Psychobrat Gripes and Mormon Jubilation

It has been a very Psychobrat sort of day.

Psychobrat and Spidermonkey have broken up, which means that she will be spending all of her free time at home, whereas until recently she had practically been living at his house.  (This meant that the rare times she was home, she was actually almost pleasant.)  But no more of that.  Psychobrat is back full-force!

My Padawan sent me a new section of her story last night, which I was quite eager to read and comment on, and promised her I would do so after work and my workout today, so right about 3.  This, apparently, was not to be.

I came home at 2:15 with the intention of chilling at the computer for a few minutes just to decompress so I could do my workout.  The sun, you see, does not do good things for me, and I had been standing in it for four hours, so I had a headache and wanted to zone out in the coolest room of the house (my room is hot).  This, from experience, makes my heat headaches go away.  But even this was not to be.

Psychobrat was on the computer, and I asked her if I could have it for a few minutes so I could relax before working out.  She adamantly refused.  I told her that I had promised someone I would be on it at 3, and this pissed her off.

“YOU CAN’T PROMISE SOMEONE YOU’RE GOING TO USE THE COMPUTER AT 3!  IT ISN’T YOUR COMPUTER!  IT’S EVERYONE’S!  AND I’M USING IT!”

I told her (still calmly at this point) that I would only need it for half an hour to an hour, and then she could use it for the rest of the day.

But she was downloading something that was going to take a while and didn’t want to disrupt it.

Fair enough.  I said all she had to do was switch users and her programs would keep running.

She told me I was a selfish bitch.  (You have to imagine her voice as being very prissy and screechy, because that is how it sounds, unless she’s really pissed, and then she sounds like the girl from The Exorcist.)

Now here is a perfect example of her (and my father’s, because she gets it from him) circular non-logic, and the reason it is impossible to argue with either one of them.  She told me it was her turn to use the computer, because she is never home and therefore never gets to use it.  I told her that I had promised to be on the computer around 3.  She said I couldn’t promise such things, because she was using it at 3.  I said when I had made this promise, I hadn’t expected her to be home, because she never was home in the afternoons.  To which she replied, “Well, I’m going to be home all the time now, because Brent and I broke up.”

…?  Do you see the contradiction here?  This is only one example.  Every argument with either her or my father goes exactly the same way.  I remember another prime example from a few weeks ago, when my dad was waking me up every morning at 7 by yelling at my little brother.  This particular morning, he was yelling, “I WANT YOU TO GO TO JAIL, SO YOU CAN LEARN A LESSON!”  A few minutes later, when it suited his needs for him to reply to something Brother had said a different way, he said, “I DON’T WANT YOU TO GO TO JAIL!”

Even though I was very not awake, I was still able to pick up on the contradiction, and even chuckled to myself a bit when Brother said, “You just said you wanted me to go to jail,” and Dad replied, “I DID NOT!”

Do you see why this is so frustrating?  Why it is not possible to ever win an argument or defend yourself to either one of them?  They contradict themselves and disregard logic at all.  This is why I’ve questioned so often whether or not I am going insane, and why I bottle up my emotions until I explode, and why I so often just try to hide in my room when either of their tempers flare up.  Can any one of you honestly tell me that you could argue with these people and not eventually decide just not to open your mouth ever?  That’s what it’s like living at my house.  What’s worse is that she hates me, and everybody else here, and he favors her, so they both constantly jump down my throat and I get it even worse than anyone sometimes.  But it’s okay, because I can put up with it for a few more years, and then I am moving out.  I will live with The Mormon, and things will be so much better.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my family very much; I just need to live apart from them.

But where was I?  I got off on a tangent.  Psychobrat.  Right.  So I gave up on getting on the computer at any point anywhere near 3, and did my workout not on my own strength, but on anger.  And because I never decompressed, my headache is still lingering.

Then I went and took a shower and went to my room, because she was still on the computer.  But by this point I had decided just not to get on until about 9, when I would go ahead and respond to my Padawan, a bit later than promised.  This would give her the rest of the day to use it as long as she wanted, and when I finally got on, my time would be uninterrupted and she couldn’t argue with me.

I sat down at 9:35, and she walked in the door at 9:45, after having been out who knows where.  She approached me and simpered, “Can I have the computer for five minutes?”

