Don't be so quick to walk away
Well, things still suck.
However, I am almost completely done wrapping myself in a cocoon of depression and sour outlooks and have just come to accept my mom's ca...I still can't really say it. I've accepted it mainly because I have to, so don't think it's by choice.
All the crying and carrying on I've been subjecting my family to in the past weeks probably has my mom thinking Seriously, wtf? Shall we just put YOU in the coffin, Sandra? Even my dogs are starting to leave the room and they're the most laid back of everyone. Anyway, my sister's threatened to 86 me from her house, I've become such a dour presence, so with the flow I go and all that.
Then there's the fact I feel bad that a bunch of new people recently added me thinking they've invested in high entertainment only to find themselves reading a damn dirge about my mother. Sorry for that, peoples.
Most importantly of all, she wants me writing again. She's somehow convinced herself I've got a few bestsellers trapped within me and if I don't "exercise", I'll become "weak in da brehns". Of course, I know she'll just want to use my fame to meet Julio Iglesias, but eh.
And so. Humorous times are here again. I will write a real update on Monday or Tuesday where by popular demand I shall present to you all a...oh, will she?! happy day!...Stripper Story. For now, I want to reserve this pseudo-update for thanking you all for the outpouring of sobbery in my original entry about this. And the emails. And the private messages. And the lovely postcard Carole-Lynn sent me that basically read "Just a little smile in your mailbox!"
(We are now at 2-0 in your favor, her_a_cane, and you have effectively shamed me. And since Pineapple seems to have thrown your address away in the last Spring Cleaning of Epic Proportions, I'll be sending you an email after I finish this writing to fetch it again. You are a goddess of the earth, my friend. Much love to you. <3)
One last thing. wiggitywackchix shall be no more once I accept I am completely computer illiterate and figure out how to delete communities. Oh, what could have been. :(
In retrospect, I should've known I could never maintain a snarkish community AND write funny bits in this journal you won't mock AND write other stuff for other people, but who listens to the Inner Voice? Probably a lot of people, but I never said I had any sense.
It just became too much and now it's become impossible. Especially now that it's a struggle to write even this forlorn little piece, nevermind actively searching fucked-up LJs to shred alive in a scathing review. Anyway, what can really be said that hasn't already been said? A fucked-up LJ is a fucked-up LJ and there comes a point where you're just recycling what you wrote before about another fucked-up LJ.
So I'll just sum it up:
You're not a dragon, you're not a fairy. You don't have "familiars", you have yowling pets who share your bowl of cereal at the breakfast table. Your depression is redundant and your obese frame is typical of a selfish mind--want, want, want. And your fanfic blows.
As they say in biology circles: UNTIL NEXT TIME...ADIOS, AMOEBAS!
However, I am almost completely done wrapping myself in a cocoon of depression and sour outlooks and have just come to accept my mom's ca...I still can't really say it. I've accepted it mainly because I have to, so don't think it's by choice.
All the crying and carrying on I've been subjecting my family to in the past weeks probably has my mom thinking Seriously, wtf? Shall we just put YOU in the coffin, Sandra? Even my dogs are starting to leave the room and they're the most laid back of everyone. Anyway, my sister's threatened to 86 me from her house, I've become such a dour presence, so with the flow I go and all that.
Then there's the fact I feel bad that a bunch of new people recently added me thinking they've invested in high entertainment only to find themselves reading a damn dirge about my mother. Sorry for that, peoples.
Most importantly of all, she wants me writing again. She's somehow convinced herself I've got a few bestsellers trapped within me and if I don't "exercise", I'll become "weak in da brehns". Of course, I know she'll just want to use my fame to meet Julio Iglesias, but eh.
And so. Humorous times are here again. I will write a real update on Monday or Tuesday where by popular demand I shall present to you all a...oh, will she?! happy day!...Stripper Story. For now, I want to reserve this pseudo-update for thanking you all for the outpouring of sobbery in my original entry about this. And the emails. And the private messages. And the lovely postcard Carole-Lynn sent me that basically read "Just a little smile in your mailbox!"
(We are now at 2-0 in your favor, her_a_cane, and you have effectively shamed me. And since Pineapple seems to have thrown your address away in the last Spring Cleaning of Epic Proportions, I'll be sending you an email after I finish this writing to fetch it again. You are a goddess of the earth, my friend. Much love to you. <3)
One last thing. wiggitywackchix shall be no more once I accept I am completely computer illiterate and figure out how to delete communities. Oh, what could have been. :(
In retrospect, I should've known I could never maintain a snarkish community AND write funny bits in this journal you won't mock AND write other stuff for other people, but who listens to the Inner Voice? Probably a lot of people, but I never said I had any sense.
It just became too much and now it's become impossible. Especially now that it's a struggle to write even this forlorn little piece, nevermind actively searching fucked-up LJs to shred alive in a scathing review. Anyway, what can really be said that hasn't already been said? A fucked-up LJ is a fucked-up LJ and there comes a point where you're just recycling what you wrote before about another fucked-up LJ.
So I'll just sum it up:
You're not a dragon, you're not a fairy. You don't have "familiars", you have yowling pets who share your bowl of cereal at the breakfast table. Your depression is redundant and your obese frame is typical of a selfish mind--want, want, want. And your fanfic blows.
As they say in biology circles: UNTIL NEXT TIME...ADIOS, AMOEBAS!