06/12/2012

Sometimes, it really freaks me out when I look back and realize I’ve been writing here for more than a decade. It’s been about 11 years now, in fact. Given how much I hate teenagers, I don’t generally go back and read about my life back then. I was almost as annoying as teenagers today are. I was a lot more boring, though. At 15, I didn’t party, drink, do drugs, or sleep around.

Well, at 25, I don’t do any of that either. Oh well. I live in the middle of nowhere with my pets. We have more fun than anyone busy boozing it up.

I took my dog to the beach yesterday. I got to try out my long-sleeved swim shirt. It’s UPF 50, so I didn’t need sunscreen, which was nice. Except on the bits of me not covered by the shirt, of course. I also bought some board shorts (type of men’s swim shorts) in a fashionable green and white that goes really well with the shirt. It was the only time I’ve ever felt comfortable at the beach. It was actually nice. And I could use the UPF as an excuse for wearing a long sleeved top for swimming.

Unfortunately, even though it was about 85 degrees out, the water was so cold that my legs went numb. I’ve never been swimming in Lake Superior earlier than July, though, and even then, the water was fucking cold. I should have known. I’ll try again for the 4th of July, I guess. Three more weeks might warm it up a bit.

Or not.

Today it was only 55 degrees, so no swimming. In fact, I was huddling in a sweatshirt all day. I love the weather here. In Detroit, summer was hot. Day after day of 90 + degree heat. Here, it hits 85 for a day or two and then cools off again. Living this close to the water, it’s always a bit cooler. It’s so much more comfortable when I have to wear long sleeves all the time. I’ve loosened up and started wearing shorts pretty regularly when it gets above 80; the scars on my legs are mostly faded—at least the ones that aren’t covered by shorts.

I’ve started writing a book, although at 1000 words it feels like a joke to call it that. I figured, I’m sitting around all the time doing nothing, I might as well create something. I used to be someone who created things, but that’s mostly stopped. I need to write songs, and stories, and do something with myself that has a tangible product. I’ve been considering making soap and salt scrubs and such, since I’ve got a flair for chemistry and cooking. Well, at least baking. Cooking is too…random, and unpredictable. Baking is more-or-less chemistry, and I love chemistry. I suppose I could start running a meth lab out of my garage, but soap making seemed more…legal.

I’ve been rocking out to the Manic Street Preachers for a few days. I realized today that I was 4 years old when my favorite song by them was released. Dang, right? It’s “Motorcycle Emptiness” and it was on the album Generation Terrorists, which came out in 1992. Yup. Four years old. Their most recent album was released in 2010 and it took me until last summer to listen to it all the way through. What can I say, I hate change. Including new albums. All that new music to integrate and analyze.

And 2010 was a pretty miserable year anyway.

I’ve been getting my exercise at night for the most part, and although it was an unconscious choice, I’ve realized how smart it was. Since I become encased in self-loathing and rage at night, I can channel that into exercising. Instead of attempting to break my fingers, I furiously cycle for half an hour or so. Last night I got 50 minutes in. I slept like a log afterwards, even though we had a thunderstorm and I was vaguely worried that a lightning strike was going to ignite the forest and cause a wildfire.

I find such creative things to worry about.

I described it to my sister yesterday as, “soul-crushing anxiety.” I get it from my mother. She’s been prone to panic attacks for years. I am different from her in that she panics only about events that are actually happening, for example, my father being arrested. I panic about things that might happen. And oh, boy, is that a long list. I don’t actually panic, though, I just worry. Since I have a really great coping mechanism to short-circuit the worry before it escalates to panic.

Anyway, my sister’s idiot fiancé gets off work soon, and I intend to be cocooned in my bed long before he gets here. The less I have to look at him, the better. Considering just looking at him occasionally fills me with homicidal rage.

But I have a great coping mechanism to short-circuit the rage before homicide occurs.

Really I never have to feel anything, ever.

And that ends my excessively long ramble for tonight.

Oh! Motorcycle Emptiness: