I'm Still Alive!

HI. SORRY. I kinda dropped off the face of the earth, there, didn't I?

I wish I could say my life has been hectic...Well, it sort of has. Between vacationing at Cape Cod and home and getting ready for school, I've been kind of busy.

In the span of two weeks, Sorella applied, got accepted, and left for college. We're all very excited for her. She left on Friday, just in time to meet Hurricane Irene on the coast. She lost power, but last I heard didn't need to be evacuated.

Hurricane Irene was a bit of a let down. Everyone hyped it up to be so big and horrible, and yet all we got was some heavy rain and wind. I'm actually disappointed. With all the time I spent tying down lawn furniture and getting candles and food in case we lost power and prepping the house...Incredibly disappointed. No loss of power, no flooded basement, minor debris...

I have many large, old trees around my house, most of which have branches that hang right over our bedrooms. Mater and I evacuated to my Aunt's house, just incase a tree should fall and destroy the house. As you can guess, that wasn't the case.

Pater lost power some time around 11 am this morning and has yet to get it back. Otherwise, everything is uneventful.

Last Sunday, a very dear woman became my Goddess mother. It was a wonderful ceremony, full of laughter and tears and vows and I'm so incredibly lucky to have this woman in my life. I'm sure Whimsy will agree with me.

I've gotten very absorbed in Doctor Who lately (yes, Whimsy, feel proud). It's on instant watch on Netflix, so Mater and I have been watching it almost nonstop. We're currently in season 3, with 1913 England and the Doctor having amnesia and prep-school boys and evil scarecrows. I don't know the episode name or number, can't you tell? So far, it's pretty good. Amnesiac Doctor is insanely adorable, I want to cuddle him.

It's still possible for me to hit fifty-two posts by the end of the year. Wish me luck!

Wander safely,
Arc.

Unhealthy

You are my sister. You are my best friend, my partner in crime, my go-to girl for everything.

And now you’re pushing me away. You’re demanding I leave you alone, ditching me for others, after nights and nights of promises. This isn’t some “we’re growing up and growing apart” scenario. We’re twenty years old. 

I know what happened, even though you haven’t told me. And it kills me to know you don’t trust me enough. I know you’re trying to handle it, or so you say; I know you’re ditching therapy whenever you can and not taking your medication. I know that you not telling me isn’t about me; it’s about you and the insanity endlessly circling your mind. But when all I have is the knowledge of you telling everyone but me what the problem is, people Iknow you don’t trust as much as me, what else am I supposed to think?

When your father abused you, you moved in with me. When my mother upset you, or other people made you feel worthless, I made everything okay. We may not share blood, but I’ve always considered you my most important person. You’ve always said that I was yours. Sometimes I wonder if that’s true.

My first tattoo was for you. It embellishes my skin in swirls of black and grey, a permanent stain of how much you meant to me, even though you insisted on getting its mate on your wrist without me. You went with a girl you hardly talk to anymore, yet were furious with me when I considered going without you. I forgave you.

You drove me from my own house, whether or not you meant to. You made me feel uncomfortable asking for time with my mother. You made me feel as if I was constantly wrong, inferior, a mistake, because I was raised with things you never had. I don’t know if I can forgive you.

You canceled an event that meant the world to me, and you knew it. Said you couldn’t handle it. But in reality, you just couldn’t stand the idea of me going without you, when I was the one that put all the work into it, when you put in nothing. I know you’ve endured so much; from your father to school to dyslexia to that night. I know you love me. But when you have a panic attack and say you can’t get over it unless I leave, I can’t forgive you.

It feels as if you hate me. As if I’m a curse, an affliction that needs to be cured. But I know I’m not the broken one. I’m not the one that manipulates their loved ones so I’m the only one in their lives. I’m not the one that flies off the handle over the smallest misinterpretation and attacks others over it for days. I’m not the one that lashes out at the only people who cared enough to take me in.

We took you in because we loved you. We wanted to help you, heal you, give you all the things you’ve been so unfairly denied. But having you in my life does me more harm than it does you good, and that’s not healthy.

You drive me to drink. Did you know that? The last two emotional blow ups have left me suckling bourbon from a bottle as if it were water, and you know I never drink. Yet here I am. 

You are my sister. You are my best friend, my partner in crime, my go-to girl for everything.

And I think it’s time you left.

I Have a Love/Hate Relationship with Dairy

When I was little, I was sort-of lactose intolerant. By sort of, I mean that if I ingested too much dairy in a short period of time, I'd get something akin to a cold. I grew out of it by the time I hit my teens. The same thing happened to my aunt and Fratello (granted, Fratello was allergic to EVERYTHING; milk, eggs, wheat, beans, etc).

Junior year; I had a New Year's party. Just before the party, I had some oreos. But, as always, oreos just aren't as good without milk. So, being a daring individual (because I generally don't drink milk, it tastes funny), I poured myself a glass of milk. It tasted a bit funny, but Mater said it was fine, so I drank it. It turned out to be TWO. WEEKS. EXPIRED. I spent all of New Year's Eve with the porcelain god.

I don't drink milk anymore. Fucking evil cow juice.

Senior year; Sorella and I were left home alone for a weekend. Being unconventional, we decided to get smashed alone instead of with a large group of people.

[Just a note - Rum is NOT your friend. Captain Jack Sparrow is lying.]

Anyways, I drank enough to puke my brains out. Sorella, having a bit more experience with booze, was unaffected. In the middle of the puking, I got a call from my (now) ex-girlfriend. She was pretty straight edge, so I told her that I had eaten expired yogurt. We later fed Mater the same story when I wasn't feeling well when she came home.

I didn't actually eat any yogurt. But I did develop a generalized taste aversion* to yogurt.

