Going Toe to Toe with an Enchantress

* I would certainly enjoy a cigarette, but lack the motivation to go down to my front porch.

* My roommates - including my brother - are in the living room watching Equilibrium. This is a good thing.

* I learn something new every day.

* I'm looking forward to Christmas in a mellow way that I find I enjoy.

* I don't necessarily believe in coincidences.

* I find atheism interesting, but at least as incompatible with my paradigm as Christianity.

* I find myself backspacing again in journal entries. I do not like this. The reason I made this journal was to avoid that.

* I feel this obligation to be better at salsa dancing than I actually am.

* I am grateful for Ambien.

* I believe in convergence. And collision. And life.

* I'm due for a tarot reading from someone with skill. I may actually consult my mother on this.

[from The Oxford English Dictionary]

A. adj. I. General uses.

1. {dag}a. Of plants or their leaves: remaining green or leafy throughout the year; evergreen. Obs.
Both here and in sense 1b, the meaning could be understood as ‘lasting through successive years, never-failing, perpetual’, as in sense 2, of which continuance throughout the year is the condition.

b. Of a spring, stream, water supply, etc.: lasting or continuing throughout the year or through all seasons of the year.

c. Ecol. Of a planktonic organism: present at all seasons.

d. Med. Of an allergic condition: present at all seasons.

2. a. Of plants, their roots, etc.: remaining alive for a number of years; spec. designating a herbaceous plant that dies down above ground and sends up fresh growth every year. Freq. in the names of plants. Cf. ANNUAL a. 4b, BIENNIAL a. 1b.

b. Lasting through a succession of years, or through a long, indefinite, or infinite time; continual, perpetual; enduring, everlasting.
perennial philosophy = PHILOSOPHIA PERENNIS n.

c. Recurring year after year; annual. rare.

{dag}d. Zool. Of teeth: growing continually throughout life, as the incisors of a rodent. Obs. rare{em}0.

e. Entomol. (Of a social insect) forming colonies which persist from year to year; (of an insect colony) persisting from year to year.

f. Zool. Of an animal or a developmental stage: living or persisting for more than one year. rare.

II. Special uses.

3. perennial ryegrass, the ryegrass Lolium perenne, widely used in pastures, as a hard-wearing component of lawns, and as a catch crop.

B. n.

1. A perennial plant: see sense A. 2a.

2. In extended use: something that remains fresh or lasts perennially. Now esp.: a perennial problem.

I find I rather miss my old journal sometimes.

I think I liked the purple better than the teal - it felt more personal, if less pretty.

I think it important, if you write - even if you don't fancy yourself a writer - and find yourself under the influence of chemical substances - to write while under the influence of those substances. There is understanding there, and peace. There are doors to be opened and honesty to be offered, even if only to you.

There are ways of being in the world, and they vary so immensely. I am not one of those creatures who is easy to manage. I am one of those creatures who is easy to love, if you want to love me, if I let you love me - but I'll let you love me if you're worthy of that. But I am not one of those creatures who is easy to manage. I am deeply emotional, and short-tempered, from time to time. I live in a world which, because of the fact that I'm a woman and ethnic, often sexualizes and infantilizes me - it's funny how difficult it is to be taken seriously if you don't assert yourself. I generally have no trouble asserting myself, but even that can bring trouble, because, especially when you're a woman and ethnic, you are out of line, you're too brash, you have too much attitude.

I've found that women aren't permitted, in terms of social acceptability, to be angry - where as men are. Or, maybe it would be more accurate to posit that a woman's anger is less often perceived, or at least treated, as justifiable than a man's is. I've found, however, that I can be quite an angry person, and that this generally manifests both as depression - the turning of anger inward - and as aggression/lashing out - the turning of anger outward.

But the sociological piece is secondary here - a contributing factor, perhaps, but not the main issue. The main issue, in my mind, is the fact that when the anger, or the upset, or the hurt manifests, as it periodically does, it creates problems. Not so much in general, even, but in specific cases. It makes me inclined to want to get rid of it - to suppress it, to deny it. But that never works - suppressing anger leads to explosions, rage, and in general, Very Bad Things. And yet what else is there to do? I don't want to go through my life angry all the time - starting confrontations just to 'get it out of my system'. I've learned to cope with my anger in the best way I know how. Perhaps not perfect, but it seems to work with most of the important players in my life.

But there are places and people that demand suppression. Too many times of late has not only the legitimacy of my anger been denied, but my right to feel it at all, it seems. I'm not sure what to do or say about that. It's undeniable that I have some things to work out. I've spent the past few weeks struggling very hard with a great many things, and I haven't written about them here nor anywhere else; I haven't spoken of most of them, because the fact of the matter is that people want to know only because they think it will interest them - but it won't. I have no desire to lay my heart bare in that way. But it's there. And so when the time comes to deal with it, to work it out, it can be messy. It happens. But it's better to keep those things closer to home, I think. To keep things where they're safer, where they're less likely to hurt people and less likely to get me hurt. Misjudging your safe spaces is a mistake, and I've made it too many times.

