like to be 21 again. I would NOT like to be any younger than I am now. I feel like I am myself.
My kid brought me home a birthday cake tonight. She was so excited! And she got me a precious card. Boyfriend brought me breakfast in bed and I haven't gotten out of bed really all day. It's been wonderful. I hope everyone gets to feel this fucking lucky, this loved, this.....cared for, at least once in their lives. Even though both of my loves are snoring their asses off and I'm here writing you fools, I'm just sharing. I feel like I may burst, and not from gas. I am happy. I don't know that I've ever been really happy before.
Are there things I wish were different? Abso-fucking-lutely. I wish I had all the money so that Boyfriend and Peanut and Suki and Boba could all live together. I wish for lots of other things too but that's basically at the top of my list.
But I'm still happy. Even with all the fucked up stuff in my life, even with all the panic attacks and Trigeminal Neuralgia and seemingly endless health issues and financial issues, stress, insomnia....
Happy. Cue the fucking Pharrell song.
I don't even care. It really is just a number. I would NOT like to be 21 again. I would NOT like to be any younger than I am now. I feel like I am myself.
My kid brought me home a birthday cake tonight. She was so excited! And she got me a precious card. Boyfriend brought me breakfast in bed and I haven't gotten out of bed really all day. It's been wonderful. I hope everyone gets to feel this fucking lucky, this loved, this.....cared for, at least once in their lives. Even though both of my loves are snoring their asses off and I'm here writing you fools, I'm just sharing. I feel like I may burst, and not from gas. I am happy. I don't know that I've ever been really happy before.
Are there things I wish were different? Abso-fucking-lutely. I wish I had all the money so that Boyfriend and Peanut and Suki and Boba could all live together. I wish for lots of other things too but that's basically at the top of my list.
But I'm still happy. Even with all the fucked up stuff in my life, even with all the panic attacks and Trigeminal Neuralgia and seemingly endless health issues and financial issues, stress, insomnia....
Happy. Cue the fucking Pharrell song.
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
The Red Wedding
I was 23 years old when I got married. I had a nearly 2 year old baby (toddler, what-the-fuck-ever) and literally no life experience at all. I was terrified of being a single mom and ready to "settle down" (whatever that means). I wanted to get married and start this thing all of my family talked about, called A LIFE. I wanted A LIFE. I wanted A FAMILY. But mostly what I wanted was to get the fuck out of the small town I grew up in and get AWAY from my insane, baby thieving Mother.
So I met this guy. At a really, REALLY dangerous type redneck ass bar. It was my favorite. I love those type of places. They were nice to me, and the had karaoke...my weakness. So I walk into this bar, which is practically empty. My second time ever in there. And there is this guy. In my fucking chair at the end of the bar, next to where the bartenders hang. That was MY spot. So I walked right over and sat down. Ordered a Patron margarita. I sit there for a few minutes...quiet. He finally turns his head and looks at me. Says, "Why are you here, drinking alone?" and I told him, "I just got dumped for the first time." which was a total lie. Sort of. I had gotten dumped that day but it wasn't the first time. Just the first time as an adult. Which makes it technically my first time anyway.
He turns to me and said, "My wife just killed herself. I win."
What I SHOULD have done is RUN THE FUCK AWAY RIGHT THEN. But nooooooo, everybody has bad shit happen to them, right? Your wife committing suicide isn't a RED FUCKING FLAG is it?
Fast forward to a few months later and we've moved in together, and are engaged. Yep. Fast forward to three months later and we have arrived at the Red Wedding.
This shit was a sight for redneck eyes. Let me give you a little backstory on me.
I worked for a florist for five years. I arranged weddings, make floral arrangements, planned weddings, etc. And for my OWN wedding I didn't give two shits to do any of that. I just didn't care about it.
I bought a dress for $20 from David's Bridal. A red dress. That I didn't even try on. I wasn't allowed to look at the actual wedding dresses, which was pretty okay with me seeing as we were getting married at his mother's house. Which was falling down. Literally. Falling down. His mom was ill, and couldn't get out of bed for more than about ten minutes. It was basically the only place we could get married and she be able to attend.
She had never been able to attend any of his previous weddings. All FOUR of them. I WAS HIS FIFTH WIFE. I found out when we got divorced. But I digress.