Tonight; I had a milk shake from Friendly's. It was a damn yummy milkshake. While I was in the bookstore, it only made my stomach uncomfortable, like I ate too much. The moment I went outside to listen to the Mc'lovins play, I became so incredibly nauseous (Pater later explained that heat speeds up bodily functions). I went home and threw up my milkshake.

Clearly, dairy has something against me. I don't understand why. I really hope I don't get an aversion to milkshakes now.

Wander safely,
Arc.

*Psychology term - Generalized Taste Aversion, discovered by Dr. John Garcia, occurs when someone (or rather, an animal) associates a certain feeling or taste with a food. Because I was thinking of yogurt when I puked up my liquor, the thought of yogurt now makes me nauseous.

Lack of Title is Lacking

I think these last two weeks are the time of death or something.

On the fourth of July, my (almost) 94 year old grandmother died. It's been a long time coming, but it's still really sad. I miss her tons, although I don't think it's really hit me yet that she's gone, and I'm reminded why I dislike Catholic churches. She was a hard core Catholic until the end, so she would probably be pretty happy with the service. Me, on the other hand, my idea of religion is dancing around a maypole.

As said by the post below, one of my kitties, Moustafolees, died of kidney failure.

Now, my other kitty, Riddle (yes, he was named for Tom Riddle. I got him for Christmas when I was in sixth grade), is missing. We've had to keep him outside for the last few weeks because he was peeing in the house, and now he's gone. I really hope he's not dead.

You know, I wonder if he was peeing in the house in protest to dying and Harry Potter winning. You never know. Granted, I'm pretty sure Riddle doesn't even know his name, but hey...*shrug*.

Happier notes! My Goddess Mother ceremony happens next week! One of my favorite women in the world is going to take up vows to be the Goddess Mother of Sorella and I. A Goddess Mother is pretty much the same as a God Mother, but because I follow a religion that recognizes a God and a Goddess, I would have a Goddess Mother and a God Father. However, there is no man I wish to name my God Father right now.

Mater went to Vancouver for a week and a half, and I'm proud to say that Sorella and I didn't burn down the house, need to go to the emergency room, or suffer from malnutrition, all of which were completely possible. When I stop and think about it, the least likely of those three to happen would be burning down the house. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not. Sorella has a sort of love/hate relationship with the emergency room; she doesn't like it there, but she keeps needing to go back. And, as most young adults, we're lazy as all hell about food. We figure things will look more appetizing if we're more hungry, there's no need to put in effort to find food just yet.

But, otherwise, all is well in the land of Arcaine (even if this post is late. And incredibly uninteresting. Whoops).

Wander safely,
Arc.

Magical Mrs. Moustafolees

Thursday was a very sad day.

When I was in fourth grade, someone dropped a box full of kittens in the parking lot where Mater worked. She managed to catch this adorable little calico kitten and brought her home, much to Pater's annoyance. This little kitten grew up to be a beautiful, rather fat, cat. We called her Moustafolees from the play Cats. I know we spelled it wrong, but that's okay; it made it more her name.

She was a great cat. She liked to hang out near us if we were on a couch or bed. Her tummy would dust the ground when she ran. She loved to be petted. If we started petting our other cat, Riddle, she'd watch us expectantly, waiting her turn. We called her Stafa-lump a lot.

At the start of this week, she got lazier than usual. She started laying around the house in unusual places and didn't really acknowledge our presence, when she'd normally look up and demand love and affection. Thursday morning, Mater took her to the vet.

Moustafolees' kidneys were failing. Mater was given the choice of a very expensive surgery that only had a 50% chance of helping her, bringing her home and letting her die slowly on her own, or putting her to sleep.

So Thursday morning, Moustafolees left us. It sounds cruel, but we put her body out with the trash. We didn't do it because we didn't care. We loved her dearly. But our trash gets burned, and we thought it'd be a nice thing to turn her body into energy, so she could always be with us.

Blessed be, Moustafolees. We'll miss you so much. I hope your Summerlands are everything you could ever want.

And we all say

Oh, well, I never! Was there ever

A cat so clever as

Magical Mrs. Moustafolees!

Wander safely,
Arc.

Eating My Soul

Because really, I don't spend enough time on the internet already. Between facebook, web comics, The Arcana Files, fanfiction, and music, I've decided I need a Tumblr, too. A little late to jump on the bandwagon, I know, but really, that thing was bookin'.

I swear, if anyone ever figures out how to use the internet as a way to brainwash the human race into becoming a mindless hoard, we're all screwed. At least, my generation and on.

...Well, that's sort of already happened. But that's besides the point.

If any of you are interested and not yet sick of me, you can find my Tumblr here. It's the same username as tAF, but, in a spark of inspiration (and lack of originality), I titled it "Come On, Skinny Love...", a popular song by Bon Iver. Although, I'm very tempted to rename it "Eating My Soul" instead. It has an interesting ring to it.

In an attempt to make this sorry excuse of a post a little less sorry, I leave you with a piece of my writing I rediscovered while cleaning my room.

And she doesn't want to be

The wind beneath his wings

Or the reason he sings

The fire in his eyes

Or the reason he dies

She just wants to see

All he can be

In the depth of his soul

Like a dark empty bowl

And she wants to be a part of everything

And to hear that silence ring

Out into time and space

Reflected in every beautiful face

That fills the room with light

The one that keeps her awake every night

And she just

Wants him

To love her.

Wander safely,
Arc.

PS. - Cleaning out my room, I found my ex-girlfriend's...

1. Assorted drawings
2. Guitar tabs
3. Philosophy homework
4. Name tag from Youth Sunday
5. Playbill from the last play she was in

...I stopped dating this girl over a year ago. The hell. I'm confused.

Summer, Summer, Summer, Summer!

It's here!

