Howling After Midnight

I've been having a lot of anxiety about how I'm doing in class. I couldn't sleep outside of driving myself to exhaustion and collapsing of it. I put Wolf's Rain in the DVD player, trying to make me forget, but instead, I remember.

I remember warm nights in the living room, chewing on pizza and doodling in my sketchbook, giddy with anticipation for Toonami and then Adult Swim. I would take a nap earlier in the day to make sure I had it in me to stay up until all my shows had played. I would watch whatever version of Dragon Ball they were playing at the time, followed by things like Yu Yu Hakusho. Then Saturday night Adult Swim would come on. And back then, it was good. Real good.

I remember the night they premiered Wolf's Rain, kinda like it was yesterday. I don't know why it imprinted on me so, maybe because I'd never seen so much blood in an anime before. My grandmother was doing laundry, and I remember her stopping to ask what I was watching. I shrugged, telling her I'd never seen it before. But from the first episode I was entranced. I watched it religiously from then on, from episode 1 to 30, never missing a one for anything. I was positively enamored by the series. I think it was my Freshman year they played it, but I don't remember now.

I recently received the complete collection as compensation for doing some favors (being paid in DVDs = better than being paid in gum) though I've neglected to watch it all again. Watching the first few episodes again, it gave me.... peace. It's an oddly pacifying series, despite the level of action in it.

You are not alone. We are all searching for Paradise. Some get lost along the way. But you will make it. You will do great things.

I remember someone, maybe a friend of mine, told me that the story to him seemed an allegory for world peace. That's probably stuck with me over the years, and watching it again, I see the symbolism far clearer that before.

The world is a profound thing, ya know?

Show me your Brave Heart
Earlier today I was browsing Youtube, as I tend to do sometimes, and I decided on a whim to look up BlackWarGreymon.

And I was impressed.

Not that there were a lot of tribute videos, no, because that in itself is nothing. But the comments. It seemed that everyone commenting on all of the videos had something constructive to say, fond well wishings for the fallen Dark Knight or comments about how they loved the show as a child and BlackWarGreymon was their favorite, rather than the usual youtube spew of "UR A FAG" "NU UR A FAGOTT"

Don't worry, you are not alone. He was my favorite too.

I admit it.... I cried when he died. I don't mean sad kiddie cry either. Real tears. Real grief. I /loved/ BlackWarGreymon. I felt like I could relate to him, being depressed and confused and more often than not ANGRY with the world.

I'm glad to see that fans can unite under a common banner to comemorate his great sacrafice.

Rest in Peace, Warrior of Darkness. We Miss You Dearly.



.... I had a vision. Trust me on this.

3AM and no signs of sleep
Don't you hate it, those nights when you can't sleep? You don't do anything productive like, say, clean, or read a good book. You just sit here at you computer, read 'MyLifeIsAverage' and watch old childhood cartoons in other languages while waiting for sleep to overtake you. That's one of those nights for me. I could be working on one of several school projects or cleaning up my flithy living space, but instead I'm listening to German WarGreymon and snaking on popcorn. What am I going to do with my life?

My school counselor pulled me aside a few days ago and asked me about my plans for the future. I told her about my job as CEO of Microsoft and how I would be rich enough to one day own a solid gold toilet (I omitted the parts of running away to Denmark to marry the love of my life and adopting little German children) and she agreed that was quiet admirable. However, she liked to point out to me that I am unmotivated.

Am I unmotivated? Really? German WarGreymon says yes...

Imoliated seems more accurate 'a term...

Oh god. Oh. God.


Page 447 and I had to stop reading. I could not bare to press on anymore.


The person who I am begins crying. The person who I've always been comforts me.


I say 'why is love so cruel?' and he laughs, the way he always does, and he says 'that's because darlin, that's just how things go.'


I'm very conflicted. Who I am is a distant memory compared to who I've always been. As far back as my memories reach the person I am now has been a part of me, ever growing in strength, flourishing and growing, consuming and taking over the person I am.


Who I am is weak, and is most often rather than not, poured out onto the pages of this most depressing chronicle.


Who I've always been is much stronger. He smiles, would never balk but rather laugh at danger. He is laid back and kind. And he says to me, what happens will happen, no stock in frettin.


And there's the subtle, strange, irrelevant differences. I like Tripp pants. He prefers Wranglers.