We had his family bring food from the local grocery store bakery. Our cake said "Happy B/Wedding" in pink icing with glitter and stuff. Whatever. His family came. Some of mine came. We put up a twenty year old dusty blue curtain to serve as our "backdrop" and a preacher that was almost as old as God himself, Zenus, married us. He never even cracked the Bible. Afterwards he told me, "Only whores wear red dresses in a wedding..." and I looked at him and said, "Mr. Zenus, I think it's pretty clear I am not a virgin. My daughter is right over there..." and pointed to my sweet little Peanut. He scowled at me. I guess I wasn't good enough for his backwoods ass version of Christianity. Whatever.
The rest of the day was kind of a blur. We were in and out of the "wedding" in about an hour. I later sold my Red Whore Wedding Dress at a yard sale for fifty bucks. So I made a profit. Woot.
We were married for about five years I think. The divorce was quick, but he still stalks me. It's annoying.
It's been over two years since the divorce. And I've been dating this great guy. I don't know if I'll ever get married again. I believe that you don't "have" to get married, that a long-term commitment can be achieved without the fluffy ass dress or expensive cake. But Boyfriend makes me think that maybe he might want that. He's never been married before. Maybe he does want that. I don't know. We don't talk about it too much...probably because all I've ever said publicly is that I don't want to get married again. But I know that if he asked I would say yes.
So I met this guy. At a really, REALLY dangerous type redneck ass bar. It was my favorite. I love those type of places. They were nice to me, and the had karaoke...my weakness. So I walk into this bar, which is practically empty. My second time ever in there. And there is this guy. In my fucking chair at the end of the bar, next to where the bartenders hang. That was MY spot. So I walked right over and sat down. Ordered a Patron margarita. I sit there for a few minutes...quiet. He finally turns his head and looks at me. Says, "Why are you here, drinking alone?" and I told him, "I just got dumped for the first time." which was a total lie. Sort of. I had gotten dumped that day but it wasn't the first time. Just the first time as an adult. Which makes it technically my first time anyway.
He turns to me and said, "My wife just killed herself. I win."
What I SHOULD have done is RUN THE FUCK AWAY RIGHT THEN. But nooooooo, everybody has bad shit happen to them, right? Your wife committing suicide isn't a RED FUCKING FLAG is it?
Fast forward to a few months later and we've moved in together, and are engaged. Yep. Fast forward to three months later and we have arrived at the Red Wedding.
This shit was a sight for redneck eyes. Let me give you a little backstory on me.
I worked for a florist for five years. I arranged weddings, make floral arrangements, planned weddings, etc. And for my OWN wedding I didn't give two shits to do any of that. I just didn't care about it.
I bought a dress for $20 from David's Bridal. A red dress. That I didn't even try on. I wasn't allowed to look at the actual wedding dresses, which was pretty okay with me seeing as we were getting married at his mother's house. Which was falling down. Literally. Falling down. His mom was ill, and couldn't get out of bed for more than about ten minutes. It was basically the only place we could get married and she be able to attend.
She had never been able to attend any of his previous weddings. All FOUR of them. I WAS HIS FIFTH WIFE. I found out when we got divorced. But I digress.
We had his family bring food from the local grocery store bakery. Our cake said "Happy B/Wedding" in pink icing with glitter and stuff. Whatever. His family came. Some of mine came. We put up a twenty year old dusty blue curtain to serve as our "backdrop" and a preacher that was almost as old as God himself, Zenus, married us. He never even cracked the Bible. Afterwards he told me, "Only whores wear red dresses in a wedding..." and I looked at him and said, "Mr. Zenus, I think it's pretty clear I am not a virgin. My daughter is right over there..." and pointed to my sweet little Peanut. He scowled at me. I guess I wasn't good enough for his backwoods ass version of Christianity. Whatever.
The rest of the day was kind of a blur. We were in and out of the "wedding" in about an hour. I later sold my Red Whore Wedding Dress at a yard sale for fifty bucks. So I made a profit. Woot.
We were married for about five years I think. The divorce was quick, but he still stalks me. It's annoying.
It's been over two years since the divorce. And I've been dating this great guy. I don't know if I'll ever get married again. I believe that you don't "have" to get married, that a long-term commitment can be achieved without the fluffy ass dress or expensive cake. But Boyfriend makes me think that maybe he might want that. He's never been married before. Maybe he does want that. I don't know. We don't talk about it too much...probably because all I've ever said publicly is that I don't want to get married again. But I know that if he asked I would say yes.