The title is actually a part of a song from Charlotte's Web (a musical version I was in at a church near my house). It was HORRIBLE. We had broadway-grade music for a cast that was mostly minors. Our director kept flipping out because the adults kept missing their notes and the tempo....The song, or at least what I remember, went like this;

"Summer, summer, summer, summer, summer's coming in!

Time for wearing shorts, and sports and getting nothing done!

Summer's meant for fun!"

The only song more evil on toast than this was the County Fair Song and it's reprises. Every piece didn't work alone at all, but together it sounded good. I had to start this one.

"A wonderful day for a fair.

A wonderful day for a fair,

A wonderful day for a fair,

Here are your slops!

[Insert spoken lines I don't remember]

And Mr. Zuckerman's thinking of taking you

In the old pickup truck today and exhibit you there,

Down at the county fair!"

Although, really, this wasn't what I intended to write about today.

I love summer. Not so much the heat, but, as "Summer" put it, the shorts and getting nothing done. Pater and I planted the garden last week, so soon we'll have all sorts of veggies coming in; tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, squash, eggplant...Happy Arc is happy. And redundant.

The sad thing about summer, however, is job hunting. I don't mind the idea of having a job. I actually quite welcome it. But no one is hiring! It's so upsetting. I want to be busy(-ish)! And have monies! I will do manual labor for it!

Even WORSE, I had an interview at Borders. Not that Borders is evil. Quite the opposite. I love bookstores. I live in the one near my house. The problem is that, two weeks after a pretty good interview, I still haven't heard anything :(

I called a week after, and was told the hiring manager was in training. This could mean I'm shit out of luck, or that he was getting trained for something else. They took my info and said they'd get back to me.

They don't.

I call a second time and they tell me it's the weekend and they don't look this stuff up on the weekend; they're too busy. Again, they take my info and say they'll get back to me.

They don't.

I call a THIRD time and they tell me the hiring manager is on VACATION and won't be back until the end of the week. They take my info...You get the idea. And it's getting old.

Any of you lovelies want to hire me? I'll be good, I promise. I'll do (just about) anything for minimum wage!

Tell me about YOUR summer plans and loves :)

Wander safely,
Arc.

The Storm

Here in my lovely little New England state, we've been in the middle of a heat wave. For the last week and a half, every day has been at least 80 degrees. The last two nights, however, we've had storms

Last night, the storm was SCARY. It came out of nowhere; high winds, thunder, and lightning you've only seen in National Geographic pictures. Sorella and her friend were tearing up the walls, they were terrified (until Friend this point of morbid calmness). It got worse when I had to drive over to Pater's house and close the windows. There was a lot of screaming in the car.

Sorella: OH MY GOD WE'RE GOING TO DIE.
Friend: DID YOU SEE THAT LIGHTNING?!
Arc: YOU TWO NEED TO CALM THE HELL DOWN SO I CAN STAY CALM AND NOT DRIVE OFF THE ROAD.
Friend: *Shuts up*
Sorella: *really tiny squeaky voice* Okay!

By the time we reached Pater, Friend had reached her morbid calmness ("If I'm going to die, I'm going to die. It's all cool.") and she and I just stroll up to the house. Sorella is tearing towards the house and yelling at us about "WHY ARE YOU WALKING SO SLOW WE'RE GOING TO DIE!!!".

In the end, we didn't die. We closed the windows at Pater's, went back to Mater's, and Sorella and Friend sat on the front porch and watched the lightning. I found that kind of ironic, considering how panicked she was earlier. I envisioned her hiding under her bed.

The second storm is happening right now, though it's mostly just thunder and rain. When it was just starting, I stood outside and enjoyed the wind.

I remember when Sorella, Fratello, and I were little, and whenever it rained really hard in the summer (or even late spring or early fall), we'd go play in the rain; dancing and laughing and splashing each other with the pools of rain water against the curb.

The rain is slowing now to just a drizzle, but there's this deliciously cool wind blowing in through the windows. I think I might have to go sit on the porch swing and enjoy the change in weather.

Wander safely (and play in the rain every once and a while),
Arc.

Ps. - I finally finished cleaning out my room! It hasn't been this clean since....I don't even know when!...It's a bit intimidating XD

Stories

Since I was really small, I've been doing stories in my head. Now that I'm older, I still do stories in my head  (and sometimes with Sorella). I know it sounds a bit dorky, but it's really rather fun. Lately I've been going back to old stories that I completely ruined by kidnapping the characters and running away from the plot and reworking them.

When I get really excited about a story, I share them with Charna. In my experience, there's very little that can compare to the feeling of telling someone a story you've created and having them actually be interested. Charna sat and listened to me for about two and half hours tonight as I shared what I was working on with rapt attention. Not only did she offer ideas, but she also inspired me to start a whole file of character information, family trees, and general knowledge relating to the world.

As corny as it sounds, the story I'm reworking is a vampire one. No, it has nothing to do with Twilight (and it makes me a bit queasy to know I just mentioned that horrible series in the Arcana Files). If it draws from any already created vampire series, it would be Vampire Knight (almost a little too closely in one particular plot line).

My favorite part of writing a story is making the characters. I love flushing out their personalities and then putting them in situations. In some cases, characters happen organically. For example, in this particular story, there are two women, Cornelia and Marion, and I think they might be closet lesbians. I don't know what happened; because I skipped around throughout the story, I don't even have a scene for them meeting or even interacting much, and yet all of a sudden their relationship is much closer than friends (but not quite lovers). It was weird.

When I make characters, they become very real for me. In the stories I create with Sorella, it's almost as if the characters are very close friends we haven't seen in ages. We go to the mall and look at clothes and say, "Wow, that vest is so Remy" or "Aid would wear that". It's really fantastic, considering we haven't worked with those characters in a good three or four months.

