Maybe I've been watching too many comic-book-based-movies, but really. When I get enough money to buy my own house, the FIRST question I will ask the realtor is, "now, you are absolutely positive that there are no wealthy eccentric scientists with a tragic past living in this neighbourhood?"

So, in the past year I have had exactly two complete meltdowns. By that, I don't mean little venting/angsting/whining sessions or minor fits of hysterics. I mean a proper brain-shutdown, out of control, screaming, raging, breaking things with other things (expensive things), episode of pure, unadulterated misery.
Both of these times have happened at work.
It's not just the customers that said me off, as backward, obnoxious, moronic and nasty as they are. It's not just my manager, who holds against me the fact that while she is mid-twenties-but-looking-late-forties, obese, pug-faced, bitchy to the point of being alienating, and unqualified for anything other than a shitty retail job that she will most likely stay in for the rest of her life, simply because this is the best opportunity that she will ever get, and so far in her big, gay closet that she may as well just give up and buy a place in Narnia, I am young, educated, and as out and proud as one can be without telling their parents; and she manager only keeps me working there so she can make me miserable. And its not just the co-workers, who never understand a damn word I say,and who fold like a pack of cards because they believe in this overrated thing called 'customer service'. Its not just them. Its just that when I'm working, everything becomes... magnified.

Its looking around at all these utter failures that I'm surrounded by and realising how easily my own life could turn into that. Its seeing all these people who have been crushed and crumpled by life, all packed into the same space. Its seeing that girl who could be about my age, with track marks all up her arms, and an unlit cigarette in her mouth, explaining to me that she can't afford a new box of matches right now. Its the four-year-old who was left out in the cold at half past nine at night by his mother because he was too short to set off the sensors on the automatic doors by himself; when I finally let him in, the mother started screaming at both her child and me for being a nuisance and a meddler respectively. Its that little overweight girl who's father just keeps on buying her buckets of fairy floss and slabs of chocolate, while joking to me that at least it means he wont have to worry about her boyfriends in the future.

All the losers in the world, I meet them at my work. I look at the kids in the store and wonder 'after this childhood, what are you going to become?' I look at the adults and think, 'what the hell happened to make you this bad?' No one is born like that. People aren't made to exist like that. We're pack animals, social animals. Its not in your genetics to continue acting in a way that pushes the rest of the world out of your life, forces you into alienation. You're meant to grow out of that, decenter yourself when you realise that its not in human nature to be on your own.
I look at them and wonder what screwed them up so badly that they've suppressed a basic instinct to be welcomed by the rest of the world, to be able to co-exist. That's when something in my brain breaks. That's when the melt-down attacks. Because while I sit up on my laurels and look down on these people, pity them, revile them, I know that each day I live like this, I'm getting closer to winding up like that.

Know how I know that it's not love this time?
Cause I think she's perfect.
Sure sign that it's a simple case of infatuation rather than love is that you cannot find a single flaw in the object of your affections.
That's the sort of shit that leads to people running off and somewhere against their parent's wishes, then settling down to four years in a shitty rented apartment before popping out a kid and filing for divorce when they realise that they can't stand each other's shortcomings.

Now my problem is, how the hell do I get out of this?

You don't realise how ugly vanity is until you've spent more than an hour pouting at yourself in a mirroring, modelling all your clothes for yourself. When you've stripped off all your makeup, your hair is an uncut, greasy mess on the top of your head, and you are down to your unmatched bra and underwear, trying to figure out if that dress you just took off should go to the salvos or back in the closet, then you look to the side and catch a glimpse of your face, your expression, so focused like this is the most important decision you'll ever have to make; that is the ugliest face a person can wear.

Even worse? It doesn't matter how many times I stop and stare at myself and think how disgusting it is to be so concerned with this exterior bullshit, and how many times I go on Palahniuk-worthy rants about how I've disgraced myself by pandering to soceity's expectations of attraction ect... I'm still going to wake up the next morning and put on my prettiest frock and my red lipstick and my mascara, and it will still always be ME that stares back from my mirror.

I'm starting to think I am much, much prettier than I have ever given myself credit for. Because it sure as shit is not my winning personality that's hooking in all the ladies.
Last time I checked, self-centred, mopey, sarcastic and obnoxious were not the most attractive of qualities to be found in a person. Not to mention the shut-downs, the flakiness, the joker's mask that means that you really don't ever get to see a real person until its too late to tactfully pull out and you're forced to break us both in the inevitable fall...

Man, my face sucks. I always used to envy pretty girls. It doesn't seem so awesome any more, now that people think I'm one of them. I'm going to carve off my stupid fucking face and suck out my stupid fucking tits. I'm going to burn off my stupid fucking eyes and knock out all my stupid fucking teeth and see if any of them still want to talk to me.