Monday, February 2, 2015
Shall We Have Some Cawfee Tawlk?
Morning Sunshine. I'm far too undercaffeinated for this. But it's 1 p.m. so I guess it's time to get off my ass. Insomnia kept me up until 5 a.m. That sucks.
I've been an insomniac since I was about thirteen or so. Puberty brought it on and it never left. Too bad my perky ass didn't stay as well.
I'm nearly 31 years old. In four days I will be 31. 31. 31. 31. But I don't feel like it. I don't feel *old*. I feel like I'm just a big overgrown kid most of the time. I don't really want to even celebrate my birthday this year. Last year, I THREW. DOWN. Concerts, parties, karaoke, the whole shebang. But this year....not so much. Why? Not sure. Life is...well it's shitty right now. Work isn't going great, I'm totally broke, and living with my mother. ::shudders::
But -- and there's always a but, isn't there? -- I have this fucking wonderful little kid. Peanut. She's amazing. I feel like I got so damn lucky with her. She's smart and kind of sassy and pretty much me made over. And she's sweet, and protective of smaller things and people, and she really loves her family. I'm really proud of her. Best thing I ever did, made, or will make. I think I got it right with her and I don't want any more kids.
And then there's Boyfriend. Who's fucking great, by the way. I don't think he "gets" me, and I don't think he ever will. I don't know that I'll ever "get" him. And I like that. It feels like we will always be learning about each other and the prospect of spending a large portion of my life learning about this amazing person intrigues me. We've been dating for a couple years, give or take some months. Whatever. It isn't something I keep track of. I'm definitely NOT the whole OMG IT'S OUR EIGHT MONTH ANNIVERSARY BABYYYYYYYYY kind of girl. That's just not me. But he's NICE. Legitimately nice. And respectful. He opens doors for me. Car doors. House doors (when he stays over)...nobody's ever done that for me. He does it like it's his second nature, and I suppose it is. It's the first thing I noticed....well, after I got sober, anyway.
I met Boyfriend while I was on a date with another guy. The first date with another guy. That I met online. First time trying out online dating. What a nightmare that turned out to be. I called my friend who I love dearly to come and meet me for some karaoke. I knew I'd want some backup just in case Internet Guy turned out to be a complete and utter weirdo. (he was, but I didn't find out until later) My Friend brought this guy with her. I thought it was her boyfriend. Turns out it wasn't. God he was sexy. And holy fuck he sang karaoke too! He made me laugh. The Internet Guy...he didn't make me laugh. He didn't do karaoke. And he didn't even stay to hang out very long. I thought he wasn't interested... Except before he left he asked me to go to Nashville with him the next month for a concert. And I agreed. Partially because I'm an idiot, and partially because I fucking love Nashville.
So My Friend and Her Friend and I closed the place down. Had a blast. Laughed all night, sang all the songs, just had a fucking great time. Such a great time that we three made plans to get together for karaoke in two weeks time. Yay for a standing date with NEW FRIENDS!
Then I looked him up on Facebook. Or he looked me up. Whatever, it happened. We chatted a little bit throughout the following couple weeks. Conversely, Internet Guy called me as well. I don't remember if I even went out to dinner with Internet Guy....I know we talked on the phone. Anyway, two weeks rolls around and we all meet up for karaoke. Except My Friend (the girl) just doesn't show up. I'm sitting there with HER FRIEND, the SEXY FRIEND, and getting slightly hammered. And having fucking fun. A lot of fun. The memories of the evening are fuzzy. I remember lots of vodka and redbull and lapdances. I gave him lapdances. Yep.
I'm normally not *quite* that forward of a girl. But something...got into me. Vodka, most likely, but I just fucking felt it. I was digging the hell out of this guy and he was digging me too. I thought he was just....hot. And smart. And funny. And he make me feel pretty, even though I showed up to karaoke in a librarian sweater, pigtails, and absolutely no makeup.
As you can probably guess we ended up together that night. I remember arriving at the hotel, and I turned to him, and I said, "Just so you know, I have sleep apnea. I snore like a fucking freight train." He looked at me and said, "Me too!" and I laughed. And I knew. I knew right then. Don't ask me how or why, and no, it wasn't my drunk brain. I just knew.
