Ugly

It feels weird knowing that you're all you have.

I always used to think that there were people in my life that I could go to with things, that I could tell anything to...but the more I think about it the more I realize that even if they wanted to I'd never let them.

I'm afraid that if I tell you things you'll hold it against me.
I can't let you see through me, because then you'll know how ugly I am inside...
and you won't be able to see the good that's underneath.


I hate this.

Angsty Teenage Poetry

I was digging through my poetry when I found this, which was written when I was seventeen or so.

Dying Inside

I walked into the sea
deep enough to drown my scars
started floating to the surface
face up looking at the stars
the darkness surrounding
my body and my soul
physical manifestation of
the feeling of that seemed
to burn into my core
senses fail meas I'm sailing
with my body as my vessel tonight
what was once a cold wound
is painful again as the feeling surrounds me
the feeling of dying inside.




It's almost scary for me to re-read. I just can't believe there was a time in my life when I felt this way. I'm so glad I've grown up, and out of that feeling.

PPD

Everytime I do a show, I always say "This is the last show I'm doing", not because I hate theatre or that I really never want to do it again, but at a certain point in the run of a show I remember that I'm going to be sad when the show is over. I'm not one of those people that likes to dwell on the melancholy, but it just always seems to creep up on me, usually at the second to last show. Things were much the same for Project Murder last night, when I delivered one of my funnier lines and had to keep from choking up. After tonight, I will never say those lines again in front of an audience. I will never be drunk, loyal, overbearing, sassy, in love with shrimp balls Lucy Fitzsimmons ever again.

And that makes me sad, because she is amazing...and as conceited as this will make me sound, I feel amazing when I let myself fully be her.

I was talking with my dear friend Andrew last night when the topic of my self image came up.
"I have assloads of self esteem," I remarked, quite eloquently if I do say so myself.
He looked at me, laughed and said "No. No you don't."

I thought about it for a few moments and realized that, sonofabitch, he was right. I'm not sure how I got this way or why. When given time to think about it I can think of at least five good things about myself....and yet, the only time I feel totally comfortable with myself is when I just so happen to be someone else.

A slutty red dress, a wedding cake hat, an obnoxious pink coat: they are enablers. They let me be onstage who I want to be in real life.

The characters I've played thus far have been amazing, strong women.
There is nothing fake about Lucy Fitzsimmons. She tells it like it is.
There is no uncertainty in Irma Kronkite's life. She's not gonna be a slave her whole life and she'll wear whatever hat she wants.
There is no lonliness for Raquel. She wants a man, she gets him. Why? Because she's a maneater and she would NEVER apologize for it.

What about me though?
Sometimes I lie to make people feel better. Sometimes I lie to myself about how I feel, because I just don't want to be sad. Anger is fine...it's how I was raised. But sadness? Crying? Not allowed.

Who am I? Where am I going? Why was I even put on this earth? I have no idea, and when I think about it, it scares me. It really, really scares me. What if I never contribute to society, to the world? Then I was born for nothing.

Does he like me? Probably not. Why would he? I mean, I'm loud and obnoxious, I talk without thinking, I'm stubborn. I'm emotionally confused and probably damaged. Who could look past things like that? Who would bother taking the time to see that I'm worth the trouble?


As much as it runs me into the ground, and makes me yammer on like this...as much as I'll never make much money doing it, I'm just not sure if I could ever stop doing theatre because I'm not much on my own, but give me a character that has potential and I can be ten feet tall...or at least feel that way.

The New Pornographer

Now's the time to send the kids out of the room.
That's right...today, Meg ventures into the world of erotic literature.
Enjoy. I know I did.