I looked at her.  “You must be joking,” I said.

“No, I just want it for a few minutes to check all my stuff.”

“Well, you can have it for a few minutes tomorrow.  It’s my turn now.”

“It isn’t your turn.  There are no turns.  You don’t own this computer.”

“Well, that’s too bad for you, because I’m not getting off.”

“YES, you ARE!  I WANT IT!”  (Imagine the Exorcist voice now.)

“And now you know how it feels.”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, NOW I KNOW HOW IT FEELS!?”  (At this point, the computer restarted, and continued restarting every time I logged on for the rest of this conversation.  I suspected that Psychobrat was channeling Carrie.)

“This doesn’t sound familiar to you from…oh, about 6 hours ago?”

“I WAS DOWNLOADING SOMETHING!”

“You could have switched users for a few minutes.  It wouldn’t have hurt anything.”

“THIS ISN’T FAIR!”

“I agree; it isn’t fair.”

“GET OFF; I WANT IT!”

“Sorry.”

“THIS ISN’T FAIR!”

“As I already stated, I agree with you.  It certainly isn’t fair.”

“I HAVE TO CHECK MY STUFF!”

“Well, you can check it tomorrow when I’m at work for 11 hours.”

“I HAVE TO CHECK IT NOW!”

Finally I got so sick of it restarting and being called selfish over and over again (and as I’ve explained, there simply is no way to defend yourself), I just got off.  It was about 9:50.  Psychobrat immediately took over and used it until 11.  That, apparently, is 5 minutes to her.

The 47-Year-Old came over today.  This is the nickname of the guy who is actually 25 and whom Psychobrat met at my brother’s day care one summer when she was 14 and he was 21, and where she had been sent as punishment for the summer before, when she was fucking The Jackass from down the street every day.  She was cleaning her room last night since he was coming over.  This involved washing her sheets.  I’m not sure I want to speculate upon that one.

I actually feel bad talking about Psychobrat like this.  But it’s helped my anger completely go away.  Now that I’ve written all these horrible things about her, all I feel is guilt.  The anger is gone.  But my conscience is very strong.

I’m going to change the subject.  Want to hear something sweet for a change?  I don’t deserve this, because I’m really a pretty horrible person, as evidenced by all of the above…but I am thankful for it.  I think The Mormon is one of the best things that has ever happened to me, and I will never stop being grateful for that.

Have you ever had a class with some guy (or girl) that you thought was really hot, and maybe you didn’t know them at all really, but when the semester ended, you were sort of sad that you wouldn’t see them anymore?  The Mormon told me today that I was this person to him, back when we were in that sociology class together.  He thought I was incredibly hot (“not to be superficial,” he said) and even mentioned me to his friends, although we’d only spoken once or twice and didn’t even know each other’s names.  And I thought nothing of it at all.  It never occurred to me at this time to be attracted to him.

He told me that when he saw me on the first day in our creative writing class, he was ecstatic, and started trying to figure out a way to tell me he was interested, but because he was shy, said nothing for almost the entire class.  And all the way through, he realized that he liked me more and more.  (And I was completely unaware of this for about three months.  He’s experiencing all this inner turmoil, and I’m just blissfully ignorant.)

Anyway, I was all, “I was that girl.  That rocks!”

And…I’m just so happy to have him and that he loves me so very much.

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Missed Appointments and Wasted Fuel

Despite the fact that I really didn’t want to, I actually had every intention of going to Psychobrat’s graduation yesterday.  And so I drove downtown in the general direction of the Coliseum (according to the signs, that is–I wasn’t sure how to get there) and I almost made it.  But then for some reason I pulled into the parking lot by the Tailgate Bar & Grille, which is not the Coliseum, although it is very close.  And then the only way to get out was to take a right, which took me back over the bridge.

Jacksonville is a city of bridges.  When I say “over the bridge”, it means downtown.  The same as if I was on the other side of the city, if I said, “over the bridge”, I would mean the beach.  Or if I was on my side of town, “over the bridge” would mean on the way to the airport or Georgia.  But in this particular case, home is on one side of the bridge, and downtown is on the other.