Things and stuff happened. Thegood GREAT things and stuff. I'm talking hanging upside down off the bed GREAT things. At some point we passed out...and then woke up. And he opened the car door for me. And I knew. I knew I wanted him to want me. I knew I wanted to know more about him. I knew I was terrified and it felt fucking fantastic.
And so goes the story of how I met Boyfriend.
I've been an insomniac since I was about thirteen or so. Puberty brought it on and it never left. Too bad my perky ass didn't stay as well.
I'm nearly 31 years old. In four days I will be 31. 31. 31. 31. But I don't feel like it. I don't feel *old*. I feel like I'm just a big overgrown kid most of the time. I don't really want to even celebrate my birthday this year. Last year, I THREW. DOWN. Concerts, parties, karaoke, the whole shebang. But this year....not so much. Why? Not sure. Life is...well it's shitty right now. Work isn't going great, I'm totally broke, and living with my mother. ::shudders::
But -- and there's always a but, isn't there? -- I have this fucking wonderful little kid. Peanut. She's amazing. I feel like I got so damn lucky with her. She's smart and kind of sassy and pretty much me made over. And she's sweet, and protective of smaller things and people, and she really loves her family. I'm really proud of her. Best thing I ever did, made, or will make. I think I got it right with her and I don't want any more kids.
And then there's Boyfriend. Who's fucking great, by the way. I don't think he "gets" me, and I don't think he ever will. I don't know that I'll ever "get" him. And I like that. It feels like we will always be learning about each other and the prospect of spending a large portion of my life learning about this amazing person intrigues me. We've been dating for a couple years, give or take some months. Whatever. It isn't something I keep track of. I'm definitely NOT the whole OMG IT'S OUR EIGHT MONTH ANNIVERSARY BABYYYYYYYYY kind of girl. That's just not me. But he's NICE. Legitimately nice. And respectful. He opens doors for me. Car doors. House doors (when he stays over)...nobody's ever done that for me. He does it like it's his second nature, and I suppose it is. It's the first thing I noticed....well, after I got sober, anyway.
I met Boyfriend while I was on a date with another guy. The first date with another guy. That I met online. First time trying out online dating. What a nightmare that turned out to be. I called my friend who I love dearly to come and meet me for some karaoke. I knew I'd want some backup just in case Internet Guy turned out to be a complete and utter weirdo. (he was, but I didn't find out until later) My Friend brought this guy with her. I thought it was her boyfriend. Turns out it wasn't. God he was sexy. And holy fuck he sang karaoke too! He made me laugh. The Internet Guy...he didn't make me laugh. He didn't do karaoke. And he didn't even stay to hang out very long. I thought he wasn't interested... Except before he left he asked me to go to Nashville with him the next month for a concert. And I agreed. Partially because I'm an idiot, and partially because I fucking love Nashville.
So My Friend and Her Friend and I closed the place down. Had a blast. Laughed all night, sang all the songs, just had a fucking great time. Such a great time that we three made plans to get together for karaoke in two weeks time. Yay for a standing date with NEW FRIENDS!
Then I looked him up on Facebook. Or he looked me up. Whatever, it happened. We chatted a little bit throughout the following couple weeks. Conversely, Internet Guy called me as well. I don't remember if I even went out to dinner with Internet Guy....I know we talked on the phone. Anyway, two weeks rolls around and we all meet up for karaoke. Except My Friend (the girl) just doesn't show up. I'm sitting there with HER FRIEND, the SEXY FRIEND, and getting slightly hammered. And having fucking fun. A lot of fun. The memories of the evening are fuzzy. I remember lots of vodka and redbull and lapdances. I gave him lapdances. Yep.
I'm normally not *quite* that forward of a girl. But something...got into me. Vodka, most likely, but I just fucking felt it. I was digging the hell out of this guy and he was digging me too. I thought he was just....hot. And smart. And funny. And he make me feel pretty, even though I showed up to karaoke in a librarian sweater, pigtails, and absolutely no makeup.
As you can probably guess we ended up together that night. I remember arriving at the hotel, and I turned to him, and I said, "Just so you know, I have sleep apnea. I snore like a fucking freight train." He looked at me and said, "Me too!" and I laughed. And I knew. I knew right then. Don't ask me how or why, and no, it wasn't my drunk brain. I just knew.