The Ambien is kicking in, and it's time for me to get some real sleep for once in my life. A few hours of glory in favor of continuing what has begun as a much more positive and healthy weekend than I had anticipated. I am grateful to be surrounded by love and positivity, by support and laughter.

It's good here.

Man, people are totally just lining up to piss me off tonight.

Fortunately, it's all good, mostly.

It also helps that I got a barrage of amusing messages of admiration that accumulated in an e-mail I don't check often enough over the past day or so.



Catharsis is a beautiful thing. Distrust is not.

Fuck whatcha heard.

A revelation I've come to in working so hard at my job over the past few months is that when you're a hard worker - in any capacity whatsoever - and you have an incompetent boss - it appears that you inevitably end up doing much more work than you would have otherwise. Granted, it might have endangered my job, but last year, when I was constantly slacking, my life was way easier, and I didn't have nearly half the shit I have to do this year. What is that bullshit? Life was better when I was unwilling to exert real effort and dealing with lower expectations.

In other news, however, I am ashamed.

I had forgotten my spic roots; forgotten the wisdom of my people; forgotten the reason that Latin women, by and large, age better and have better skin than many other women.

The secret, my friends, is cocoa butter.

Now listen as I share the secrets of mi gente with you:

I have been investing exorbitant amounts of cash in lotions and cremes since at least my early twenties, with fair to middling results. My skin has never been bad, and has always had good texture, so it was never a big thing. However, in the winter, there was a lot of reapplication going on, even with some of the "high end" lotions that are out there on the market - lotions that go for between $10-20 an 8 oz. bottle. Which is some bullshit. But I didn't know - I thought I was getting the best that was out there. I paid little mind to my mother's love of cocoa butter, and the fact that I'd never seen her use body lotion in her damn life.

Anyway, like, three years ago, at a beauty supply, I bought a jar of cocoa butter solid to put on a scar that I have, because cocoa butter makes scars fade. Of course, because I'm lazy and thoughtless, I forgot to put it on, and it found its way into my Products I Don't Use Drawer, where it languished ever since. Recently, I embarked on a room cleaning project, in which I've been going through my stuff and cleaning it piecemeal - like, two or three pieces of furniture per weekend. So I got to this set of drawers, and found this cocoa butter solid. So the other night, I was like, "GodDAMN, muh legs is dry! What the fuck!" Too lazy to rise and go get the Dirty Girl or Boss Lady lotion I usually use, I just grabbed the cocoa butter.

Oh my sweet fucking baby jesus, my skin is like... Goddamn.

It's so sexy I want to kiss myself.

I don't remember my skin -ever- feeling this soft and silky and sexy and smooth. NEVER EVER. And like I said, I've always had pretty good skin. But I will put my shit against ANY bitch right now. ANY BITCH. I got it.

The best part about this is that fucking jar of cocoa butter solid, which is likely to last me at least as long as a tube of that lotion (probably longer, really) cost about three fuckin' dollars.

WHAT?!

And, it smells so fuckin' awesome, but not so strong that I can't still use my other delicious fragrances.

Oh, I wanna kiss muhself!

Note: You can ignore this if you don't roleplay. It probably won't make sense in that case.

Okay, what the fuck?

It's a given that a gaming system conceived by and for a Eurocentric culture is going to be - well - Eurocentric. That's fine. I accept that. V:tM is kinda okay - they covered most of the places where the vampire myth exists as we know it today, especially when they made the Lasombra and the Ravnos. They even got some A-rabs up in the mix with the Assamites. I respect that (though we will note that none of those clans are of the Camarilla, the main protagonist organization - though the Brujah have a Spanish name and possible southern European roots). I don't know about Werewolf or Wraith - I haven't read the core books. The Changeling book is aight - they have the Eshu, who are pretty cool North/Sub-Saharan African, and strongly so. And hell, they made a whole system on the Asian supernaturals eventually since they couldn't be bothered to do that much research until like, the third edition of the World of Darkness - but at least they acknowledged that Asia has it's own totally different thing going on and didn't try to fuck with it. As we can tell, I'm not asking that half the fucking clans/tribes/whatevers be minorities.

HowEVER, Mage the fucking Exclusionary Ascension, what the fuck is this bullshit?

