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Reaching

February 8th, 2007

Sometimes I wonder if I really know what Iâ??m doing. And then
days like today happen and I amaze myself. I canâ??t go into detail. No. No, canâ??t
isnâ??t the correct word. I could if I wanted to. And more than likely no one
would care. But I wonâ??t. I wonâ??t because I donâ??t want to. And I wonâ??t because,
really, no one needs to know what happened. And that amazes me too. Cause
usually Iâ??m all â??Oh my gods, guess what!â? Wellâ?¦ with vanesa anyway.

Iâ??m really reaching for a topic today. I really have nothing
to say. I say that and then I ramble about something that makes a little bit of
sense (and then I say what I just said). But Iâ??m not seeing the â??something that
makes a little bit of sense� anywhere in the near future.

So Iâ??ve found a wayâ?¦ no thatâ??s a lie. Per`la reminded me of
a way to get through fixing the quotation/apostrophe bug a little faster. (Thanks so much!) Turns out I can use ctrl+f
same as I would if I were searchingâ?¦ pretty much anything! Whoâ??da
thunk?
And I donâ??t have to read the darn things, which makes me so much
happier. And yetâ?¦ Iâ??m still reading an entry or four. And Iâ??m like I say â??andâ??
a hell of a lot.
No, seriouslyâ?¦ Iâ??m like I have all these hella good
epiphanies, and then I justâ?¦ forget about them
. (Yes, Master, I realize You recently pointed this out to me. Hereâ??s
your credit. ::grin:: )

I told Master, when He mentioned it, that itâ??s because I get
scared. And thatâ??s a huge part of it. I spit something major out of my mouth
(or fingers, as the case may be) and suddenly Iâ??m that scared little girl
standing at the top of the stairs and staring down into the dark scary basement
trying to convince herself that there are no monsters hiding out in there
waiting to tear her limb from limb. Sometimes I get to use a flashlight and
sometimes the batteries are dead. And for some reason, with the really, really
big ones, it seems the batteries are always dead.

But thatâ??s not really the case at all. The truth is, I donâ??t
say anything. I chew my nails off and I worry myself into illness and I lash
out over things that usually donâ??t bother me (or shouldnâ??t) like I have a right
to be a bitch because my fear has made me angry. By the time I finally say whatâ??s
on my mind, it makes no difference because Heâ??s already so pissed off at me
that He really doesnâ??t care anymore. And then Iâ??ve fucked myself. In a bad way.
And fucking myself in a bad way sucks ass. (I say that a lot too.)

Master says every time I do that I lose something. He doesnâ??t
always tell me what Iâ??m losing. And sometimes I donâ??t notice. But sometimes I do
and it takes everything in me not to stomp my foot and yell at the top of my
lungs â??I want it back! Right NOW!â? (Yes, I really am this childish sometimes.)

The rest of it is I have no will power. I see things I want
to change andâ?¦ I stare at them as I skirt around them refusing to touch them.

Part of that is the fear that one day, when He gets His
finished product, Heâ??s going to look at me and go â??God. I didnâ??t want that.â? and
discard me like yesterdayâ??s garbage. But Iâ??ve come to the conclusion that I
need to stop worrying about that. I need to trust that if ever He gets to that
point I will be at a point where I can accept His decision, be happy with what
pleases Him, and not completely break mentally. I need to also trust that He
wouldnâ??t just leave me flopping in the wind. That He would either sell me or
give me to someone else, making sure that I remain owned flesh.

So hereâ??s where I say I need to do something and then skirt
around it. Hereâ??s where I say I need to just let go and let Master take me
where He wants to go.
I know I can do it. And Iâ??ve got proof.

When I was younger I had (what theyâ??ve now deemed a
condition) a tendency to fabricate stories to make myself popular. Wild stories
that could have happened but didnâ??t. They werenâ??t quite fantastical enough to
be beyond belief and everyone believed me. One day, I decided not to tell
stories anymore. The only stories I would tell would be on paper. If I started
to tell a story, I stopped, even going so far as to say â??Thatâ??s not what
happened. This is what really happened.�

Another example? When I was in high school, all my friends
swore way too much. I swore way too much. And I realized, eventually, that the
only reason I ever swore was to get attention or as a filler (i.e. I need thatâ?¦
damnâ?¦ thatâ?¦ uhâ?¦ that fucking book.). So I decided not to swear anymore. And I
made a conscious effort to stop filling the thought gaps in my speech with four
(and five) letter words. Thatâ??s since gone out the window but from ninth grade
to my senior year I swore very rarely and usually only when I screwed up or
hurt myself.

Those may be lame examples but I can do it. I just
need to put my mind to it.

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