I think what I find most interesting, however, is that I still find this story worth working with even though I have a definite ending planned out. Usually, once I know the end, the story dies for me; I don't see the point of filing in the blanks if I know the final result. Maybe the difference is that I'm not creating, but rather twisting, embellishing. I'm still very in love with this story.

This story almost makes me want to write it all down, but we know where that leads. Maybe once I have all my character files, world comments, and plot outlines created, I might do so. I might even share it with you. You never know. Whimsy might be able to get a NaNoWriMo out of me yet ;)

What kind of stories do YOU make up?

Wander safely,
Arc.

The Final Project

My final project for Parapsychology and the Occult was to write a short story. Now, originally, I didn't hand it in like a bad student, because I had A's across the board and thought I could get away with a B- or so without it. Unfortunately not true; my professor gave me an Incomplete instead. However, he's nice enough to let me hand it in late and change my grade. 

Ironically, I actually really enjoyed writing this, so I'm kind of glad I got the Incomplete. And now I'm sharing it with you lovely individuals. One thing I'd like to point out, though: in the middle, Lucy lists behavioral traits of someone who's been sexual abused. These are completely made up. I have no idea if they're true or not. I just needed something.

Enjoy!

x(X)x

“Have you ever felt uncomfortable around certain people in your family?” Lucinda “Lucy” Marr the I’m-so-high-and-mighty-because-I’m-a-therapist adjusts her glasses. I don’t like her. I knew that from my very first meeting with her three weeks ago. It didn’t make much difference to the Woodward Asylum, though. She was the only therapist here that was “qualified” (whatever that means) to deal with my psychosis since Madison, my last therapist, left. 

“Arielle,” Lucy the I’m-going-to-treat-you-like-a-child-even-though-you’re-twenty-six said with a sigh. “You aren’t going to get anywhere by staying silent.”

“I know,” I said, not looking up from the candy wrappers. I needed them to be smooth. Perfectly, completely smooth. No wrinkles, no lines. Just flat against the glass coffee table, as if they’d never been wrapped around circular butterscotch candies.

Lucy the I-think-peroxide-orange-hair-is-cool shifted in her seat, writing something down in that infuriating pad of paper. One day, I’d get my hands on that and see just exactly what she’s been writing down about me. Probably something about being insolent. “You mentioned an Uncle Harold once. Tell me more about him.”

“Eppie thinks aliens are going to abduct him in his sleep.” I say instead. The wrapper wouldn’t lie flat. I’d need a book or something else equally heavy to make it so, and I wouldn’t get to one until after the session. I couldn’t wait that long. I dig one nail under another instead. The skin under my thumb starts to bleed. I ignore it, just like I ignore Lucy-the-wearer-of-too-much-sickly-sweet-perfume when I’m with her three times a week for an hour.

Lucy the possessor-of-all-the-knowledge-of-the-universe-because-I-went-to-grad-school writes down something else. Might of been about Eppie. “We’re not here to talk about Jacob Eppler, Arielle. We’re here to talk about you.”

“I know,” I grab another candy. Maybe I could get this wrapper smooth. I toss the candy onto the table with the others and set to work on the wrapper.

She doesn’t say anything. Just watches me mess with my wrappers, and occasionally writing something down on that pad. I like to think I’m her most troublesome patient in Woodward Asylum. I know I’m definitely not the most agreeable. I don’t want to be here. My fiancee signed me in, and I can’t sign myself out. Apparently once I’m in, they get to decide when to discharge me. I almost got out once. Almost.

“Do you believe in aliens?” I run my bleeding thumbnail across the wrapper. It works better with a spoon, but the cafeteria workers never let us keep those. I tried once. They wouldn’t give me any utensils to eat with for two weeks after that, even on pasta days.

“I never gave it much thought,” Lucy I-think-blood-red-nails-match-maroon-shirts said. “There’s so much space, who’s to say?”

“Eppie believes there’s a microchip in his head that the aliens use to watch him. Says he has to get it out before Marshall Applewhite’s comes back for him.” He’s terrified of Marshall Applewhite. Sometimes he refuses to drink anything the cafeteria serves because he thinks it’s poisoned and he’ll accidentally become a part of Heaven’s Gate.

“Do you believe that?” Lucy I-really-need-to-learn-how-to-put-makeup-on-without-overdoing-it raised an eyebrow. Today the space between her eyelashes and her eyebrows are bronze and cakey looking. But they’re always cakey-looking.

I shrug. “Eppie does.” I sit back on the couch, giving a lock of hair a good pull. A few strands come out in my hand. Knowing there’s less hair on my head makes me uncomfortable. I clench my jaw and glare that the wrappers. If they’d just comply, I wouldn’t have to feel so uneasy. She writes down something else.

“What else does Jacob tell you?” Lucy the I-believe-in-the-power-of-feng-shui tilts her chair so she can sit sideways. 

I shrug again, staring at the wrinkled wrappers. I don’t see Eppie much. Mostly in the free room. He’s nice, but a bit funny. Taught me how to fake taking my pills. Not that I’d tell Lucy-the-annoying that. I don’t want to take my pills. Sometimes I think Eppie should, though. He’s easier to understand when he does. My reflection stares back at me on the glass table.

“Arielle,” Lucy it’s-really-Lucinda-but-only-my-mother-calls-me-that prompts. I look up. I can see the brown of her roots. “What else does Jacob tell you?”

“The president is an alien.” I say softly. “He put us in the war in Iraq so it’d be easier for them to invade the planet.” Lucy-the-insensitive stifles (badly) a snicker. I don’t care what they say, I know she judges us. We’re in a freakin’ asylum, aren’t we? 

“Do you believe that?” Lucy-who’ll-probably-become-a-crazy-cat-lady asks. My fingers find the hole in the cushion, picking at the foam insides. I pull out chunks slowly. It makes the couch cushion uneven. I shift so I can’t feel it.