We've bother been reading this book, burned, since I first plucked it off the shelf today. He and I have talked about it, made internal dialog. Discussed it. I don't want to read anymore, because I'm scared the character will die. I'm petrified of that.


Because that person reminds me so much of the person I've always been. If he dies, what hope is there for me?


Is it weird a book has effected me so profoundly?


Feelin' Pretty CRANKED
Today was pretty fucking awesome, I can't lie. Remember, a few posts back, me talking about that book? You know, CRANK?

Today I got to meet the author herself. She was absolutely amazing to see in real life. She was so witty and funny. I especially LOVED the part where she paused in the middle of the lecture she was giving to mention how much she HATED Twilight because of how unrealistic and stupid it was. I loved her forever for that.

After the lectures I took my copy of the book up to her and asked her to sign it. She commented that she liked my name, and I told her about how the book had really touched my heart. The story of her own daughter is so similar to my mother's. One bad choice she made as a teenager ruined her life forever. The addiction finally became too much for my mom, and it overwhelmed her. It ended her life.

She hugged me, then told me to hold onto my dreams. I thanked her for signing my book and we parted ways. I really wished I could have had more time with her. There were so many things I wanted to ask her. So many things I wanted to talk to her about.

She really is a brilliant woman. I'd adore to see her again.

Also, obligatory bump for her books CRANK and GLASS, both of which I've read now. They're BRILLIANT books. It really shows the world for what it really is. I'm hoping to pick up Burned and Impulse tomorrow when I make my monthly trek up to the book store.

Introspection-- DEEP SHIT!

Introspection, psychologists say, are good for the mind. Let's give this a try.


I know I'm sensitive. Probably too sensitive at times. So I cover it up by being overtly aggressive, crass, rude, crude, and otherwise an asshole. It's not too hard to cowl me down, honestly. Raise your voice and yell at me. I hate that. It's a good temporary solution to getting me to listen. After a while though I just become resentful. It leaves me with a bit of a conundrum. What's a good balance for an overly empathetic person like myself?


Tell me I'm doing okay, okay? I need to hear it sometimes. More often than you tell me. I'm not sure of myself. Ever. I spend a lot of the time questioning myself, wondering where I'm going, what I'm doing, what I'll be doing this time tomorrow or in thirty years. Sometimes I wonder if you want me around at all. I need to feel appreciated. More than anything I need to feel accomplished. If I'm not doing something to earn my keep I get depressed. I have to earn my right to live. If I run out of purpose, I run out of excuses not to pull the trigger on myself.


I have a really strange relationship with the rest of the male gender. It's kinda of, well, bizarre. I'm not particularly attracted to males in a sexual sense. The appeal, for me, is more like envy. This was a signal in my head that I use to confuse with attraction before, but its not. Really, it's envy. I don't want to fuck Till Lindemann, I want to BE him. (Yeah, I know he's old, I still give anything to be him for a day.) I have a lot of issues with myself. My anatomy is kinda fucked. I'm chunky, to be polite to myself for once, awkward, overweight, and generally not very attractive looking. I don't make millions of dollars a year. I'm not talented. I've got a little bit of intellect going for me, but you can convince me other wise. I don't like me. I often fantasize about being someone else. That's what the thrill of escapism is to me. I get to go be someone else for a while, and I don't have to live with being me.


You ever feel that way?


I've come to realize a lot of things about my mom the past few days. They're more personal things really, but among them I realized that this time she's not just going away and going to come back later like she use to. This one's for keeps. That's still sinking into me really. I'm not completely sure how to handle it. It's not like losing a mom to me, yet, because we weren't that close. But I think if I'm allowed to meditate on it any longer that it might devolve that far. I did love my mother. I think the reason I pushed her away so much in those later years is because I knew this would happen. I didn't want to be hurt.


But I also feeld as though I failed. I should have protected her. It was my job, my duty, as guardian of my family to provide for and protect them. And I let her die. The thought has crept into my head a few times over the past several days, in the shadow of night, that I should execute myself for my failure. It's a great dishonor upon my name. A disgusting failure that I'll never live down. I let my own mother die because I was selfish. I didn't want to hurt for her, and she was the one to bleed for it. Now she gets no second chance. And I am left behind.


I don't have anyone. I became painfully aware of that this pass week. I have, literally, no one.