The silence was maddening, yet the buzzing in my ears drowned it all out. It was all coming so fast...his body pressed against mine and his hands holding my ownbehind my back. I felt so soft, helpless in his hands. He was much stronger than I, andwould not let me forget it.
"Enjoy this" I thought "It may not happen again"
I wanted to say something, but nothing escaped my lips but a moan. Oh...where did he learn that? And that? My hands were freed from his grip, and his began to roam my body. With every inch of skin he explored I shivered deep inside, wondering what was in store for me. Where was this going? Shouldn't I be able to guess?
I felt like I was dealing with an expert and suddenly my passion began to almost fizzle. I felt inadequate. Inexperienced. Virginal.
My pants slid down my legs, nearly taking my panties with them. He finished the job slowly, deliberately. Was this something he got off on...was he a panty man, or did he just like seeing them off? I wanted to ask, but nothing happened except for a full body blush which I tried my best to conceal. He smiled at me sweetly, reached up and pulled my shirt over my head in one swoop.
Of all days to not wear a bra. Way to go me.
A long labored breath escaped his lips. Apparently, I had done well. I giggled."Please don't" he said "It's cute. Cute is distracting". I bit my lip, trying my best not to laugh. He was concentrating, and who was I to distract him from the very important task at hand?
Another sigh from him before he continued running his hands across my goosebumps. He teased my inner thigh, just long enough to frustrate us both before moving onto fleshier endeavors. He leaned forward to rest his head on my stomach, his hands finding their way to my bum and his fingers kneading the ample flesh slowly and softly.
I ran my fingers through his thick hair, tousling it, fixing it, tousling it again. It seemed to stay that way, messy. I liked that about him. He was always mussing his hair but he never bothered to fix it. I guess that was my job. I was lost in thoughts of his hair when he stood up slowly, leaving a trail of quick, tiny kisses leading from my bellybutton to my neck...and scratches up my back. Best of both worlds, he is.
"Did that hurt?" he asked, absentmindedly.
"It did"
He kissed my lips in apology, but said nothing. Before I knew what was what, he lifted me up and gently laid me down. And then...the moment of truth. Every movement triggered a chemical reaction, a lightning strike of electrical current running through my veins. I tried to formulate a plan, I tried to say something, I tried to think but all I could do was be there, so gladly under him. So helpless with his hands once again pinning mine down, this time over my head. So stirred by his ragged breathing in my ear, the way my name sounded as it tumbled from his lips at just the right moment. All that came out of my mouth was breathless, voiceless, incoherent.
After what seemed like forever and two seconds at the same time, it came. My release was just that. Every fear, every disappointment, every pain, every man who was ever less than I deserved ceased to be. It all melted away in that moment, leaving me drained. My legs shaking, my body spent, my heart lightened.

Small

Something happened to me today that I can't explain.

It's not like I've never been told to shut up before, but it has been a long time since someone hurled these words at me so forcefully.

"Shut the hell up" he growled, forcefully. My friend, spitting these words at me with contempt and something close to rage.

Something you should know about me before I continue:
I have tried long and hard to build myself up, to change into who I am from who I was. When I was younger I spent a good bit of time being bullied emotionally and physically, both at school and at home. Being told to shut up was something that was a regular thing for me...and it was maddening because I was almost always just trying to help, just trying to get my ideas out of my mind and into the world. I was always just trying to be heard, which is one of the few things about me that has not changed.

I am not a hard ass by any means (well, maybe just a little) but there are some things that I just cannot allow people to get away with. The aforementioned outburst is one of those things. I'm not ten years old, I'm not weak, and I'm not afraid of anyone...so if you're treating me with anything other than the respect that I feel I have earned, we have a problem.

When he told me to shut up, my first reaction was not anger. It was...I can't explain it. I just felt so small. So weak. So...ten years ago. Rather than jump across the room and beat the crap out of said friend, I squeaked out "You're being aggressive and making me uncomfortable. Unless you're going to apologize to me and mean it, you need to leave my home now."

He apologized, but I'm not sure if he meant it. I'm not sure if he understood the impact his words had on me. I'm not sure if anyone ever will.

I just know that I can't shake that feeling.

New Beginning

I told myself:

"Self,
You should never start a serious blog. and by serious I mean one that isn't on Myspace, Xanga or Livejournal. Also, please...never confuse blogging with writing."

But seeing as how I never listen to anyone, I started this thing. Hopefully, no one will be bitterly disappointed in the writings that I post here.

But if you are...
suck it.