So I was in the process of leaving downtown when Mom called to find out where I was.  When I told her “going back over the bridge”, she said, “Well, parking is $5.00” which is when I knew I was not going to make it, because I never carry cash.

I went home.  They said they’d call me when they went to lunch afterward.

I ate lunch, because I had been invited to the Masonic Lodge for dinner, and I wanted to save my appetite.

At about 3, Mom called and said they were on their way to the restaurant.  So I drove the 20 minutes to the restaurant, which was packed, and called Dad to find out where they were.

Dad and Brother were at home.  Lunch had been delayed until 4:30, but nobody had bothered to tell me.  I went back home.

Shortly thereafter, Dad and Brother went to lunch, and I remained at home because I wasn’t going to eat anyway and I had to leave at 6, or 5:45 if I had gone.  That was pointless.

I left at 6.  And then I got very lost downtown, despite the fact that Mom had shown me the location of the Lodge the day before.  I took the wrong exit by accident, and then there was nothing to do but head very far in one direction and hope Mom answered, because the light was dimming and I wasn’t certain which direction I needed to be headed, and I had already gone over a couple of bridges I’d never seen before.  I could feel how very far away I was.  It was never a good idea for me to agree to go when I knew I didn’t have a companion.

Mom answered and told me I needed to be headed back south, and to look at the sun.  People, I was so lost, my mom did not recognize the street names I was giving her and I had to find my way back using the sun.

Finally I found a street name I recognized, but I was far down it.  “Lock your doors,” Mom said.  I drove very slowly down the street, because there were something like twenty or thirty people with bicycles in a cluster, riding s l o w l y around in the middle of the street, giving me shifty eyes because I very blatantly did not belong where I was.

I got back to the block that the Lodge was on, couldn’t figure out where to park, saw that I was already a few minutes late, saw Union street (the one that goes back over the bridge–it’s State Street there, Union Street back; this is how I generally keep my bearings downtown, unless I’m as far out as I was a few minutes before this) ahead of me, and decided to embrace Union while I still could.  I sped back over the bridge and went to Publix to get sushi and strawberry Newtons.

Then, as I had missed absolutely every appointment that day and was feeling rather depressed, I went to surprise The Mormon at work.

See, I was invited to the Lodge a few months ago by a really nice guy that my mom works with.  He was very excited for me to come by so he could show me all around, and of course I had been looking forward to it since the first invite.  And he’d said he was making me peach cobbler.  I was really looking forward to that peach cobbler.

So I have the very depressing mental image of this sweet guy baking me peach cobbler and waiting eagerly for me to show up at the Lodge, and then I was late, and then I just clearly was not coming, and there sat the peach cobbler, sadly awaiting me, and him and his wife sighing and saying they guessed I wasn’t coming, and they would have to eat the peach cobbler themselves.  It’s very sad.

Mom said she could go with me next month if we got another invitation, but not to expect one, because by now he must assume I really didn’t want to go.  Oh, that’s so depressing. And I do want to go!

Anyway.  No appointments today.  But I’m going to go and get a shower and then out for an eyebrow waxing.  They’re getting too bushy for my taste.

General Blahness Whilst Waiting on the Laundry

I saw my old friend Wendy from Watson today.  Her husband is out of town at a friend’s house, and as he was away and I was there, there were quite a few downhearted expressions of regret that things aren’t the way they used to be.  They have been married…I think six years now?…and they don’t talk anymore.  He doesn’t laugh at her jokes like he used to (in fact, he glares at her like she’s insulting him), and she feels constantly alone even when he’s there next to her.  He even asked her if she still saw herself with him a year from now, and she feels miserable.

Isn’t there any way that I can keep The Mormon from one day hating me?  Isn’t this possible?  Nobody stays happy, right?  I mean, once that initial honeymoon stage is over, that’s like it, isn’t it?  There are occasions (and they are few and far between) that I suspect my parents are secretly happy with each other, but like I said, they’re very few and far between.  For years I’ve watched them and thought, They aren’t happy.  I could go into more detail about this, such as the specifics of what I’ve heard them both bitch about for practically my entire life (my mom secretly to me, and my dad loudly in any part of the house, because he seems to feel all of their issues should be the issues of the entire family).  I won’t, though.  But it isn’t pleasant.

