Journal created:
on 6 January 2002 (#431795)
Updated:
on 4 June 2023
Name:
i'm a lucid dreamer
Birthdate:
18 March 1979
Location:
Olympia, Washington, United States
a doll with no pants owns me. he allows another two (three if you count international scolding) to stay in the house and nag, but they have lost smacking me into order privileges via abusing them. i once was owned by two cats, but they have moved on to something that i am certain is not a stupid rhyming rainbow bridge because they deserve better than so many of the poems and songs i have read and heard regarding that particular subject.
still have a tentative grasp on what i really hope is reality.
when i'm not making a running acid observation (or an admiring remark as to a particularly good maneuver) regarding whatever game my husband happens to be playing, i'm putting in a running acid observation regarding my current book (speculative fiction or historical fiction, most often), watching battlestar galactica or some other such thing with said husband who agreed to marry me just before i married myself, or chatting with someone about the mundanities i kick it with daily, like why the workers didn't bother to fix the blinds or--since i've moved, do ANYTHING EXCEPT change the carpet before i moved in here. or maybe complain that the fishtank/birdcage hasn't cleaned itself, and why won't someone vacuum and make dinner for me because i'm so TIRED and all that. when i said that about not doing anything except change the carpet? um. become a bachelor, fry things often, and invite two young boys over. then hand them BB guns and tell them 'yeah, but you can only shoot them into the trees' and walk away. i'm still finding broken things, dents or holes in floors/walls ceilings, there's some weird red/black stuff that isn't mildew but won't wash off--i suspect paintball--and something that looks, acts, and just is icky but strongly resembles snot everywhere i go. i won't go into the kitchen, the tiles, the windows (except that i fell into one onto floor once) except to say...just...wtf. i found a corn-dog stick in the dishwasher.
i'm agoraphobic, insomniac, suffer from crippling fibromyalgia, and have a metric fuckton of mental and physical conditions that i work around--or rather, don't work around--as well as i can. i keep the house cleanish if you exclude crafting and computer clutter, and i attempt to keep the dishes mostly done and now attempt to move things in boxes and furniture to places where they will *work* until they fall down, i fix them, then i fall down. i cook damned well for someone who does not eat. it's a sort of alchemy...i view the results with fascination rather than ravenous hunger.
i love squirrels, both of my lost cats, my shy canary who has forgotten how to sing unless we run water or something equally loud and monotonous since his first major molt, farf, my friends, my mother, and my husband, not necessarily in that order. i like my betta but have learned through painful experience that fish must be considered a temporary friend; he also invariably flares at my husband even when being fed, but invariably will only show off for me. we don't get it. fandom has mostly abandoned me, but i haven't entirely abandoned it. i also love sunlight again, but not as much as i love moonlight. the latter has given me many bruised shins, ankles, and toes. fortunately i don't object to expletives, particularly as i've recently *broken* two toes. one does what one can with what one has. even if it's 'i can't move, i hurt' and a canary who knows 'TWEE?' and looks like a cheeto. (he requires reassurance, so we have daily discussions involving him hopping around saying variants of 'TWEE?' and me saying 'really! twee-bird! twee? REALLY?' (if anyone speaks canary, it's probably the most idiotic conversation ever even if you ignore my absent-minded responses to his 'TWEE?')
also i read and write about boys and girls being gay and have no problems with this. if you have a problem, don't go here.
and i live by this poem, as is proven by my tubal ligation:
Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
Schwarz are Baddies of Love
Made by kuroitenshi13.
