Collections to date. (Continuously updated.)

Hot Hot Hot

Mon, 18 Sep 2006 00:20:55 GMT

Still sweating bullets here in San Diego. Odd- no one has air conditioning and everyone drinks hot coffee..... . hhmmmmm..... Nothing much amiss other than that.

Another weekend

Sat, 19 Aug 2006 17:48:01 GMT

Another week down. Roughly 12 weeks to go- and boy do I have an absurd amount of work to do. If anyone has any suggestions on where to live in the D.C. area I would greatly appreciate it..... I'm looking for an apartment out there- Tonight, headed to a bodybuilding competition.... fun-fun. I may need a drink for this one. AHHHHH! Let's see.....

New day- every day

Thu, 17 Aug 2006 22:23:29 GMT

I must admit,insanity certainly loves to cling to my pantlegs. And however irritating it may be, every day is uniquely different from the last. I am learning volumes- and look forward to learning more. You wouldn't believe what the inside of the eye looks like. Weird.

irritated

Tue, 08 Aug 2006 23:46:38 GMT

So I am stuck- currently stuck with my co-workers 24 hrs a day essentially. I can't escape them. We work at least 9 hours a day, plus exercise and study together. Yet they still show up at my door at all hours asking for information, educational assistance, supplies, and well- anything they may need. The lack of personal space drives me absolutely insane. I don't ask anyone for anything. I am proud to be independent- and ecstatic that I am self-sufficient. As it appears this is now a rare quality in our society. If only these people would get on the ball and take care of their own shit---- then maybe I wouldn't be so cranky!!!!!!!!!
Sorry for the intrusion. One rant and many raves. My apologies.

War & Killing

Fri, 04 Aug 2006 22:50:54 GMT

A new generation of "psychiatric casualties" are coming home from what appears to be an incessant and ruthless war. As more and more return to their lives and their families a new burden is about to drop in on our society.
In Lt. Col.Dave Grossman's Book "On Killing" he states that, "In WWII, only 15-20% of combat infantry were willing to fire their rifles. In Korea, about 50%. In Vietnam, the figure rose to over 90%."
Improved training and 'conditioning' drills (based on those of Skinner and Pavlov) is to thank for this striking rise in fire power.
As it stands now, psychiatric backlash (shellshock, PTSD, and other war associated disorders) may in deed be correlated to soldier's requirement to kill, not the fear of their own death or dismemberment.
Has anyone else had a chance to check out this book- or have any thoughts on the subject?

chicken

Wed, 02 Aug 2006 02:17:19 GMT

i have nothing to say today.

Random

Wed, 02 Aug 2006 02:12:41 GMT

You should send your paintings (or samples thereof) to this coffee house. David's Coffee House, San Diego, Ca. They would love them. There's naked men all over these walls.

Thirty-three

Wed, 02 Aug 2006 00:38:46 GMT

I barreled down the stairs and out the front door, slamming it behind me.
"Where would I go? I have no car. She totaled it a month ago." I needed somewhere to go- and fast. Quickly I darted to the neighbors to use the phone.
They answered- in shock. Appauled at my appearance, concerned for my safety, terrified at what she had done. They let me use their phone and their bathroom. I needed to clean up a bit. I clumsily swabbed blood from my throbbing head with wet toilet paper. I rinsed my arms and attempted to scrub away the 'newness' of my injuries. It was of no use. I was going to look like a crash test dummy whether I cleaned up well or not.
Moments later a knock at the door.
"Thank god, my ride."
I was off and running again.

Thirty-Two (here begins another story)

Tue, 01 Aug 2006 03:42:03 GMT

My head lifted slightly and throbbed extensively. The room spun ferociously before me, making the environment even more difficult to decipher. Pain slowly filtered in from every limb with the notification that more than usual was amiss.
Before me, I saw my bed.
"How did I not make it to bed?"
And my other half, again was not in it. In fact no one could be in it. The mattress was standing on end vertically propped between the frame and the nightstand. Strangely suspended in motion, as if it were about to be carried elsewhere.
I propped myself to my elbows and mustered the strength to pull myself to my knees. My jeans were speckled with blood. My forearms bore incisions in every which direction. Anxious as to what I would find next, I stumbled to my feet. the mirror before me, which I had hung six months prior, now hung cock-eyed from one screw. The reflection it provided was much the same.
I was beaten, cut, bruised, and splattered with dried blood.
"How had this happened? Who did this to me?"
A multitude of questions flooded my still alcohol dampened mind.
"Are they still here?"
Distracted from the mirror I staggered slowly around the corner into the hallway. The bathroom mirror was shattered and also splatter with blood. Perhaps that would explain the cuts on my forehead.
In the living room furniture was toppled over. Speakers lay sideways in the middle of the floor. The blinds were smeared with blood in scattered places.
"Was I trying to escape?"
Soil from over-turned potted plants lie strewn across the carpet. Bits of dirt and those little white foam pellets were everywhere.
There were two holes in the wall. No, correction, three. Each encompassed with blood.
Then all at once, the realization. I had been attacked. Blacked out from the excessive consumption of Absolute or absolutely obliterated?
"Had she sent them?"
"Could someone you loved and cared for, be so malicious?"
"What if my attackers come back?"
Fear struck me like a cannon ball pierces the hull of a ship. Instantly dropping me to my knees and spilling the acidic remainders of my stomach.
"I must leave."
And quickly.
I grabbed all the essentials I could think of with such a muddled mind. A few costumes, boots, toothbrush, razor, a pair of jeans, t-shirts, and make-up. It wasn't much, but it was enough to fill a back pack.

Two

Tue, 01 Aug 2006 03:18:31 GMT

Growing up there are many things we seem to lose track of. Fond memories, good friends, and years all wash away practically unnoticed like sand from the shore. The events of my childhood stacked up haphazardly like folding chairs ina church rectory. Too soon forgotten, covered in dust, but likely to unfold.
In the beginning, I was a very small girl living in a very small town. The type of town that specialized in the production of the naive. I was well sheltered with miles of surrounding farm towns and quiet neighborhoods. I attended a public school far better than most and graduated in the top 20% of my class. Throughout the course of my youth I seemed to avoid most of the typical snags. I was always well behaved and didn't experiment much with the usual high school substances. Just a mediocre athlete I enjoyed the extra time with my peers and found sports a good manner in which to alleviate copious amounts of quality time with the "fam". As did every aspiring teen.
Although I knew I was going to college, I never imagined how difficult it would be to remain "in college".
Picking a university was simple. The college my best friend was attending was affordable and close to home. Close enough to come home when you wanted, but not so close that mom would drop in unexpectedly. It was a bit of a party school, but that didn't bother me much because I wasn't the partying "type".

One

Tue, 01 Aug 2006 02:59:59 GMT

It's striking how quickly a life can change. Completely and totally metamorphisize. Between these changes there are moments of distinction, or breaking points. These are the few microseconds when you realize your life is now permanently and profoundly altered. They are marked by incredulous fear, pain, joy, and even relief- sometimes all combined. The clarity that comes with these moments is insurmountable and the emotions overwhelming. Which explains why these moments will always remain so brief and why their memories are always so well preserved in our minds. These are my moments.

Stories

Sun, 30 Jul 2006 23:36:34 GMT

& tall tales. Freakishly tall tales.