I was watching the rest of my family during these events that have transpired, and became acutely aware of the void between me and the rest of them. Sure, we're a family, but they're connected to one another. And I'm just... me. When we're sitting in the church and everyone besides me is crying, I took note of them. Grandma and Grandpa hug each other and cry and comfort one another. My sister clings to her father and they both stare, straight faced but with tears dripping down their cheeks at our mom, her countenance frozen in time. Forever. And me? I sit alone, no tears, watching. I had no one to cling to. I had no one to cry on. I did not even have anyone to talk to. I fear burdening my friends, I wouldn't want to force them to become angry with me because all I did was complain about my mom. No matter how much I'm hurting, I can't inconvenience others. It's a deadly sin to me.


I must always come last. Though I protect my interests and investments, when it comes to emotional well being, I'm the back of the line. Everyone else must be okay before I have time to worry about me. I would never be selfish enough to take care of myself. I have to make sure that my friends and loved ones are okay. If not, I have to fix it for them. If I can't, I torture myself over it. Sometimes literally. I have nasty sets of burns and scars from my failures. I feel as though I've deserved them. They're a badge of my shame. I have a lot to feel ashamed for, that's how I see it in my mind. If I have failed you, then you must be compensated. Somehow, in my head, this is approximately equal to my suffering. I probably won't tell you that I'm destroying myself for you. I really don't want to hear you say you don't want it. I don't know how else to fix it. Hurting myself for my failures seems perfectly natural to me. It is so bred into me, so instilled, so sacred, that failure literally is not an option. I would rather die than fail you, fail anyone I care about for that matter.


If you're depressed I'll come to you. I'll take care of you, make you better. Or at least I'll try my damned hardest too. I want to make sure you're okay. I want to make you right. But when it comes to me. I push people away. I laugh at my misery and berate myself. How dare I be depressed? I've got nothing to be upset over! If I feel depression over nothing, its equated somewhat with failure. Failure to keep myself 'normal' I suppose. I hate being an inconvenience to others. I never want them to know that I'm hurt. I don't want them to take care of me, to fix me, despite how broken I am. I hate me. I don't deserve their kindness or nice things. I'm evil for making them go out of their way for me. They have to be compensated somehow. So then I have to hurt myself.


It kinda falls into a weird cycle of torturing self. I can't fail, I can't be depressed, I have to be perfect, I have to take care of everyone. When I slip up, do something wrong, FAIL, then I must be punished for having such audacity. I must be hurt for the damaged I have caused. It fragments my mental status really though, and I only fail over and over again. There is no crawling out of this hole. I can only sink deeper.


It's why I speak so neutrally of ending my own life so often. I see it as a punishment, justice, something I deserve for my mess ups. Failures don't deserve to live, that's a special privilege only for those who aren't fuck ups, who aren't accidents, who don't ruin people's lives with their failures. I'm an accident. I wasn't ever suppose to be. My existence is meaningless, purposeless, inherently flawed. Inherently a failure. Thus, inherently, I don't deserve to live. It would only be RIGHT for me to execute myself. It would somehow, someway, maybe offer some sort of meager solace to the powers that be, an apology for ever living in the first place and a humble retreat back into the darkness.


I can't die right now though. I've got a sister, and old, fragile grandparents to take care of. I have to protect them, serve them, take care of them. I can only come second. I could never dream of being selfish with them. I don't expect them to love me, I don't think they should most of the time really.


My existence, my purpose, is that while I am still alive then I must prove that I am worth the oxygen and the carbon that make me up. I can make life better for others. Take care of them. Protect them. There's no gratification in bettering myself. I hate me. There's no stock in living for me, I can't even stand me. If I can make someone elses' life better though, then I can justify my breathing. When I fail them though, it is hard to make my case, why should I continue to be, when obviously I am worthless?


That's what it all comes down to. Feelings of worthlessness. No one has really, truly ever bothered to work through them. Sure, we work around them, that's easy. I can smile and pretend I'm fine on the outside, and you bet your ass I will. I won't let you know on the inside I'm dying. And I'm an amazing actor. You'll never know how I really feel. This charming smile and a well placed chuckle will dispel all your second guessing.


It's when you go home, walk away, stop talking, and log off that it begins. The thought process in my head that judges me, holding me to a standard that towers so high above others, pushing me off that pedestal and watching me plummet to the ground. And you can't prove any of this is true. I'm not doing it for the attention. I don't slash my wrists for the world to see. I'm covert. I don't leave marks. If I do, I cover them well. It's about the pain, not the wound. I may not even bleed, but the pain will remain and throb for days because of the deeper wounds. I've cracked bones, seared nerves, left bruises the size of both my fists together. And for what?


