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“Perhaps our eyes need to be washed by our tears once in a while, so that we can see Life with a clearer view again.”

June 7th, 2010

I’m not having a good morning, and I can’t even begin to express to you how tired I am of saying that.  But saying it is exponentially better than actually feeling it.  And I’m more than sick of feeling it, too.

Nothing has really gone wrong, per se.  I woke up with a lump the size of Texas in my throat, and no matter how much I swallow, it just sits there, taunting me.  My eyelids are just barely restraining the tears that came with it.  And no matter how long I sit here trying to ignore the rest of the world and think, I can’t figure out what it’s about.

Which means it’s the monthly monster deciding to go out with a bang, I’m sure.  But knowing that isn’t making the torrential downpour that wants to spout from my eyes go away.  And I’ve seriously considered just sitting in the bathroom for an hour and letting myself cry.  If it weren’t for the fear that I wouldn’t stop.

M bought me some new perfume the other day.  I keep saying it’s a mock Liz Claiborne scent, but it’s not.  The perfume it’s supposed to smell like is Elizabeth Arden’s Sunflowers.  It smells almost identical, and I love it.  I would have preferred to have the body spray, but the store was out.  Next time. 

We intended to participate in Cane a Slut Day yesterday, but M had to work.  He’s hoping to do something today, but, again, He has to work.  He was worried that was the reason for my sadness, but it’s not.  I mean, I do wish we had been able to play.  I’ve been craving a serious beating for… God.  Forever.  Though I kind of feel like that’s a case of my fantasy writing checks that my ass can’t cash, because my pain tolerance has been in the toilet, lately.

I’m hoping that, too, is the monthly monster.  It started a few days before she did, so maybe.  We’ll see, I guess.

I’ve been getting irritated with His incessant need to beat me while we’re watching television, or I’m cooking dinner, or we’re just sitting around fucking off.  He notices, and asks if it’s making me mad, and it’s honestly not making me mad, but it does start to grate on the nerves for a moment.  Once or twice, I’ve had the urge to snatch the crop from Him and show Him what it’s like.  That’s new, too, and I think can also be attributed to the monthly monster.  It started around the same time as everything else.

He finds the idea of beating me down while I’m contemplating His demise extremely enticing.  You can almost hear the sadistic bastard in Him shooting from the bottom of His balls up to His brain and start winding up.

I haven’t found my balls yet.  I’m not sure what’s down the end of that road, but I know it can’t be good, and so I keep a vice-like grip on my irritation, refusing to allow it free reign.  But one of these days…

I always have this horrid feeling that I’m doing something terribly wrong.  I guess one could argue that I am.  It’s been at least a week (probably longer) since my last task email, and the house could definitely use some cleaning.  But the “wrongness” feels deeper than that, and I can’t figure out if it is attributable to something in our life, or if it’s just my typical paranoia.  Or, once again, the monthly monster.

I’m sensing a theme, here.

I can’t get out of my own way.  Can’t sum up the will power to force myself to get off my ass and do something other than watch Hootsuite refresh while I play some point-and-click game on Pogo.  Even as I type this, I’m thinking, “When I’m finished, I should go do some dishes or something.”, but I know I’ll probably wait until M tells me to, and then get annoyed that He’s telling me to, as if I have a reason.  Or the right.

We still haven’t received a ruling from child support about the back support they say M owes.  I seem to remember them saying it could take sixty days for them to review the audit.  M feels like it has been sixty days.  I’m gonna have to go through our paperwork and see what I can find.  If it has been sixty days, I’ll probably send out another letter.  That we have to send letters, rather than being able to just call the worker and ask about it, is utterly ridiculous.

A couple women from our past resurfaced recently.  The first I’m sort of indifferent to.  She did a lot of lying, and a lot of game playing, but ultimately, while there was enough hurt to go around, we parted on semi-decent terms.

The other…

Seeing that name reappear fucked with me way more than it should have.  Especially when I did some digging and found she’s behaving the same way she did before she disappeared.  She was never a threat.  Could never be a threat.  But she tried to be.  And it seems she’s taking it even further, this time around, than she did back then.  Which is utterly bizarre, because it’s been years.  Years! And suddenly, here she is, right back where she left off.  How on Earth did M and I manage to so firmly implant ourselves in the mind of this woman that she’s returned years after disappearing?

And it doesn’t appear to be about an interest in Him, anymore, so much as an interest in fucking with me.  She’s invading all the places I am active and following M and all of my close friends, but isn’t following me.  And what pisses me off the most is I fucking let it get to me.

Not anymore.  Her obsession isn’t a reflection on me.  It’s a reflection on her.  It makes her one creepy, pathetic mother fucker, to have come back, years later, to cyberstalk M and me again.  Or maybe she’s always been stalking us, and she just decided to show her face again.  Either way, get a life, sweet cheeks.

M says I’m attributing entirely too much importance to something that is wholly irrelevant.  Maybe He’s right.  But that’s fucking creepy, dude.  Seriously!

We’re leaving for the meat market in a little while.  I want to curl up in a ball on the floor and scream “I don’t wanna!” but we’ve got to stop spending so much on take-out.  Hey… maybe that’ll get me beat! Maybe getting beat will make me feel better! I’m totally doing it!… NOT!

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