All I want is to make him happy forever.  Because when I make him happy, it in turn makes me happy and makes him want to make me happy.  Why doesn’t this work?  Why don’t people stay happy with each other?  Why isn’t this possible?  I don’t want to gradually turn into some psycho bitch who’s going to be a burden to him.  I don’t want to be sitting in the same room as him and have him not even care that I’m speaking to him, or to not bother because I don’t want to see him not care.

This is secretly one of the main reasons I don’t want to get married for such a long time.  I want to prolong happiness as long as possible.  I feel like marriage = the end of happiness.  Is this wrong?  Am I somehow just incredibly cynical about this, or am I right?  Because that’s really how I see it.  I can’t tell if it’s skewed or not.

The Evils of Caffeine

I don’t like frappuccinos.  I never have and I never will.  If I ever say anything mad like I am going to try to like a frappuccino, or I am craving a frappuccino, smack me.

I had an Irish creme frappuccino yesterday.  I then hopped into Kristen’s truck for about a half-hour ride through stop-and-go traffic.  This combination made me very ill indeed.

We were headed to the Marriott, location of our senior prom and where Kristen now works as a waitress.  Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” was playing on Kristen’s CD, and we were both singing along.  When the song was over, I realized that I felt somewhat better, and I said, “I don’t know if it’s a result of the controlled oxygen intake, the distraction, or if this song just has some healing properties, but it’s keeping me from vomiting in your car.  Keep playing it.”

We listened to “Sweet Caroline” about twenty times yesterday, and it actually was helping, except that each time I was starting to feel slightly better, we had to get out.

When we arrived at Marriott, Kristen parked her huge red truck on a slope so that my side was much higher than hers was.  Both of us were afraid the truck was going to roll over, but we left it.

Once inside, Kristen went to get her paycheck, and I walked to Starbucks where I informed the very nice girl behind the counter, “I never do this, but I’m feeling quite queasy, and wondered if I could just have some ice water?”

She obliged, and it helped, but only slightly.  I think “Sweet Caroline” actually helped more.

On the way back to the truck, I told Kristen that I would get in first, so she unlocked her door, paused, and said, “Oh, right” and tossed me the keys.  Somehow, clumsy, uncoordinated me managed to catch them with one hand and get in.  Then, leaning over with my leg out so as to hold open my door, I handed them back to Kristen.  I inadvertently moved my leg and my door slammed shut, making both of us freeze.

The truck did not roll over, and we were back on the road, singing along to “Sweet Caroline” once again.

At Kristen’s apartment, I laid down flat on the floor and stared at the ceiling as her roommate got me three Advil.  Then I promptly threw up in Kristen’s bathroom and felt…only a little better.

I didn’t throw up again, but was out of commission for the rest of the day and unable to move my head.

I did finally tell Kristen that I thought I could handle a different song, so we turned on “I Believe In A Thing Called Love” by The Darkness.  At the line, “Touching you…touching me….” I said, “Hey!” and grinned at Kristen, who said, “What?” then caught on, and said, “Oh, no!”  (This will make sense if you know the lyrics to “Sweet Caroline”, which we were naturally quite sick of by that time.)

I am giving up caffeine, by the way, which I actually knew before I had the frappucino.  That was to be my last encounter with it, because it isn’t good with my birth control.  But it apparently is not good for me, period.  I think I’ll stay away from caffeine for the rest of my life after that incident.  Totally not necessary for me.  I can still slightly feel the effects of it from yesterday.

Later I was lying on my mom’s bed facing her as she spoke to various people on her cell phone.  That was when I had the bizarre, detached notion that this was one of those moments that I would miss, many, many years from now when my parents aren’t around and these moments can no longer take place.  I immediately hugged her and laid my head down on her stomach, crying a bit but able to hide the fact because my eyes were already watering from the MigraStick she’d rubbed on my forehead.  It was so depressing–I remembered scenes from Our Town and Peggy Sue Got Married, where people are reunited with their parents, who had passed on before, and I felt distinctly like I was looking at the past even as I lived it.