To justify living.


If I beat myself enough, then I can be allowed to live. As long as I make living a burden on me, I can justify not killing myself.


Looking at it, now, in a moment of neutralness, if doesn't make sense to me either. I know why I do it, but it doesn't make sense. I can't make the pieces fit. And no one is going to help me. Because even if they try I'll push them away. I'll throw up walls of stone and ice between me and them, and cut them with sharp words and forceful, jaded personality. No one wants to work through all of that. People don't want to take care of me. Why should they? It seems like a silly idea. Love me? I don't think its possible most days. I just smile and nod when people say it, I never really feel it. I'm content with it, really. I don't care if they don't love me one bit. I don't care if they hate me. I'll still protect them, still care for them, still do everything I can for them, to justify my own pathetic, empty existence. I can't live for me, but I can live for you.


So tell me that I'm doing okay from time to time... you have no clue how much it helps...


I...really can't think of anything witty right now.

It's weird. It seemed like an ordinary day. I was sitting in English class, roughly 9 o'clock this morning,  working on my College Essay. My topic? Something that changed your perspective on life. Here I am, doodling lines about how much I hate church and an ambulance races by. As usual I poke my head up from my notes and should really loud "WONDER WHO DIED?" everyone chuckles some (teacher aside) and we go back to work.

I walk into my house, roughly 3 o'clock, and I find out who it was.

Alecia, my mother, was pronounced dead in her house at 10 o'clock this morning.

I know, you might be thinking that this is earth shattering to me, or at the very least upsetting. But no, not really. I've been bracing myself for this for... years. I'm not going to sugar coat it, Alecia was an awful mother. I hadn't said 'I love you' to her in years. And honestly, no, I'm not sad to see her go.

Everyone else is though. That surprises me. For YEARS she's systematically been disassembling this family. Everyone, crying for her, it seems surreal.

At least the nightmare is over. It is a shame it had to end this way, that she couldn't overcome her drug addiction and that it finally consumed her. But she won't be hurting anyone anymore. There's solace in that.


Right now I just feel kinda weird, mostly out of place. I don't feel sadness. Not even a bit. I just feel... relieved? Do I seem like a monster that I say that?


I dunno... my thoughts on it are still a bit scattered.

Nostalgia is a Drug too

In between the bending over and praying to the God of Porcelain, every 10 to 20 minutes at this point in time, that its not my kidneys threatening to buckle and disolve into raw bleeding nerves of pain and disease once again, and the screaming, bitching, crying of the ragged remains of what once upon a time I called with gleaming pride 'my Family'


I've been reading a book called CRANK by Ellen Hopkins.


This book is a giant mind fuck.


It's taken me an hour and a half


to read 200 pages.


That's something relatively unheard of for me. When I read I usually do it in a particular way. I eat large chunks of information, be in fiction or non, and process it slowly, digesting it, simplifying it, applying it to myself. It might be a life skill, or it might just be my disease eaten mind.


But the way the book is written.


The words.


The lines.


It has this strange, enthralling pull that screams and claws at the back of my eyes. It tells me “You already know this story don't you? Well let's see what happens.”


I grew up around drugs.


On drugs.


In fact, drugs are so inextricably synonymous with my very existence there's no doubt in my mind that it was their abuse that led to my conception.


Ah, infidelity.


I know what the bleary, disgusting world of drugs is.


It's eating McDonald's every night. Grandma pays for it because no one knows where mommy's money is going.


It's being woke up in the middle of the night and shoved into the car, driving off to places you don't know and being told to lie down and not say anything, we can leave as soon as Keith turns up with the smack.


It's having Steve Irwin as your baby sitter, because the TV will keep you shut-the-fuck-up long enough for mom to come down off her high.


It's parties late into the night.


Fighting and cussing.


It's rape.


It's peeing into a bucket at one o'clock in the morning. Mommy's friend's can't afford running water after all.


It's learning to cook for yourself. Microwaves become your best friend.


It's spending lots of time at grandma's house, wondering when the next time you might see your mother is.


Days? Weeks? Who knows?


And sometimes it's magical.


It's mom's friend Kay Lynn, who's come over to do a line, to smoke a blunt.


