Eight-Year Old Daily Mantra:

Cherish the life that skips the lonely 20-something dating cycle.

It takes about one year to get over someone. But now it seems like it's taking place a lot sooner than that. The past year's life lessons has taught me well in learning about the truth.

The fact of the matter is, she's a sociopath. Manipulative in every sense, she would kill someone if she could gain something from it and later get away with it, using her pseudo-charismatic ways. She can get people to do what she wants and she'd even use her body for it.

All that my family has given her, the benefit of the doubt, as well as a roof over her head while we were searching for a place to live, all she could think about, was how uncomfortable she was in the eyes of virtual strangers.

And all that I had given her, my complete love, but turned sour with her manipulative and ill-provoking ways. I have a sense that she still hasn't changed.

If that's the case, then she deserves what she's getting right now.

Stay alone in your lonesome apartment, the one without furniture, the one without love, the one without life. The more I think about it, the more I can't give you forgiveness, and the more I despise your existence - so much to the point of wanting to not recognize you.

I want you out of my dreams and out of my life. I'd rather end myself than to think of you and what could've been. You were nothing but bad for me - poison for my mind.

So, after getting the dependencies just right for reinstalling Ximian Gnome, it still doesn't work. I start it up and get a lot of PC speaker beeps and no widgets or panels. I have to control-alt-backspace to logout.

However, running the Ximian installer and installing new versions of stuff Ximian normally uses seems to have fixed my small fonts problem in KDE (notably in Mozilla and Gaim) and fixed the equalizer problems I was having with xmms. The CD player still doesn't work in KDE, though.

All this has made me exceptionally disappointed with Mandrake 8.2, and I never should've upgraded from 8.0, which had a perfectly working copy of everything. But no, I had to upgrade to 8.2 and fuck everything all up. This is standard fare for me, really, at least when it comes to upgrading Linux installations. I have never failed to fuck it up somehow when upgrading Mandrake, however. There's always been something that required hours of hunting down and fixing dependencies, or downgrading/upgrading individual packages. And let's not even get into the time I tried to upgrade to glibc-2.2, or go from RPM 3.0 to 4.0, or from gcc 2.95 to 2.96. If I didn't have so much stuff on this box, I'd just wipe it clean and install OpenBSD again.

In other news, my girlfriend is built almost exactly like Gwen Stefani, both of whom are dead sexy.

Outside my window a woman is screaming. I can hear her distress drawn out in a metallic ribbon of sound that wraps around my throat and makes it swell, makes it incapable of transmitting sound or breath.

There is no grace in being awakened this way, no warm quicksand between waking and sleeping. There is only a wrenching, a tearing, a catapult into a consciousness that shimmers like cobra scales and sounds like Shiva.

whereami

Not my bed. The walls, too - the angles are wrong, the ceiling is strange.

...isthisplace?

My body is out of this notmybed before my brain is firing correctly, propelled by adrenaline, by fear. Some tiny rational part of me is impressed by the efficiency of the reflex.

The scream again, pooling in my veins like liquid nitrogen.

I am shivering, my legs boneless in the dry desert

desert?

nightbreeze. Window open. Nothing to shield me from that noise and the thing (what is that thing) that is ripping the scream out of this anonymous woman. And who is she?

The rational part of me is growing like a night-flowering vine, soothing my heartbeat, moving me toward the window. I have to look, need to see. There is a puddle of moonlight between the bed and window, a tiny lake of mercury. I half expect to plunge ankle-deep, knee-deep into its silvery depths as I pass through it, but it is dry. This seems wrong.

When I arrive at the window, I am more than half-afraid to look out. The monster under my childhood bed has come to life; it is out there, inches away, real. How can I not look?

I scan the alien landscape; I am afraid, I am alive. Like a jellyfish sting from murky depths I remember - isn't memory like that? - I am visiting them, I am married, I have left him behind to sort out screams of my own...

I am here, not there. This is a temporary haven, a rest stop on the way to Wherever. I breathe, the way my yoga instructor tought me. My brain revels in the hit of oxygen and instantly the stars are enough to light up the entire world. And suddenly, there it is: down by the barn: a bobcat. She must have a brood of kittens to feed, and the lock on my parents' chicken coop is providing a frustrating challenge to her feline brain. Suddenly I am not other, not alien, not a stranger here - suddenly I am inside her head, ravenous and locked out and furious and lonely, saddled with tiny, furry responsibilities I never wanted or asked for.

The chickens are terrified. I can hear their claws and wings scrabbling inside the coop. It's so fast I can hardly believe it happens, the way my fear morphs into anger - Those chickens are NOT yours, I almost think - and I hiss at the great cat. This is not a noise I have ever made, and at first I am not sure who is more shocked. The cat tenses, glances wildly around her, then sprints toward the low brush. "Find a rabbit, fucker," I whisper as she disappears into the places the stars won't go. When I'm sure she's gone, I feel my way back to the bed, not my own.

At least I saved someone tonight.

Monday, 3:48 am… still awake. I’m tired yet unable to imagine sleeping. The cozy comfort that encircles people while they dream escapes me. It seems so far and foreign. I live amongst the ghosts of the dead. While it is dark, I am around. Not alive. Not awake. Just here. As the sun rises I close the curtains and shut out the light. This way, I am protected from reality. I don’t have to face what haunts me. Normalcy, the world of the living. People. Being the person I once was. Because I can’t be. I’ve been changed forever, and I can’t cope with it. If I were able to become him again, would I want to? No. he was unwise to the labrynth of what is. I know so much now that I cannot give up. Where I will go and what I will do, I don’t know, but that doesn’t matter. I know where I have been and what I have experienced. That alone is worth the sacrifice of who I was. Death is not the most tragic loss in life. The most tragic loss is what dies inside you while you are still alive. This is why I can’t sleep, why I daydream of carefree times and what seemed like forever. I mourn the death of a great part of myself- you.

Monday.

Ugh. I hate Mondays. I have no reason to hate Mondays in late August, because I'm not working, but the whole day has a negative energy about it I don't really want to have to deal with.

woke up, took a look over at the alarm clock. 9:30. That's special. Dragged myself out of bed, looking like a total train wreck, depite a solid 8 hours of sleep. Shaved, took a shower, brushed my hair and got dressed.

The transformation I undergo in that daily ritual is astounding. Especially when I skip a step or two the day before. In this case, I hadn't shaved since Friday, and I didn't get a chance to shower yesterday, because we were headed up north first thing in the morning.

I woke up an unshaven, undressed, smelly bum, and when I stepped down the stairs, I was a clean cut, well-dressed young man ready to face the world, even if my orange shirt is a bit short in the sleeves and I'm too cheap to buy a new belt so I just punched a few extra holes in this one when I lost weight.

But that's not what I'm writing about. This morning, I sat down on the shitter, and saw a book of my parents I haven't seen before: That Which We Are Seeking is Causing Us To Seek. No author on it, and it was all just photocopies or something of a handwritten original, even though it was a properly bound book. I flipped through it, and one thing stood out.

Page 6.
Big, handwritten letters, set apart from the rest.

Nothing Is Hidden.

Whatever that means. I'm heading downtown with Erin and Steve today, to go shopping downtown like the girly-girls that we are, even though we aren't girly-girls, especially not me and Steve. Then I think we're heading over to Morgans for dinner and whatever, I think he's having a gathering.

I guess I'll find out today exactly what isn't hidden. I'm guessing it'll be everything.

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