On having a house that does not suck.
Bought myself a laptop on Monday, and immediately the car broke down. Somehow I was not tremendously surprised by the timing, which sucked.
I was also sick for two days, which sucked more. Nothing actually happened, like I didn't barf or anything, but man, I felt like shit. I was too shittily tired to game.
Anyway. I'm much better now and I want to come back inside.
For an actual topic, something onceupon and I were talking about on her journal is house stuff.
I am truly happy with this house. Not perfectly happy, not in throes of ecstasy every day happy, but content in a way that I have never before been with someplace I lived.
As I said to onceupon, other people have these aspirations about their homes that baffle me completely. They want it to be clutter-free, or they want art around that really doesn't mean anything to them but looks cultured and expensive, or they want the big picture windows and the swimming pool and the perfectly manicured yard so that it looks "respectable" from outside, or they decide to box up all their books and put them out of sight because their interior decorator told them to, and so on, and I just don't get it.
I want a house so awesome you would have to tranquilize a 9-year-old with a dart gun to get them out of there.
I want there to be books from floor to ceiling, magical stuff everywhere, and a story behind everything you see. There should be scary stuff to find squirreled away in shadowy corners, and hidden surprises of the wonderful variety, and beautiful things in every room, and almost everything is something that yes, you can touch.
And while I would have more of that kind of thing if I had money falling out of my ass, it's at least an aspiration that doesn't always require money for me to accomplish because I am just talented and imaginative enough to be able to make or fake a bunch of interesting things. I am filling this place with things that have no purpose but to tell a story, to be beautiful, to be strange. I have a cat's heart in a bell jar, a dead and mummified fairy, a mimmoth tusk, a clock that tells you when you are having a good time, a deer skull with fangs. Some I bought, some I modified, some I made.
I know I will never have the awesome creepy old mansion I really want, but I am content to weird up the place I have. My friends are happy here, or I like to think they are, and my cats are happy, and there is always something to look at or play with, and I can spend a week here without even going outside and still be completely happy. I think that's way better than the Better Homes and Gardens kind of house.
I thought I would never get here. To a place that didn't make me feel like jumping down a well. I hope it gets better, but even if it doesn't, I can live here. I turn down my street and think "I love this neighborhood." I get out of the car to come up to the house and I pet the stonework as I go past the corner of the garage and think "I love this house." I wake up at night from a bad dream and the darkness is comforting, not scary, and I think "I feel safe here." And those are things I have never felt before all together, even in the place I lived as a child (the darkness there was distinctly threatening).
The last place we lived . . . it was doing something to me. I was becoming a worse person. The stress from living there was making me sicker inside, making any healing impossible. It also made me not want to do any work on the house at all. It felt like being forced to shine the shoes of some assface who kept kicking me in the cunt. I am a shitty housekeeper, but it's much easier here, and I'm learning, and the house doesn't piss me off which makes things about nine times less ball-bustingly painful.
I'm not always doing so hot these days, I am still crazy as a shithouse rat, but this house is not part of that, and I can't say how grateful I am about that. I really can't.
I was also sick for two days, which sucked more. Nothing actually happened, like I didn't barf or anything, but man, I felt like shit. I was too shittily tired to game.
Anyway. I'm much better now and I want to come back inside.
For an actual topic, something onceupon and I were talking about on her journal is house stuff.
I am truly happy with this house. Not perfectly happy, not in throes of ecstasy every day happy, but content in a way that I have never before been with someplace I lived.
As I said to onceupon, other people have these aspirations about their homes that baffle me completely. They want it to be clutter-free, or they want art around that really doesn't mean anything to them but looks cultured and expensive, or they want the big picture windows and the swimming pool and the perfectly manicured yard so that it looks "respectable" from outside, or they decide to box up all their books and put them out of sight because their interior decorator told them to, and so on, and I just don't get it.
I want a house so awesome you would have to tranquilize a 9-year-old with a dart gun to get them out of there.
I want there to be books from floor to ceiling, magical stuff everywhere, and a story behind everything you see. There should be scary stuff to find squirreled away in shadowy corners, and hidden surprises of the wonderful variety, and beautiful things in every room, and almost everything is something that yes, you can touch.
And while I would have more of that kind of thing if I had money falling out of my ass, it's at least an aspiration that doesn't always require money for me to accomplish because I am just talented and imaginative enough to be able to make or fake a bunch of interesting things. I am filling this place with things that have no purpose but to tell a story, to be beautiful, to be strange. I have a cat's heart in a bell jar, a dead and mummified fairy, a mimmoth tusk, a clock that tells you when you are having a good time, a deer skull with fangs. Some I bought, some I modified, some I made.
I know I will never have the awesome creepy old mansion I really want, but I am content to weird up the place I have. My friends are happy here, or I like to think they are, and my cats are happy, and there is always something to look at or play with, and I can spend a week here without even going outside and still be completely happy. I think that's way better than the Better Homes and Gardens kind of house.
I thought I would never get here. To a place that didn't make me feel like jumping down a well. I hope it gets better, but even if it doesn't, I can live here. I turn down my street and think "I love this neighborhood." I get out of the car to come up to the house and I pet the stonework as I go past the corner of the garage and think "I love this house." I wake up at night from a bad dream and the darkness is comforting, not scary, and I think "I feel safe here." And those are things I have never felt before all together, even in the place I lived as a child (the darkness there was distinctly threatening).
The last place we lived . . . it was doing something to me. I was becoming a worse person. The stress from living there was making me sicker inside, making any healing impossible. It also made me not want to do any work on the house at all. It felt like being forced to shine the shoes of some assface who kept kicking me in the cunt. I am a shitty housekeeper, but it's much easier here, and I'm learning, and the house doesn't piss me off which makes things about nine times less ball-bustingly painful.
I'm not always doing so hot these days, I am still crazy as a shithouse rat, but this house is not part of that, and I can't say how grateful I am about that. I really can't.