Or, you know, come visit me in whatever mental hospital they send me to.
Of course, being flaky like I am, I'm pretty sure I'll start regretting that about ten minutes after its finished, so I better hope they have some damn fine reconstructive surgeons on my case. What a shame they can't reconstruct my brain, because right now, that seems to be the main thing that could do with some fixing.


In other, less self-serving and retarded news, I really need someone to finish writing this motherloving story for me, because its just not happening. I only have one chapter to go, and I have instead decided to let my motivation implode on me.
I think I need someone to smack me out of this moodiness that I've been nursing lately. Being stressed is not an excuse for being a jerk. Being stressed is not an excuse for being a jerk. Being stressed is not an excuse for being a jerk. And breath.

Dear world
Acknowledge my thus far inconsequential existence and respect my bias, derivative and largely uninformed opinions.

Quick, everybody, lower your expectations.

"I'm sorry," she says, standing behind me. I'm motionless, one hand clutching my knees to my chest, the other holding an icepack against my face. I twitch a little when her fingers brush against the side of my neck, ghosting over the angry red patches. My mind jolts at the sensation, remembering them clamping down on the same place not ten minutes ago. Her face, wrinkled and pasty, eyes reddened and ugly with anger, swimming in front of me. Her mouth forming words I couldn't hear over the blood pounding in my ears. My head throbs, my stomach swoops with nausea.
I nod, shrug a little just to acknowledge her presence. Don't want to set her off again. "I know."
It's flat, emotionless. I know she hates it, but I can't help it right now. Her hand drops away from my skin. I have a momentary urge to grab it again, press it back against my skin, scream at her to act like a mother. Her child is hurting, she should be comforting me.
She stands up. "There's food in the kitchen, if you're hungry," she offers. I know that. I bought it yesterday. And I will most likely be cooking it tonight. When I don't respond she adds, "I can make you tea?"
"No, don't," I jump in. "If you want tea, I'll make it... you're all shaky." I know she hates it when I do this, too, but I am beyond caring. If she is going to act like an irrational little child, then that is what I will treat her as such.
I clamber ungracefully to my feet, the urge to throw up rising in my throat. I can't balance properly, nor can I walk straight. I let the icepack slip from my fingers because they're numb anyway, and holding it is such a hassle. Concussion. Medic? Are you out there? I stagger over again, clutching onto the nearest support- my mother's shoulder.
She flinches and I pull back as quickly as I grabbed onto her. I try to look at her, but I can't really focus my eyes. It doesn't matter, I can tell she's looking at me anyway, the same expression on her face that she always has when she sees me- a mix of anger, shock and sadness. "I'm sorry," she says again. For flinching? For concussing me in the first place? For being unable to support me?
I regain my equilibrium- nice to see it again. I shrug it off- it's not really what I want to hear. "I know."

Here's a hint anyone stopping by who happens to read this; when starting a conversation with someone you haven't spoken to in three years (especially when things really really didn't work out between you), DO NOT start a conversation with, "So I've been having these really crazy dreams about you, and it kind of got me worried, so I just wanted to see if you're okay. Oh, also, maybe we can hang out sometime?" Yeah, no, it does not make you look like a concerned potential friend, it makes you look like a stalker.
Also, before you describe the dream to them, be sure to first ask yourself, "does this really seem like it would be referring to a problem of hers... or of mine?" It will save you a great deal of humiliation.

Oh, also, another instance of mother-craziness- "Me-" You know what's sad?"
Her- "The realisation that we all die alone?"
"Uh, yeah, but that wasn't what I was thinking."
"Haha, no, it's funny because no one will ever love you."
Seriously. Out of context and out of the blue, complete with demon-voice and everything. Um, what?

I never thought that I would say this, but I think I need to get a little less subtle about my complaining. My friends always accuse me of being distant about my problems, but I'm not. At least, not really. It's just that they always think I'm joking when I talk about my life.
"So why didn't your mother come to the information night tonight, Lara?"
"I couldn't find her."
"Is she working?"
"Nah, just crazy. Or drunk or something, idk, lol."
"lol, okay, see ya later, brosephine."

"When I was a kid, my mother told me this story about this pure white cat that would go around killing children that weren't asleep by midnight and stealing their eyeballs. Then she would give my vodka in my milk to make me go to sleep... haha, my mother was weird."
"Ahaha, man, she crazy, lol."


No, guys, really... Cuddles? Please?


Sidenote: having a stove that actually works is the most terrifying thing I have ever experienced. While it is nice to no longer be fearing death by gas leak, it is scary to see the gas coming out of the top of the stove without me having to fight for it. I'm also used to turning the knob right up to eleven to get any kind of gas out, but when I did it on this one I nearly burned my eyebrows off.
This 'learning to cook' thing is going to be a lot harder than I expected.