Things and stuff happened. The
And so goes the story of how I met Boyfriend.
Who Takes Home a Baby From a Van?
I'm adopted. And I'm thankful for that fact for a multitude of reasons, the most important being that I do not share genetic material with the yahoo's that 'raised' me. Don't get me wrong, I love my folks. They each have their strong points, and conversely, their weak ones.
My mother....let me paint you a picture. Mom grew up on a shit-dirt-poor farm. Her house had two rooms, outdoor plumbing, and 8 other kids PLUS her two parents. In the 60's and 70's. In the Midwest. Missouri, to be exact. (my Brother L and I call it "misery"). She's been a transplant to the south for longer than she ever lived in the Midwest, however, so I guess it's only right to refer to her as a southern lady. She's floating down this little river we call Denial and that's where she likes to stay. I think she probably used to be a really nice person, but over the years she's dealt with being a (kind of) single parent, bad relationships, weight gain, addiction -- not her, but one of us kids (not myself, thankfully) -- and a host of other bad shit. Kind of turned her into an asshole. I guess maybe life does that to some people. I'm not sure. Jury's still out.
She grew up always cooking and cleaning for her family as she was the youngest girl. She never had a seat at the family's table until she was nearly 16 years old and one of her sisters got married off at the ripe old age of 17. Don't worry, it worked out. They stayed married until my Uncle T died. Sad day.
Mom was diagnosed with Lupus when she was 16. And at 18, she died. Stopped breathing. Her pericardium, the sac around the heart, filled with fluid and collapsed. It was then she saw Jesus. And Jesus told her that she had work left to do on Earth and she wasn't allowed to hang around in Heaven just yet.
She's been a secretary for thirty years.
My Dad....I don't know him that well. He and Mom split when I was five. He was a big wig for a big box store and we grew up with money. Dad had more than Mom but he paid dearly in child support and we never lacked or wanted for anything. Ever. My Dad is a pretty goofy guy, likes to tell shitty jokes, loves mathematical jokes (even though nobody ever understands them), and is an avid hunter.
He taught me to shoot a gun when I was three. At one time he owned what we all referred to as "The Cabin". The Cabin was really a multi-million dollar fucking estate. But we didn't know that. We had no idea that people didn't have homes with nannies and guest houses and heated pools and recessed lighting to artfully display your gun collection. We didn't understand that people didn't have summer houses or lake homes or jetskis and boats and four wheelers and vacations to exotic places, like a TWO week vacay to Disney. Yeah. That happened.
Dad is pretty cool. He's always been very....'go with the flow'. We don't see each other much, we don't talk to each other much, and that seems to work out for the both of us. He's got a wife that is the same age as my Boyfriend (she's young) and he seems happy-ish. So good for him.
My folks met in their little hometowns at a football game. Opposing sides. The county rivalry. It was doomed from the beginning. They fell in love, got married, moved away, blah blah blah.
Eventually they found out Mom couldn't have kids. So to adoption they turned. This is where I come in.
After months of trying to get a baby -- apparently white babies are expensive and hard to get -- the adoption agent called them. YOU HAVE A BABY GIRL! Now meet me JUUUUUUSSSSTTTTT this side of the Mexico border in Texas and come and get her.
FROM MY VAN.
MY PARENTS GOT ME FROM THE BACK OF A VAN NEAR THE MEXICO BORDER.
Ya'll, I couldn't make this shit up. I'm not that fucking creative. A VAN. Maybe I was a black market baby, I don't know. Mom swears up and down that I'm not, but Dad won't crack at all. Kinda makes me wonder.
Mom says they pulled up on a dirt road and a little old lady opened the back of the van doors, beckoning them inside. She hands me to Mom and I immediately scream. Mom hands me to Dad and I quiet down and pass the fuck out. Babies respond to stress. I don't know what exactly went down in that van that night except that Mom and Dad brought me home and here I am.
I am the girl who was adopted from the back of a van near the Mexico border in Texas. Yep.