Then later I spoke to The Mormon, who was all, “The men on my mom’s side have a long history of only living to 65 or 72” and he was basically telling me, in not so many words, that I will be left alone when I am 65, and I had to try very, very hard not to cry again.  Because I will likely live to about 85, and that’s like 20 years that I would have to go without him, whereas I find it difficult now to go a week without him.  That’s like 1,000 weeks.  And off and on all night long I kept thinking things like this and having to wipe my eyes on my hands and my shirt, and…I love him and I don’t want to be left without him when I’m 65!  Why can’t he stop smoking?  I know this is far, far in the future and all, but I couldn’t stop thinking it, and I was freaking out over and over again!

How do I keep my mind off of shit like this?  He just basically told me that because of genetics, he’s almost definitely going to die in like 45 years.  That is not a long time!  How do I not think about it!?

In somewhat happier news, if you ignore all of the above, I really, really love him, and he really, really loves me, and we’re both convinced we want to be with each other forever.  So…yay us.

But can somebody please attempt to turn off my macabre side and make me feel better?

A Wake-Up Shout, a Clone, and a Mad Hitman

I went to bed early in order to get a good eight hours of sleep and get up by 9, but was unfortunately awoken two hours earlier at 7:15 by the sounds of my extremely homophobic father shouting at Brother about what going to jail really means.

“THERE ARE A LOT OF MEN IN THERE WHO HAVE BEEN SEPARATED FROM THEIR GIRLFRIENDS FOR A LONG TIME!  DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS!?  TELL ME WHAT THAT MEANS!”

I am not hearing this, I thought, attempting to go back to sleep, but this, unfortunately, was not possible until about two hours later, so I ended up sleeping until about 11 anyway.

I had two dreams last night–well, this morning, really.  In the first, Cortney went home to Illinois to visit family for a bit, then came back and told me there was this guy there I just had to meet.  So I took her word for it, and she and Nicole and I went up to Illinois for about a week.

While there, we took a trip to Sam’s Club, or something similar to it, where there was this guy working whom Cortney had met and spoken to for a while.  He looked and talked exactly like The Mormon, and even had the same name.  That was why Cortney had wanted me to see him.

When she introduced me to him, he said, “This’ll sound really strange, but you look exactly like my girlfriend.”  How weird is that?  So we followed him around, and I kept trying to hold hands with him and stuff, and finally I just thought, Why don’t I?  This guy is The Mormon.

Then we were writing all the stuff we were going to purchase up on this chalkboard, because their cash registers were broken or something, and I woke up (to Dad’s yelling) trying to rub chalk off of my hands.

The next dream was after I went back to sleep; I dreamed that Michelle, Adrianna, Turtle, Peck, and I were all hitmen for…somebody.  I don’t know who.  And Turtle was also crazy–he deliberately killed the wrong guy, laughing all the while.  For some reason, that whole Christian group that we had over the summer was in the cafe again, and Turtle killed one of them.  So then whoever we worked for sent me after Turtle, but Turtle knew this and kept trying to shoot me.  (This took place in the parking garage at UNF.)  And he kept laughing maniacally–it was really freaky!

When I saw Turtle tonight, I said, “I had this dream you were trying to shoot me and kept laughing creepily.”

He said, “Is that why you looked at me funny at first?”

“That’s why,” I said.

Something else of interest, completely unrelated to dreams–remember how I was griping about the old van in the previous entry? So this guy came to the door just today offering to break it down so he could have the parts. He even had the wrecker right there. My dad wants to get pictures of us all in front of it first, since we’ve had it since the year I was born (he gets weirdly sentimentally attached to objects), but after that we’re going to call the guy and get rid of it. Cool how that works out, huh?

And that’s pretty much it on news/stories for today.

A Stressful Day with a Pleasant Ending

Brother went to court this morning, but they told him to come back at a later date.  Until then, he’s under house arrest.  They’re going to be calling here randomly every day to make sure he’s actually here, which means we have to be psychotic about answering the phone immediately when it rings.

Good old Psychobrat expressed her wish that he receive the harshest punishment they can contrive.

Everyone (except Psychobrat), obviously, is under a lot of stress.  Therefore, I didn’t get pissed off when my dad told me to move my car today.