“I don’t even know who the president is anymore.” I tell her. I don’t. I don’t care to know, either. They don’t like to let us watch the news channels here. Probably because of people like Eppie. He’d find something new to freak out about.

“You’re using Jacob as a shield.” Lucy-the-obvious comments. I hadn’t noticed. No, really, I had no idea. I roll my eyes. She must be sick of aliens and Eppie. That sucks, because Eppie’s session is after mine. “Uncle Harold. Tell me about him.”

I scoot forward on the couch again. Grabbing the wrappers, I start wrapping pieces of the foam couch insert in them. They’re bumpy, unlike the candies, and it bothers me. But I can’t put the candies back in them, they’re covered in germs. “He’s my uncle.”

Lucy I’d-make-a-better-secretary-than-a-therapist scribbles something else. “Do you like him?”

I untwist a wrapper and add more foam. It needs to be round, and it’s not. I bite the inside of my cheek so hard it bleeds. Uncle Harold is the most crass person I know. He’s loud, perverted, and likes his drink a little too much. “No. He’s crude.”

Lucy the I’m-getting-annoyed-by-your-short-answers nods several times. I don’t like how interested she looks right now. I don’t like her, but that’s not the point. “Has he always made you uncomfortable?”

I pull more foam from the cushion. Lucy I’m-not-paid-enough-for-this-job gives me a chastising look, but doesn’t comment. For once. “I guess. After we moved to Arizona, I didn’t see him very much.”

“Were you ever alone with him for long periods of time?” Lucy I-think-I’m-two-sizes-smaller-than-I-really-am writes something down furiously. I doubt whatever she’s writing is legible at that speed.

“A couple times,” I nod. “He used to babysit me before Nate was born.” 

Lucy I’d-love-to-have-children-but-I’d-traumatize-them-and-I’d-probably-never-land-a-husband-anyways takes a swig from her bottled water. She has a new one every time I see her. I know because none of them have that horrible pink lipstick on them until the middle of our sessions. I wonder if she knows it’s just tap water.

“Did Uncle Harold ever...touch you? In a way that you didn’t like?” Lucy I-belong-in-an-asylum-as-a-patient-not-a-therapist says carefully.

My eyes widen. “Are...Are you asking if he molested me?” I don’t like that suggestion. My heart rate spikes and I can feel my palms grow sweaty. She leans forward in her chair, resting her elbows on her knees.

“Deep breaths, Arielle,” Lucy-the-insufferable says. She just doesn’t want to deal with the paperwork if I have a panic attack in her office.

“Why would you say that?! Just because I don’t like him?” My voice is hysterical now. I can’t believe her. “Why?! Do I seem that dirty to you?!”

“No, Arielle, that’s not what I meant at all,” Lucy I-want-to-punt-her-face-across-the-room takes my hand in hers. I pull it out of her grasp immediately. After an accusation like that she has no right to be touching me. Or talking to me. Or existing.

“You exhibit some behavioral qualities of women who’ve been molested or raped when they were younger. Panic attacks. Uncomfortable around new people, especially men. Dislike of touching.” Lucy maybe-I’ll-burn-her-alive-instead continues. “Arielle, it’s very possible you were and repressed the memory of the event.”

I stare at her. Could I have been? I don’t like Uncle Harold, but could he really be that vile? “How..How do you know? If I had?”

“Tonight, after lights out, I want you to imagine you’re little again, the same age you were when Uncle Harold used to babysit you. Imagine him coming in and getting into bed with you. Touching you. It might make repressed memories surface.” Lucy-the-tart says, trying to keep a comforting tone, but really, there’s no way to say what she just did in a comforting way. “It’s very possible you created a screen memory to hide those events.”

I stare at the wrappers. They’re not flat. I need them to be smooth. I lean forward and run my thumb over it, pressing it into the glass. “Okay.” I say softly. Could he...? I bite my lip to stop the thought, pressing my thumb almost painfully against the wrapper.

Lucy-the-most-insulting-person-in-the-world sits back in her chair. “We’re almost out of time, Arielle. Remember your homework assignment and tell me about it next week.”

I nod, still smoothing out the wrappers. The foam is mixed in among the candies, vile, unnecessary. They’re both yellow like Uncle Harold’s hair. Vile like him.

x(X)x

Leave me a thought. What did you think?

Wander safely,

Arc.

CHICKENPOX?!

As many of you recall, I'm nineteen years old, and like most kids, I had the chickenpox when I was little. I didn't have a raging case like Sorella and unlike Fratello, the freak of nature, I didn't have it twice.

Until now.

I came home from Collegeland and within six hours, I didn't feel good. I had this pain behind my ears that we deduced to be swollen lymph nodes, and I starting having a vicious cough. My energy was sapped. I have really bad sinus to begin with; I have to take medication from October to May or I get sick about every six weeks (I'm allergic to dust and animal dander). So, going from an open, relatively dust free college dorm to a closed up, dust infested home of two cats isn't the best idea.

When I woke up on Monday with a swollen eye, Mater sent me to a walk in clinic. The diagnosis? CHICKENPOX.

Or, more accurately, Shingles (the adult version).

.....WHAT.

I have no idea how I contracted it. According to the clinic, you don't need a sick kid. When you're little and get the chickenpox, you assume you're safe from every having it again, and so your parents don't get you the vaccine. Bad idea.

The chickenpox virus is like a sleeper solider; it stays in your system even after you're cured. Then, it waits for your immune system to be weak, and it attacks. This explains how Fratello had it twice.

As far as sicknesses go, it's really not that bad. I'm not sapped for energy and I can breathe through my nose. The sucky part is the swollen eye, the intense pain in my eye muscles, and the headache. It trumps all headaches I've ever had. I'm ridiculously sensitive to noise. Example: Pater keeps the TV volume anywhere from 35-50. For me, anything about 12 is too loud. It sucks ass. Worse than that, if I move too fast or cough, it feels like my brain is trying to explode out of my skull.