Comments/Feels/Stories : Drop em off down there. -- Krys
My mother....let me paint you a picture. Mom grew up on a shit-dirt-poor farm. Her house had two rooms, outdoor plumbing, and 8 other kids PLUS her two parents. In the 60's and 70's. In the Midwest. Missouri, to be exact. (my Brother L and I call it "misery"). She's been a transplant to the south for longer than she ever lived in the Midwest, however, so I guess it's only right to refer to her as a southern lady. She's floating down this little river we call Denial and that's where she likes to stay. I think she probably used to be a really nice person, but over the years she's dealt with being a (kind of) single parent, bad relationships, weight gain, addiction -- not her, but one of us kids (not myself, thankfully) -- and a host of other bad shit. Kind of turned her into an asshole. I guess maybe life does that to some people. I'm not sure. Jury's still out.
She grew up always cooking and cleaning for her family as she was the youngest girl. She never had a seat at the family's table until she was nearly 16 years old and one of her sisters got married off at the ripe old age of 17. Don't worry, it worked out. They stayed married until my Uncle T died. Sad day.
Mom was diagnosed with Lupus when she was 16. And at 18, she died. Stopped breathing. Her pericardium, the sac around the heart, filled with fluid and collapsed. It was then she saw Jesus. And Jesus told her that she had work left to do on Earth and she wasn't allowed to hang around in Heaven just yet.
She's been a secretary for thirty years.
My Dad....I don't know him that well. He and Mom split when I was five. He was a big wig for a big box store and we grew up with money. Dad had more than Mom but he paid dearly in child support and we never lacked or wanted for anything. Ever. My Dad is a pretty goofy guy, likes to tell shitty jokes, loves mathematical jokes (even though nobody ever understands them), and is an avid hunter.
He taught me to shoot a gun when I was three. At one time he owned what we all referred to as "The Cabin". The Cabin was really a multi-million dollar fucking estate. But we didn't know that. We had no idea that people didn't have homes with nannies and guest houses and heated pools and recessed lighting to artfully display your gun collection. We didn't understand that people didn't have summer houses or lake homes or jetskis and boats and four wheelers and vacations to exotic places, like a TWO week vacay to Disney. Yeah. That happened.
Dad is pretty cool. He's always been very....'go with the flow'. We don't see each other much, we don't talk to each other much, and that seems to work out for the both of us. He's got a wife that is the same age as my Boyfriend (she's young) and he seems happy-ish. So good for him.
My folks met in their little hometowns at a football game. Opposing sides. The county rivalry. It was doomed from the beginning. They fell in love, got married, moved away, blah blah blah.
Eventually they found out Mom couldn't have kids. So to adoption they turned. This is where I come in.
After months of trying to get a baby -- apparently white babies are expensive and hard to get -- the adoption agent called them. YOU HAVE A BABY GIRL! Now meet me JUUUUUUSSSSTTTTT this side of the Mexico border in Texas and come and get her.
FROM MY VAN.
MY PARENTS GOT ME FROM THE BACK OF A VAN NEAR THE MEXICO BORDER.
Ya'll, I couldn't make this shit up. I'm not that fucking creative. A VAN. Maybe I was a black market baby, I don't know. Mom swears up and down that I'm not, but Dad won't crack at all. Kinda makes me wonder.
Mom says they pulled up on a dirt road and a little old lady opened the back of the van doors, beckoning them inside. She hands me to Mom and I immediately scream. Mom hands me to Dad and I quiet down and pass the fuck out. Babies respond to stress. I don't know what exactly went down in that van that night except that Mom and Dad brought me home and here I am.
I am the girl who was adopted from the back of a van near the Mexico border in Texas. Yep.
Comments/Feels/Stories : Drop em off down there. -- Krys
Everyone Stand Up and Introduce Themselves
Hey. Name's Krys.
I'm a mom. My little Peanut is 8 and she looks just like me, which is pretty fantastic considering what she could have ended up with. That sounds pretty vain, and I suppose it is, until you see a picture of her grandparents. I thank the great Divine every day that I have no genetic material shared with any of my family. More on that later.
I'm a divorced mom. That's a whole series in and of itself. ::shudders::
I hold two Bachelor's degrees, a B.F.A. (painting) and a B.S. (marketing), both of which are basically useless. My passion is hair and makeup. Sounds lame, and I don't care. I love it.
I graduated high school when I was 16, so that gave me a lot of time to wander around the academic playground known as my local university. I've studied so many things. I could have been a fucking great lawyer by now.
I'm adopted. Thank God.
I'm a mediocre musician and singer. I love to do both and don't apologize for it.