Now, I hadn't noticed this before, because my first Mage EVARR, Nico, is practically white - yeah, she's Spanish and Portuguese, and has some hood/Jersey/New York flava, but she could just as easily be white as any other race or ethnicity. But in trying to make a mage who brings a different flavor - that of the Afro-Caribbean tradition of Santeria, to be exact - I've discovered that White Wolf has given me no place for her in the nine/ten conventional Traditions. It's a small thing - it shouldn't make a difference - but it makes me really angry, because I've been in a bad mood recently, because I love White Wolf so much otherwise, because when you're a Geek of Color, you just get used to the standard frame of reference being that of white and Western mythology, mysticism, science, culture - everything. And goddamn it, I'd just come to expect more from White Wolf. Is it so wrong to want to feel like my shit is a part of things? To want my culture, my traditions, my history, to be represented in this game that's supposed to emulate the real world?

Well, I guess it does emulate the real world, in that the value of the stories and traditions and customs of two thirds of the world are marginalized and grouped together as though they were just some small factional entity known as "Other."

The fact is, my little Santera fits in MUCH better with the Verbena than the fucking Dreamspeakers - almost perfectly, in fact. But the Verbena are so steeped in fucking Wiccan and Celtic and Druidic rhetoric and custom and language that I don't see how a Santera could fit into their paradigm unless she was a house slave.

Okay, that last bit was for effect. But still.

I am so disappointed. White Wolf has always been my shit, and I was so fuckin' souped about this Dreamspeaker - I want to vomit on it now.

I am sicker than a dog.

Also, I fail at life.

Airborne, why have you abandoned me in my hour of need?

I'm so going to work today.

It was supposed to have snowed, goddamnit! SNOWED!

:goes to shower:

I'm sick again.

The doctor sent me to get bloodwork done last week, but I haven't gone. I really should make that appointment. I'm not getting nauseous anymore, though, so I figure I must be all better. However, since life has to be funny, I'm still sick - just with a new illness. I'm developing a cold. I'm hoping that with the help of Airborne and NyQuil, I'll fight it off with the quickness.

But damn.

In other news, yes, I am emo lately. Cheer up, emokid.

Don't be alarmed. I periodically have bouts of wanting to quit at life.

Sigh. Maybe I do need drugs to make me happy.

You are lovely and wonderful. However, at this time, I am mostly angry and antisocial. If you need to talk to me, or my help, by all means let me know. But as far as lighter, more social conversations are concerned, I'm currently in withdrawal mode, which is something I need to do from time to time for my own sanity. I'm okay, I promise - I just need some time to myself.

I appreciate your concern and your patience. Much love.

I am about to lose my motherfucking mind.

Once again, I've received a shitty evaluation that is a wholly inaccurate reflection of my work. Why is this? Because my boss has personal beef with me.

What sucks the most is that I've worked at this job for almost four years now, and a year and a half of those has been under this fucking beast of a woman - so when I go to look for another job, and they seek out references, it's this bitch, or the Commission that has a fistful of bad evaluations for me, that they're going to talk to. Nobody's going to talk to my coworkers or my parents, the people I serve or the people I help - they're going to talk to this pig-faced whore who's had it out for me since the day she started working here.

I can't take this anymore - I seriously can't. I already told her that I'm leaving at 11:30 AM for a mental health day - which fucks her, because Parent-Teacher Conferences are this afternoon and she needs me to translate. I may be getting fired in the very near future, but I can't bring myself to care, honestly.

I just need to find another job.

Don't want to go to work.

Can't find my checkbook.

Fuckin' A.

Sometimes it seems as though almost everyone I know makes things more complicated than they are, or than they need to be.

I am drunk. There are other things, too. Just took an Ambien. Am interested in what dreams may come.

But first - a meme stolen from lady_kas

1. Are you complicated?

I guess so. I don't know what that means, really, not when applied to me. I understand most of what's going on with me, even though sometimes it seems as though I don't. I know myself better than anyone else does, and I know myself better than I know anyone else. Nonetheless, I'm a girl of what may seem like innumerable contradictions, though it's all cohesive to me. I have a lot of facets. I don't think that makes me complicated, though - I think that makes me human.

2. Do you retaliate?

I try very hard to turn the other cheek - or rather, to understand a person's actions and try to be forgiving or compassionate. That said, when appropriate, when I feel it deserved - fuck yes.

3. Last person to hug you?

Ashanti.

4. Your latest complaint.

Whatever. Right now, at 3:17 AM on December 2nd, I have no complaints.

5. Who was the bully on your playground?

I don't know that there was one. I had an archnemesis, though - I actually named her in a meme from my last journal that had asked about your mortal enemy like, two years ago... and she found the entry (presumably through google) then wrote me a comment about how crazy I was for "still holding on." It was creepy. We fought a lot - there were fisticuffs - and I honed some nastiness on her ass.

I'm out.