And she tells funny stories about beating up bikers,


and her husband.


So she gets to sleep over tonight!


And we stay up till one in the morning, watching cartoons.


Laughing, drinking. They're drinking. Not me.


Kay Lynn teaches me how to break someone's nose with one well positioned strike. It's a skill I still use today.


Sometimes instead we go to Joe's house. He's got two son's just my age, so I have something to do while they fly.


Football, Soccer, Basketball, Baseball.


The food is good, though it all tastes vaguely of alcohol.


Tying things to firecrackers and watching them explode.


Crawling through the junkyard just a block away. Just watch out for the rusted out station wagon, there's a bunch of racoons that live in it, and I think they've got rabies.


Playing all kinds of neat games we can think of.


Looking at porn. Drinking beer.


The dugs make magic happen sometimes.


Like suddenly the world make sense on the drugs.


You have a strange, 3AM epiphany about life, love, and purpose.


Sure, its all imagined, and you'll forget when you come down.


But it's worth waking up the kids, telling them about the magic and wonders of a world they don't yet know that's not beyond their reach.


It's hope and magic.


It's despair and horror.


There's nothing more beautiful, more vile, more awful, more terrible, more worshiped, more reviled, more sought, or more avoided:


Than drugs.




I'm not praising them, don't get me wrong. I'm merely rinsing off some old nostalgia that I'd buried in the ground long ago, along with memories of my mother when I did love her, the time before I had to be 'the man of the house', before I had a sister, before I knew who I'd become.


There's a certain kind, that lies within destroying yourself.


If you didn't grow up in the lifestyle that I did, you wouldn't understand what I just said.


It's horrible and beautiful to watch. To see someone destroy themselves is painful, because the pain is there and real for you. But to be the one to make your end, the pain is removed, dull, numbed, turned into a sens of self, intelligence, power, and perspective. When you kill yourself, you become god. When the numbness takes a hold of you, you're never more confident, more assured, less afraid of anything, especially to die.


There's something beautiful about destroying yourself. Once upon a time it was more evident to me. I still listen to the CDs my mother gave me, songs about morphine and how much smarter it makes you, even though its really a blatant lie. But to me its hard not to romanticize, at least in some ways.


The idea of floating on caramel sweet—eternal bliss without contingency or feeling. Life becomes something apart. Something you are unaware of, and yet understand wholly.


None of this makes sense to those that haven't lived it.


The child of a drug user.


Who loved their mom

Who despises their mom.

Who had a fond childhood

Filled with terror and dread

With so many unique experiences

Who witnessed so many crimes

Who will stay,

Altogether and unfathomably

Incomplete and broken




This is my life. This series of strange contradictions, moments of great philosophy, lows of epic proportions. Darkness and dread, all flavored not with fear but adoration.


I blame, and thank, my mother for what I have become.


Never stronger, nor weaker. Tempered. Nobel. Unafraid. Just. Pitiless even so.

Firm. Still. Calm. Quiet.

Thinking. Perceiving. Knowing: when and when not to speak, what to say, what to do.

Mature, to say the least.

Even. Mixed and melded into a fine shade of gray in that the lines of morals and ethics are so blurry and yet never so well defined in any book of faith.


But more than anything, living in the home, under the semi-neglectful care, of a crank-whore taught me one major important life lesson that has more than anything else helped me in life:


Always read the expiration date on food.

The Proverbial Otherkin Closet...
I'm being booted out of it.

Everyday I have to listen to it from my friends, the dragon clan who's names all have corresponding gemstones and waaaay too many concenants.

OHWAIT. That's all of them.

That complaint aside, it kinda pisses me off with the constant "Just admit it!". I'll get to that point when I'm damn well ready to for Christ's sake. It's not like I've never been open about my draconity. I've openly stated on plenty of occasions that yes, I am a dragon. I mean it in a spiritual sense, in an enlightened sense, and in a moral sense. Not in a physical or metaphysical sense though. I don't think that qualifies me for being a fucking otherkin.

Though I have been know to use the infamous 'Fuck you, I'm a dragon' on the occasion.

Whatever. It's a stupid situation, in my opinion. I don't know why they can't just bugger off and let me be solitary brute?

Mihkkahl, Reusslnd, Fywyrd, Rathclaw...
Merrily fuck all of you.

-Adamant, Courtly Dragon, Non-Kin


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