Oh, and the most entertaining part? Chickenpox and cold sores are variations of the Herpes virus. In order to get better, I'm on Herpes medication. They're freaking HORSE PILLS.

Wander safely (and don't get the pox!),
Arc.

I am a Pack Rat

Packing for college is hard. Packing to come home is harder. Over the last year, I amassed so much stuff in my dorm room. Extra clothes, trinkets, text books, papers. It was ridiculous.

Upon returning home, I started to wonder how I was going to fit it all in my room again. Over the winter break, my room shrunk to about a forth of its size from my college boxes alone because I was switching campuses. At the moment, most of those boxes are in the garage. However, something possessed me to think it was a good idea to clean out my room.

BAD. IDEA.

I HAVE SO MUCH STUFF.

I have a fairly large room. I've been aware it was getting close to bursting. But right now? I've only cleaned out my closet and my dresser, and that turned into eight bags of clothes for Salvation Army and about five bags of trash. I had stuff from my elementary school field day. Clothes from middle school. And I haven't even TOUCHED my desk.

Look at that disaster, and imagine all the stuff in the drawers.

I've dug such a grave for myself. Maybe one of you can throw Arc a rope? Pretty please?

Wander safely (and don't be a pack rat!),
Arc.

Winding Down

In just nine days, I will officially be a college sophomore.

How weird is that to think about? I'm almost done with my first year of college! I mean, I have to haul ass because I've got so much to do between now and then, but that's not the point. This year went by so incredibly fast, particularly this semester.

Between now and then, though, I have to:

- Read four chapters for Parapsychology
- Write a short story for Parapsychology
- Read six chapters for Propaganda
- Finish a take home midterm for Juvenile Delinquency
- Finish an Italian composition

And then there's all those finals themselves...Oh, the hole I've dug for myself. And we all know how well Arc does with procrastination (as proven by this post, which is taken the place of school work, and eating, seeing as the food here just doesn't appeal and I've only got nine dollars left on my meal card).

Then there's friends, and a boy, and Beltane is this weekend...I'm so screwed.

Wander safely (and say a prayer for me, I'll need it XD),
Arc.

I'm the Green Fairy

This is a story piece written especially for you all, based loosely on real events. Enjoy!

x(X)x

It was actually pretty stupid, if you cared to stop and think about it. You’ve known the boy for all of three hours, when Orchid decided he was your ride to a meeting you were already late for and honestly didn’t want to attend. Three hours of sitting next to each other, making stupid faces and wishing the “we-don’t-want-to-attend-but-Orchid-has-this-way-of-twisting-you-into-doing-anything” meeting would go faster. 

He had this way of catching your eye every time you glanced up to make it look like you were paying attention, and god did he have a nice smile. It lit up his whole face and it was just so sweet looking. And you’d smile back, then scrunch your nose and purse your lips to show your disdain for budget approval when you couldn’t actually vote on anything because you weren’t an official club yet, and you didn’t think his smile could get any bigger as he stifles a laugh. You’re suddenly incredibly glad you aren’t prone to blushing.

And here you are, three hours later, sitting in his dorm room and sharing a bottle of absinthe, the green liquid swirling in real glasses you made a special trip to his house for, because “you can’t drink absinthe from a plastic cup; it’s disrespectful to the liquor!”. And you know you shouldn’t be this stupid. He seems nice, sure, but so did Ted Bundy (not that you think he’s a serial murder, but a girl can never be too careful).

He has this habit of rambling, but at least he rambles about something intelligent, or at least funny. Like the time he and his friend agreed they weren’t going to get smashed, yet end up needing several people to retrieve cars just to get home, because god only knows where he ended up (he certainly didn’t). 

He teases that you drink too slowly, and you tell him he drinks too fast, already pouring himself his second class of absinthe. You toss him the partially frozen bottle by your feet and he mixes the two liquids together. He’s surprisingly coherent for starting his second glass of 140 proof liquor. More coherent than you would be, but he’s got two years and at least 30 pounds on you, so that’s to be expected. Absently, you wonder how on earth you’re going to write your paper (or exactly what you’ll end up writing) if half a glass of now more-blue-than-green liquid leaves you this light headed. The room already swirls if you move your head to quickly.

You hear your phone ring from your bag. Dad lights up on the screen, the little picture flashing with the music. “Oh, hell,” you mutter.

“Think you can pull off sober?” He asks, laughing softly.

You return the grin. “We’re about to find out,” you say before accepting the call.

He pulls out his laptop while you talk to your father, fingers only slightly clumsy on the keys as he searches for “the most beautiful music video I’ve every seen, you have to watch it”. The video leaves tingles down your spine, but you’re not sure if it’s the music or the alcohol. 

He’s sitting next to you now, instead of at the other end of his bed. You can’t help but notice how his arm rests on your knee so he can reach the mouse (you don’t understand how he can hate the trackpad). The previous uneasiness returns, but you can’t help but feel a little giddy; it’s been a long time since someone was interested in you, much less a guy. He keeps it casual, though. No bubbles invaded, just an arm resting on your knee and his shoulder against yours (but that’s more your doing than his. 140 proof liquor makes it hard to balance). 

And so it goes. Music video after music video, balance slowly getting worse as you get closer and closer to the end of your glass. But it’s okay, because he sways just as much as you do. At some point, you decide it’s high time you start that paper (it’s due in three days anyways). Despite your inebriated gyroscope, you mange to give him a hug (though by the way he titled his head as you got closer, you think he might have been expecting a kiss), and despite your overly-intoxicated fingers and blurring-if-it-moves-too-fast vision, you type your number and spell your name in his phone without too much trouble. You make an off handed joke about hoping you make it upstairs without cracking your head open, and he calls you a lightweight. You call him an alcoholic. 