Okay, so I'm going to sound like an addict here, but I really miss being on painkillers. Everything seemed so much... easier when I was so spaced out all the time. Even when the video store that I work at got robbed and some guy was holding a gun at me, I still felt amazingly cheerful, and thought he was hilarious.
Yeah, maybe it's for the best that I'm not taking them any more. My bones have almost healed anyway.
But I am feeling gravity a lot more than I used to. I could feel it in my hands today when I was meant to be sketching for art class- my pencil felt like it weighed as much as I do, and my face was about an inch away from my page. My neck was aching from the effort of keeping it up. I can feel it in my skin when its trying to tear itself off my bones. I'm melting; every time I let myself rest against something I stick, reluctant to follow my restless mind, so just tugging me back me down instead. I can feel gravity in my eyes when me eyeballs ache from dryness and they are literally being dragged down to cover them. And I can feel it in my brain that sloshes around inside my skull every time I move my head around. My own damn body is trying to bring me down.
Well, I'll show it.
I'm proper independent now, I can microwave my own meals.

'Living well' is the most bullshit kind of revenge if the person you're trying to get revenge on isn't actually around to see it. Particularly when that person appears to be living fairly well as well.
Because, you know, you're being the crazy one and stalking them, like you're hoping they'll also be doing to you.
Hm.

"Sometimes I wonder if you're mythologising me like I do."

You want to terrify yourself for a night? Take a lot of painkillers and watch nineteen-fifties era Gumby with some drunk friends. It will blow your mind.
Also, Power Rangers. (Side note: is there a space between Power and Rangers? they spell it with a lightning bolt, but I can't find the lightning key on my keyboard. Maybe a hyphen?)I wish that I could make 'whoosh' noises every time I moved my hands.

Because I hang out at the dinner parties
And I try to talk to their daughters
Because I want to marry rich,
But they all treat me like shit.
Between the cocaine and the sex,
And your bank account full of Daddy's checks.

"Excuse me, mister,
But the roof is full of rotting babies.
The ocean's black with decaying flesh."
Well, what a thing to say at the table.
Oh yeah, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.


Back where we belong....We got luxury problems.

I know how to make a light bulb bomb. I am suddenly a potential murderer.
I know the ingredients of napalm. I am suddenly a potential terrorist.
I know where to hit so I can put you in a coma without a great deal of force. I am suddenly trained in potential combat.
On public transport, I make judgements about who I think I could take on if an emergency were to occur, and who I could easily climb over to get to the exit. I am suddenly more paranoid than I realised.
This is what insomnia does to me. I am living in a potential universe, and I'm always, always dreaming.
Unfortunately, my alternative universe doesn't have the same badassery as Fight Club; it's just a lonely meshing of bits of past, present, and a potential future that really shouldn't be existing in the same time.
I'll be walking down a street which I thought was a part of my past, with a girl who mayormaynotbe part of my future (or my future-past, accounting for my pessimism). We say a goodbye,seeyoutomorrow, kiss and part.
As I leave, I walk down a familiar alleyway, when someone who should definitely be far in my past, runs over and grabs me. I don't know what to do, but she tells me she's missed me (and oh, how she still loves me, let's try again, now that we're older, more mature), and I try to explain, uh, no, that is not going to happen. I have a wonderful woman out there who hasn't balled me up and thrown me to the side, why would I want to go through that again?
But she holds me and tells me she loves me, and I really, really want to say it back, because, hey, three years is a long, long time, and it's entirely possible that she has changed; only then a girl who is partly in my past, but mostly in my present rounds the corner and screams, "Wake up! WAKE UP!" And I shove the past girl off me, spin around to see the present, while the maybefuture girl pokes her head into the alley way to see where I went.
And she screams "WAKE UP!" and I open my eyes and find myself wherever I happen to have drifted off; school, public transport, the city

and I try to figure out what the hell I am trying to tell myself.


This happens at least twice a day.

My life, as it stands, is a really long, unfunny joke being told badly in an annoying voice. I bet if I ever get to the punch line, it will be much more like a light slap line.
Insomnia is one nasty fucker that I'm going through a very messy divorce with; as soon as I think it's gone for good, it comes back around wielding our failed abortion of an offspring and bitching about child support.
I have been awake for days, which seemed okay, because it was a nice little break from this weird recurring dream (nightmare?) that I've been having. Unfortunately, the DMT in my brain decided that if I won't sleep to release it, it will just attack me in my waking moments.
Walking down a crowded street is a very unfortunate place to start dreaming.

you lost me, I lost me, every fucking body lost me.
just the way it has to be.