...oh. um, a good manypretty much all posts are friends-only. just so you know.
still have a tentative grasp on what i really hope is reality.
when i'm not making a running acid observation (or an admiring remark as to a particularly good maneuver) regarding whatever game my husband happens to be playing, i'm putting in a running acid observation regarding my current book (speculative fiction or historical fiction, most often), watching battlestar galactica or some other such thing with said husband who agreed to marry me just before i married myself, or chatting with someone about the mundanities i kick it with daily, like why the workers didn't bother to fix the blinds or--since i've moved, do ANYTHING EXCEPT change the carpet before i moved in here. or maybe complain that the fishtank/birdcage hasn't cleaned itself, and why won't someone vacuum and make dinner for me because i'm so TIRED and all that. when i said that about not doing anything except change the carpet? um. become a bachelor, fry things often, and invite two young boys over. then hand them BB guns and tell them 'yeah, but you can only shoot them into the trees' and walk away. i'm still finding broken things, dents or holes in floors/walls ceilings, there's some weird red/black stuff that isn't mildew but won't wash off--i suspect paintball--and something that looks, acts, and just is icky but strongly resembles snot everywhere i go. i won't go into the kitchen, the tiles, the windows (except that i fell into one onto floor once) except to say...just...wtf. i found a corn-dog stick in the dishwasher.
i'm agoraphobic, insomniac, suffer from crippling fibromyalgia, and have a metric fuckton of mental and physical conditions that i work around--or rather, don't work around--as well as i can. i keep the house cleanish if you exclude crafting and computer clutter, and i attempt to keep the dishes mostly done and now attempt to move things in boxes and furniture to places where they will *work* until they fall down, i fix them, then i fall down. i cook damned well for someone who does not eat. it's a sort of alchemy...i view the results with fascination rather than ravenous hunger.
i love squirrels, both of my lost cats, my shy canary who has forgotten how to sing unless we run water or something equally loud and monotonous since his first major molt, farf, my friends, my mother, and my husband, not necessarily in that order. i like my betta but have learned through painful experience that fish must be considered a temporary friend; he also invariably flares at my husband even when being fed, but invariably will only show off for me. we don't get it. fandom has mostly abandoned me, but i haven't entirely abandoned it. i also love sunlight again, but not as much as i love moonlight. the latter has given me many bruised shins, ankles, and toes. fortunately i don't object to expletives, particularly as i've recently *broken* two toes. one does what one can with what one has. even if it's 'i can't move, i hurt' and a canary who knows 'TWEE?' and looks like a cheeto. (he requires reassurance, so we have daily discussions involving him hopping around saying variants of 'TWEE?' and me saying 'really! twee-bird! twee? REALLY?' (if anyone speaks canary, it's probably the most idiotic conversation ever even if you ignore my absent-minded responses to his 'TWEE?')
also i read and write about boys and girls being gay and have no problems with this. if you have a problem, don't go here.
and i live by this poem, as is proven by my tubal ligation:
Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
Schwarz are Baddies of Love
Made by kuroitenshi13.
...oh. um, a good many
absinthe, acceptance, agoraphobia, alcohol, alternative sexuality, altruism, amusingly angsty poetry, anime, anthropology, archaeology, aspens, autumn, battlestar galactica, boondocks, botany, brit-picking, c.j. cherryh, cemeteries, chrono cross, circadian rhythms, classical music, cocteau twins, corsets, creative writing, crocheting, cylons, dancing, darkwave, dead can dance, death note, depeche mode, depression, draco malfoy, e.e. cummings, edward elric, embroidery, empathy, epic fantasy, farfarello, final fantasy, final fantasy x, final fantasy x-2, flamewars are boring, forgiveness, fullmetal alchemist, gary numan, gblt, good eats, goth boys, happiness, harry potter slash, healing, herbal medicine, hitting refresh, homekeeping, i love my mother, improvisational cooking, insomnia, invader zim, kindness, kyou kara maou, linguaphilia, literature, long skirts, love, lucid dreaming, making up words, matthew shepard foundation, melancholy, metroid, michael whelan, morality, obsessive reading, old consoles, openmindedness, organic anything, panic anxiety disorder, peter murphy, playstation, poetry, population control, psychology, reading, sappho, schuldig, science fiction, science fiction/fantasy, scotland, severus snape, silence, slash, slytherin, sock knitting, solitude, sparkly things, speculative fiction, spirituality, star trek, stargazing, sylvia plath effect, synaesthesia, teenage mutant ninja turtles, textiles, the oregon coast, the squirrel army, thestrals, tolkien, transexuality, trees, ursula k. le guin, venture brothers, weaving, weiss kreuz, writing, wyoming, xenophilia, yarn snobbery