You only almost fall down the stairs once and don’t fumble with your keys for too long before you’re in your room. You’ve had a horrible case of the munchies since the night before, but honestly, the idea of six flights of stairs, one of them spiral, just to get food doesn’t seem like a particularly feasible act right now. Instead, you steal a soy pudding cup (though it tastes just the same) from your suite-mate’s fridge, and laugh at yourself when you realize you really aren’t stealing anything; you bought the damn cups and they let you keep it in their fridge. 

Pudding is apparently a good way to sober up. You keep that in mind for the next time someone offers you a sober-coffee. Although if you’re more thoroughly smashed, a sober-up pudding might make things worse.

Later, when you figure you’re more hungover than drunk because of the massive headache you’re sporting, you can’t help but find it a little pathetic that you’ve gotten drunk and sober on a Friday before 9 pm. You smile, though, as you think about the last thing he said.

“We should make this a regular thing.”

x(X)x

Wander safely (and I mean safely. The above story really wasn't all that safe),

Arc.

Zombie Jesus Hates Me

I haven't been healthy on Easter for the last six years. It doesn't matter if the date changes; for instance, Easter was supposably late this year, but I'm always sick on that specific day.

The day usually starts out normal. I wake up, we bum around with coffee and chocolate bunnies (I detest peeps and jelly beans), we start the mad rush to make it to the hosting family members house, and then I get sick. It's usually something like a head cold. You know, dopey, stuffy, tired, that sort of thing. I end up crashing on a couch or bed for most of the get together.

This year was no exception. The only difference was that my illness started ahead of time. I've had a wicked cough for the last several days. I survived most of Easter dinner, though. Only when dessert rolled around did I start to fall apart.

THEN I got to come back to school and start doing all the reading I've been ignoring because I had a final today. Go, Arc, go!

I've just come to the conclusion that Jesus hates me. When he rises from the dead, he steals some of my life energy, leaving me drained and sick and making all the Christians happy. Who cares if he messes with Arc's Easter? She's just a heathen Pagan.

And for the record, Jesus was Jewish. Just because no one seems to remember that.

Hope you had a nice Easter, everyone! No, I will NOT use that horrible "hoppy" pun. It's awful.

Wander safely,
Arc.

P.S. I learned why the Easter bunny lays eggs! I'll tell anyone who's interested :)

I'm the Weirdest Person You'll Ever Meet When It Comes To Food.

Look, look! A post! Now I'm not behind, because this week isn't over! WIN!

You know that basic set of foods that pretty much everyone loves? I don't. I've almost always been that 0.01% that experiences weird side effects when it comes to medicine, too. After you read this, you'll probably think I'm slightly touched in the head, but I'm okay with that.

1. Peanut butter

I. HATE. Peanut butter. I don't have much against the flavor, it's only so-so, but I can't stand the consistency. It's gooey and sawdust-like and contrary to popular belief, it doesn't go well with jelly. If I'm unfortunate enough to digest peanut butter, I'm like a dog; I sit there for ages gagging and trying to get it off my teeth.

2. Toast

I just don't like my bread crunchy. I never have. I don't even like the crust on pizza. It's loud, it's crumbly, and it's got almost no flavor in general. It does not appeal in any sense, unless (and this is a recent development) it has provolone cheese and avocado on it. Then it's good. But the bread is more heated up than toasted.

3. Milk

Seriously, it comes from something akin to a cow's breast. Why would you ingest that? It's unappetizing, it smells funny, and it leaves this film on your tongue and throat. And I had rotten milk two New Year's ago and spent the night puking instead of watching the ball drop. That might have something to do with it.

4. Yogurt

Now, this one is my own fault. I never really had a problem with yogurt. Until I got really drunk one night and told my mother I was puking because the yogurt was expired. I just think about yogurt now and I get queasy. Generalized taste aversion + the power of suggestion = no more yogurt for Arcaine.

5. Bananas

They taste funny, the turn brown really easily, and the texture is weird. End of discussion.

6. Eggs

Just...Ew. This was almost a chicken, guys! How can you eat it? Aren't you afraid you'll crack it open and find a dead baby chick inside? Not even a little? They taste like rubber, too. One of my friends calls eggs "aborted chicken fetuses", which isn't exactly true because it was never fertilized, but it really does reinforce my ideas that eggs are BAD.

Odd foods I do like.

1. Cauliflower

Best veggie EVER. Throw on some olive oil, salt, and pepper, roast it up, and I will eat it for DAYS. So yummy. It also has that allure of pretending to be a dinosaur eating trees.

2. Eggplant

It doesn't really have much of a flavor, but the consistency is nice and it works well with other things. Like curry, or eggplant parmesan. I honestly consider it better than chicken parm.

3. Cucumbers and Barbecue Sauce

Don't knock it until you try it! It's actually pretty good. The cucumbers are cold and fresh, the barbecue sauce is spicy...Seriously, go try it. Right now. I command it. While you're at it, try cucumbers and cream cheese. Less weird, but just as yummy. Also, it's impossible to spell "cucumber" without giggling like a 10 year-old boy. Or maybe I'm just a pervert.

4. Apples dipped in Ramen Seasoning

Specifically, the chicken kind. Just...Yum. No words can describe, not because it's that amazing, it's just...odd, but in a good way. Chicken and apples. Two of my favorite things.

5. Tortilla Chips in Nutella


To be exact, "Hint of Lime" tortilla chips. Don't look at me like that. It was good!

I could never be a food critic, no matter how much I love food. There's just too many I don't like. Then again, food critics eat things like fish eyes and venison, and I don't eat anything more than chicken and on occasion, turkey when it comes to meat.

Did I mention I don't like pork either?

Wander safely,
Arc.

It's a Really Good Excuse, I Swear!