What, like an orgasm?
No, not quite. Or maybe a little like that.
So you're talking about sex.
No, not sex.
So jerking off.
No, Jesus Christ, will you shut up? This is nothing to do with sex.
Nothing?
Well... Not really.
Like a lack of sex?
I guess. Well, there's no sex involved.
And that's the problem?
No! For fucks sake, this is not at all about sex. this is about feelings.
Come on, man, it's always about sex.
Not this time, I mean it.
Okay, sure. So you're feeling like an orgasm.
For fuck's sake, I don't know why I talk to you about anything. No. I'm feeling like la petite mort as a concept feels. Something good just happened, but all of a sudden I feel like I've died... Just a little.
Will you listen to yourself? You feel like the concept of a refractory period.
You know what, fuck you. If you don't want to talk seriously-
Okay, okay. Yes, I can dig it, you feel like shit the instant good times are over. That's normal.
It's not normal!
Yes it is, you're just being paranoid. Everyone feels like that when something you've been having fun doing is over. Normal life is such a let down when you've just been doing something exciting.
But surely that's not all this is...
Yes it is. Seriously, your only problem is this overanalysis bullshit that you're doing again.
Are you calling me crazy?
There you go again, paranoiac.
So you are calling me crazy.
I'm not saying you're crazy, I'm just saying-
I'm not crazy, you're crazy! You're crazy and bitch!
Hey, man, you're the one who's spent ten mintues sitting here talking to the voice in your head.

You know what? Fuck off.

.Lara.
"I'ma be anothwer rapper dead for poppin' off at the mouth with shit I shouldn't have said."

hi guys, Ruby here!

this is me hacking into Lara's (yes, now just Lara's) journal to tell anyone who cares that I have a new one:
kept_on_ice 

Because two people on a journal just had most people thinking we had two personalities 

so now, it will be all lara, all the time! YAY!!!!!

bye all!

also, lara, might want to change your password :P

Hi, anybody reading this.
So, I was having an epic battle with some Siths last Wednesday. (I think... My memory has not been great, you will find out why.) Anyway, epic battle, and while I was back flipping over one of their heads (simply for the bad-assery of that move), the bastard swiped at me and managed to clip me. But, I guess he retracted his saber blade at the last second and just smacked me with the handle or something. Fucking, ow, right? Let no one say you need the force to do some damage with one of those things. They are solid as a fucking rock.
So anyway, while I didn't lose my hand (unlike nearly every other character in Star Wars, because apparently George Lucas has a hard-on for limbless-ness)that damned Sith did break it, fairly badly. As in, shattered like, four of the little bones in there. So my right hand is currently down for the count, meaning that I haven't been doing a great deal of writing lately. Heh.
Anyway, getting my hand busted up (and all purple and swollen with little lumps of bone poking up from under my skin) was not fun, though it was tolerable. What was bad, though (or awesome, depending on whether you were me, or one of the assholes watching me and finding me terribly amusing) was the drugs they put me on.
Larafact: Lara is allergic to the chemical they put in tablets that makes them bind into powders/pills. I didn't get this properly confirmed until only recently, when I realised just how badly taking medication fucked me up- sleeplessness, vomiting, random burning patches on my skin, ect. So, unless I want to just get worse, the only medication I can take are gel capsules, syrups, or injections. Unfortunately, gel capsules and syrups, for whatever reason, tend not to be strong painkillers. Or if they are, they are apparently not strong enough to blot out the pain of four destroyed bones in my dominant hand, particularly not when I am still valiantly trying to use my remaining working fingers to continue my life (school, work, writing ect). So I went the injections into my wrist.
So I work at a video store, which actually requires using my hands more than I realised, you know, opening and closing DVD cases, unlocking DVD cases, putting stuff on the shelves, flailing while yelling when customers get abusive, which happens a surprisingly large amount of times per night. Anyway, my point is, my job is painful without a broken hand, and much, MUCH worse with it.
So I decided to ask for double painkillers before I went, so they would last the whole night even while I was putting extra strain on my hand. Bad idea. To cut a long, embarrassing story short, I will say only this; by the end of the night, I was bruised all over from constantly tripping over myself or misjudging the distance between my body and shelves/walls/windows/customers/the counter, my face hurt from all the grinning and giggling I had been doing, and my eyes felt dry and were red, because I had hardly blinked at all, and was holding my eyes really wide open for no particular reason.

My boss called me earlier to talk to me about it today. I think I'm going to be fired for being high at work
But it's totally okay. I'm still smiling. I'm still chilled. On the surface.
Where it counts.

So now I am aching again after writing all that, like a tiny person has crawled onto the back of my hand and is stabbing through the bandages with a rusty fork, laughing maniacally and foaming at the mouth. (I may have just taken my meds again.) So I'm going to stop writing.

-Lara
"stand back, man, I'm a scientist."

is for us
so if for some odd reason
you have been lurking our stuff
and liked it enough to want to read more
friend request, mkay?

I think Lara will leave her story unlocked but that is up to her

cool?

cool

sounds odd in French