See, we have only so much room in our driveway.  There’s the old blue van which we will never drive and never sell; it exists now solely to take up space in our driveway.  There’s my mom’s van, my dad’s car, Psychobrat’s car, and mine.  For certain reasons, namely:  1) I don’t want to get blocked in by Psychobrat’s car and not be able to go to work; 2) I’m the last one to leave every day and don’t want to block anyone else in, and 3) there simply isn’t room…I park on the street.  This is against the rules of the neighborhood Association.  My dad said today that he didn’t want to get a ticket or have a car towed, so I’d better move it into the driveway.

When I came back inside, completely calmly and rationally (it was, too, because I wasn’t pissed off at all–that was all him), I asked him if maybe he could tell Psychobrat to park her car on the road, since she’s the first one to leave every morning, and that just makes sense.

He snapped sarcastically back, “Yeah, you can’t talk to your sister, can you?”  What he meant by this, spoken in the nasty, evil tone that he used, was that all of the problems between her and me going back almost two decades are a result of my incompetence, and that she, the evil one, is completely blameless.  I know this is what he meant by it, because this is what he always means.  For some reason, my father favors my evil brat sister.

But today, I chose to play dumb, like I didn’t know he was giving me all credit for the rift.  I said, “No, I can’t.”

He said, “Yeah.  That’s part of the problem, isn’t it.”

“Yeah, it is.”

He’s just like Psychobrat.  He can never allow anyone the last word, so it gets ridiculous sometimes.

“Yeah.  That’s always been part of the problem, hasnt it.”

“Yeah, it has.”

“Yeah.  That’s always been a big part of the problem, hasn’t it.”

It was time to clarify that I was playing dumb, that I thought he was putting the blame on her.  “Yeah–nobody can talk to her,” I said casually, stalking out of the room as he chuckled, “That isn’t true,” in the same nasty voice, as though I am the only one who can’t talk to Psychobrat.

I went into my room and cried silent tears for several minutes.  I’m under stress, too, and the last thing I needed was to be reminded that he likes her better than me and always has and probably always will.

When he finally went back to work, I emerged from my room, saw Brother sitting in the living room, and started bitching at him about how it just wasn’t fair, why should he favor Psychobrat, yada yada yada, and Brother, the one who should be under more stress than anyone, calmly told me that that isn’t true (it is; even Mom has confirmed that when I flat-out asked her; but how sweet of him to try and tell me otherwise) and that it wasn’t all that bad.  I love my brother to pieces, even when he’s been totally stupid.

Then I got the story out of him.  He wore the same jeans two days in a row, and the second day (yesterday) forgot that his pocket knife was still in them from the previous afternoon.  Not wanting to be caught at school with it, he took it out and hid it under the bus seat to be retrieved after school.  Unfortunately, a few kids saw this and snitched, which led to a search of his locker.  Another knife was found in his locker, because it was part of his Boy Scouts stuff, and all of that was together in a backpack in the locker.  The marijuana pipe does not belong to him, but because he was stupid enough to allow dozens of untrustworthy people access to his locker combination, he has no idea whose it is.

Then he told me that Psychobrat has decided to leave MarioKart at Spidermonkey’s until I apologize for calling her Psychobrat.  That’s a lot of bullshit, first of all, because she was planning to leave it there anyway.  And second, why would she tell him this, not me?

But it doesn’t matter, because I’ve decided to just buy my own.  Then she can’t get it.

We had steak night at work today.  Normally this doesn’t really bother me, but as I was already in a pissy mood today, it kind of stressed me out more.  Steak night always draws larger crowds.

While I was at work, however, The Mormon left roses, black licorice, and a card for me at my front door.  Then he came over for like two hours to be with me and just make sure I was feeling better.  He’s so completely fantastic.

Jail and Jealousy

Bad news today, I’m afraid.

My totally awesome little brother whom I love was arrested after a knife and a marijuana pipe were retrieved from his locker.  He’s going to court tomorrow at 10:00.  Fun stuff, eh?  I don’t like this phase that he’s in.

Here’s something else noteworthy:  Milo is jealous of The Mormon.  How freaking great is that?  I told Michelle, Adrianna, and Dennis today, and while the girls laughed, Dennis high-fived me and said, “Way to go, Ginny, finally; it’s only been, what, two years now?”

“Five,” I corrected him.

“Even better!”

I fully intend to confront him about it.  I’ve been waiting to do it since I found out, but he has been conveniently unavailable.