I love to start businesses. I have a bad habit of this. I currently have three. Maybe four. We'll see how that one pans out.
I am a cancer survivor.
I like to drink and swear.Sometimes together.
I have generalized anxiety disorder. I have been on some type of benzo since I was 19...and while I can't take Xanax (it makes me fucking angry) I do take Klonopin. But Klonopin and Gummy Bears just didn't have the ring to it I wanted.
I'll probably change the title tomorrow anyway.
I judge people based on their taste in music. I do not apologize for this.
I also judge people based on their taste in books. Again, I do not apologize for this.
I only apologize when I'm wrong. Which is often. I'm not the smartest person I know, but I'm far from simple. That's a good place to be.
I am an insomniac. From about the age of 13 or so, I haven't had a regular sleep schedule. It blows.
So here I am. This is some stuff about me. I'll think of some more stuff later.
Feel like sharing? Drop it in the comments and junk.
I'm a mom. My little Peanut is 8 and she looks just like me, which is pretty fantastic considering what she could have ended up with. That sounds pretty vain, and I suppose it is, until you see a picture of her grandparents. I thank the great Divine every day that I have no genetic material shared with any of my family. More on that later.
I'm a divorced mom. That's a whole series in and of itself. ::shudders::
I hold two Bachelor's degrees, a B.F.A. (painting) and a B.S. (marketing), both of which are basically useless. My passion is hair and makeup. Sounds lame, and I don't care. I love it.
I graduated high school when I was 16, so that gave me a lot of time to wander around the academic playground known as my local university. I've studied so many things. I could have been a fucking great lawyer by now.
I'm adopted. Thank God.
I'm a mediocre musician and singer. I love to do both and don't apologize for it.
I love to start businesses. I have a bad habit of this. I currently have three. Maybe four. We'll see how that one pans out.
I am a cancer survivor.
I like to drink and swear.
I have generalized anxiety disorder. I have been on some type of benzo since I was 19...and while I can't take Xanax (it makes me fucking angry) I do take Klonopin. But Klonopin and Gummy Bears just didn't have the ring to it I wanted.
I'll probably change the title tomorrow anyway.
I judge people based on their taste in music. I do not apologize for this.
I also judge people based on their taste in books. Again, I do not apologize for this.
I only apologize when I'm wrong. Which is often. I'm not the smartest person I know, but I'm far from simple. That's a good place to be.
I am an insomniac. From about the age of 13 or so, I haven't had a regular sleep schedule. It blows.
So here I am. This is some stuff about me. I'll think of some more stuff later.
Feel like sharing? Drop it in the comments and junk.
Shall We Begin?
Hi. Hey. Hello. Hola. Bonjour.
Whatever. Hey. I'm Krys.
::loud booming voice:: AAAANNND WELLLLCOMMMEEEE TO .........
XANAX AND GUMMY BEARS!
I was at a bar recently, meeting all the people, listening to all the music, drinking all the fruity frou frou bitch martini drinks like people do. I, like just about anyone you meet for the first time, had an opportunity to share my encapsulated life story, or as I call it, my blurb. New Friend says, "HOLY SHIT YOU SHOULD WRITE A BOOK." Boyfriend nods, chimes in, "DUDE, she totally should. YOU HAVE NO IDEA!"
So here we are. You and I. Together. Snuggling....except with words and feelings and junk.
I'm here to share what I remember about my life AS I remember it. There will not be a chronological timeline to refer to. No rhyme or reason....
Don't judge my boogie.
Whatever. Hey. I'm Krys.
::loud booming voice:: AAAANNND WELLLLCOMMMEEEE TO .........
XANAX AND GUMMY BEARS!
I was at a bar recently, meeting all the people, listening to all the music, drinking all the fruity frou frou bitch martini drinks like people do. I, like just about anyone you meet for the first time, had an opportunity to share my encapsulated life story, or as I call it, my blurb. New Friend says, "HOLY SHIT YOU SHOULD WRITE A BOOK." Boyfriend nods, chimes in, "DUDE, she totally should. YOU HAVE NO IDEA!"
So here we are. You and I. Together. Snuggling....except with words and feelings and junk.
I'm here to share what I remember about my life AS I remember it. There will not be a chronological timeline to refer to. No rhyme or reason....
Don't judge my boogie.
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