One of the most obnoxious things about being an outspoken/assertive person is that motherfuckers expect you to constantly be the one to speak up and fucking do the hard shit - but when it comes time when you want a fucking break, when you think it might be nice for somebody else to fucking step up to bat, that shit will -not- go down.

I fucking hate people sometimes.

I feel quite emotional today, which can likely be attributed to my sleep-deprived state. Last night, I was reminded that despite the fact that I consider myself a fairly emotional person, that a) there are a LOT of other people, women especially, that are far more overtly emotional than I, and b) that I put up a much better front than I'd remembered. It's strange when you spend most of your time in contact with people that you feel very close to - with people who've seen you cry or freak out or lose the most important things in your life or win the most important battles. It's strange when you re-enter one of those social spheres that are familiar and comfortable, that are old and new, that remind you of moments and make new moments, where no one ever knew you as well as they could, but at the same time know a wholly different you so intimately - who understand things about you that don't even need to be acknowledged, because they're simply understood. It's not even a front - it's detachment, it's distance, it's the understanding that some things really aren't worth getting that riled up about. Part of that is maturity, part of that is living in the real world, part of that is coming from a place where certain concerns are just more important.

But it was wonderful, it was lovely. It was refreshing and strange. It's funny. They respect me, they seem to admire me, they seem to value my opinion, and... it's mutual, and I felt the love. It was good.

Anyway, today, I'm feeling... not mercurial in mood, but all my emotions are very close to the surface, pushing up against my skin. I'm enjoying the melancholy this song induces, even though I'm not feeling melancholic. This song hooks into that thing that hurts most, the deep pains that you've felt. It saddens me for so many reasons.

But I'm not really going there right now.

I dreamt last night, but I forgot them again. I forgot what they meant and why they were. My life isn't falling apart, but I'm not a success - I'm not a thing of beauty, but I may well be a work of art. I think I'm just tired, I think I just want to be free. I wonder if I'll feel free when I graduate, or if everything will remain the same. I have to hope against that, I have to work against that. No matter what happens when I graduate, my life must change, or I'm going to die this way. And I have no intention of dying this way.

I don't need to see the world, but I need to break the fuck out of this cocoon. I refuse to be a stillbirth.

This morning I received an e-mail from my mother which closed with:

Huggles,
Mami

Oh mother. What dark and nefarious internet crowd have you fallen in with?!

I feel icky. And scared.

There is stuff I want to write here, but I've totally got the itis, and I'm not even entirely certain what they are. There's a lot going on in my head, and I think life is mostly good, though there are things worrying me at this juncture.

It was good to be here. It is good to be here. And yet... and yet.

I miss my home. Even though it's messier and not as nice and not as easy, in a lot of ways.

I feel as though everyone's gone out of their way to make me feel more welcome, and at the same time, they're all too aware that it may well be another year before they see me again. And yet they're not mad about it. It's not even resignation. Just acceptance. Which somehow makes me feel worse. They brought me back a beautiful dress from Algeria, and a little ceramic bowl with a lid.

I want ice cream.

And a nap.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. I hope you had good food and little to no drama.

I hate every celebrity that has ever lived and breathed on this earth.

Except for Natalie Portman. Whom I love.


Edited to add: It appears the entry I made the other day regarding girls' night was not, as I had thought, filtered for girls only. My apologies - it wasn't meant for mixed company! :D

There is no secret electrical fire in my house! Hooray! The foul, burning rubber/plastic smell was the refrigerator motor overheating and apparently burning out.

I called out of work to discover this.

Anyway, the fridge is unplugged and not working - we won't be able to get a new one until Friday at the earliest, though possibly as late as Sunday. This is a major inconvenience, and highly annoying. I have about ten pounds of meat, at least, in the freezer. This debacle hurts my soul. But at least the vodka won't go bad if we leave it out for a few days! I finished up my tasty apple cider, and fortunately, my other juices haven't been opened yet. There are eggs and the like, but at this point, the loss is too bothersome to calculate. However, on the other hand, I am alone in the house, and have been eating my roommate's rapidly melting ice cream. I believe a cheese omelette with formerly frozen peppers and chorizo may be next.

Motherfucker, my chorizo will have been lost! AUGH!

Yeah, so Beth knocks on my door at 3:00 AM. I drag my ass out of bed and get dressed. It smells vaguely like burnt electrical in my room, and stronger as we get to the first floor. Fire department, landlord, blah blah blah. They couldn't figure out what was wrong exactly, except for that the light fixture in the kitchen was making the foul smell and that our electrical wiring is retarded.

So I don't know what's going on. But if I go missing at some point this weekend, it's possible I may have vacated my house. Or burned to death. Hopefully not the latter, since I don't know how much I fear death, but I definitely fear my face melting. I'd prefer to die pretty.

Motherfucker, can't I get one full night's sleep in my life? Just one?