It is! It really is!

I know I've been painfully absent to my imaginary figment readers, but I didn't mean to! I went home for the weekend from the 7th-10th because my grandmother isn't doing well, and, upon returning to school, I discovered what nightmares are made of.

I left my computer charger at home.

Do you understand how horrible that is? I was suffering from withdrawal, people! It sucked so hard! I mean, this doesn't excuse why I had no post for the week before this (it got started but never finished), which means I owe two more posts after this, but hey - One's already started! Whoo!

There are only a few pieces of technology I really need. The computer and the iPod. Now, I've been grounded off the computer when I was younger, and those were dark times. But honestly, being without the iPod is worse. Much worse. I've gone through a total of four iPods, and every time I suffer some sort of withdrawal. I get irritated and I start constantly humming things, moving my body to the beat. It's actually pretty amusing if you think about it.

But, as you probably guessed, the computer charger arrived at school on Thursday, and so here I am! And with more things to follow!

...Please don't hate me :(

Wander safely,
Arc.

Girl Genes - I'm Missing Them

Not girl jeans, I have plenty of those. I'm wearing some right now, actually. However, there's an assortment of things people with XX chromosomes can do, and for some reason, I'm lacking them.

I can't really walk in high heels. I sort of can, if they're not stilettos, but I teeter side to side something vicious. I also take really big steps, so it doesn't look very lady-like.

Speaking of shoes, I've only got five pairs; two pairs of converse, vans, flip-flops, and snow boots. That's all I need. I could go out and buy more, or I could get a new books. Shoes, or books? I'm thinking books.

I can't hook my bra behind my back.

I'm kinda bad at makeup. I can do eyeliner pretty well, but the majority of my makeup skills involve putting it on someone else, and that's only when it's stage makeup.

My handwriting is horrendous.

I'm definitely a guy when it comes to getting up. I pull myself out of bed fifteen minutes before I need to leave, put on clothes, pull my hair back, and run out the door.There was a point (sophomore year) where I would get up an hour before I needed to leave, shower, pick out clothes, do my hair, makeup (raccoon eyes ftw!), etc....And then I realized I could sleep for another forty-five minutes instead. No brainer, there. Besides, it leaves a much bigger impression when I actually take the time to doll myself up.

I wear the same pair of jeans for a week before washing them. I just do. It's easier that way (and I've only got three pairs of jeans, anyways).

All my laundry gets done at once, when I'm out of underwear. Yeah, I could separate it into darks and colors and whites, but that takes too much time. This might be a college kid thing, though.

My friend did my eyebrows for me for the first time the other day, and I'm never doing it again. It hurts. For the most part, they're thinner, and definitely not worth the half hour of pain and sitting still.

The one really girly thing I do is my nails. I like having my nails done, but by done, I mean painted myself. I could get three burritos for the same price as getting my nails done at a salon. Salon nails, or burritos? I'm leaning towards burritos.

Same goes for my hair. I get my hair cut maybe twice a year, and that's only because I can't remember when the last time I got it cut was. I dye my hair a lot, but that's out of a box. Getting your hair done professionally is expensive.

Sometimes I think I ought to put more effort into being a woman. I'd like to be pretty and pull of those feminine things, but I dunno. It's just hard. I have no idea how people do it. I think I need a refresher course in "Girl Lessons".

Wander safely,
Arc.

Glitter is the Herpes of the Arts and Crafts World

Wow, this is getting out late. Many apologies to...Well, let's be real, here, I've got no readers. In that case, we'll apologize to Whimsy, seeing as BOW'11 is her challenge and all. To make it worse, I've got no real post planned for everyone. Shame on Arc, I know.

The last week has been terribly uninteresting. Lots of running around through spring break, seeing people, getting covered in glitter that WON'T. GO. AWAY., and getting sick. But mostly glitter. Have I mentioned  how much glitter has infected my living spaces? The car, my bedroom, my dorm room, the bathroom....A friend once told me,

"Glitter is the herpes of the Arts and Crafts' world; it spreads like crazy and it's impossible to get rid of."

Holy hell was she right.

By the way, Arc being sick is a lot like Arc with a broken brain, albeit much slower. I've had several conversations where my train of thought interrupted itself with something seemingly completely unrelated and for a long time I had no sense of what day it is. For instance, on Wednesday morning I was convinced it was Tuesday. By that evening, my mind was telling me it was Friday. I've also had a lot of trouble keeping the truth straight. For example;

Arc: I've been living off Triscuits lately. They're like the bane of my diet.

Friend: That's not so bad. Triscuts are good.

Arc: Yeah, they are yummy.....I lied. I'm not living off Triscuits. They're really Wheat Thins.

Friend: ...How could you lie to me like that?

I've also discovered my college friends are mother hens. They keep dragging me to the cafeteria and won't let me leave until I've purchased what they consider a "decent meal", when all Arc wants to eat are strawberry pops (which, of course, she's eaten the cafeteria out of). They also shove really nasty cold medicine down my throat. 

It's safe to say I've missed a LOT of class this week. One on Monday and all my classes on Wednesday and Thursday. I have a total of eight classes a week and I've only made it to THREE. 

THREE OF EIGHT CLASSES. 

3/8. 

...It's just occurred to me how sad that is. 

I actually woke up on Thursday morning and sat in bed for a good twenty minutes trying to decide if class was worth it. I'm not sure who was a worse influence; Nyquil, or a friend I knew who was skipping. Either way, I ended up going back to bed.

The only really productive thing I've done this week that's worth sharing is finishing Unwind by Neal Shusterman. If you haven't read it, GO READ IT. But be warned; the book is fairly dark. There are sections that will leave you feeling terribly unclean. But the world, the story, and the characters are so real. Seriously, I highly recommend it.

I'll be honest, I was more focused in making sure I had a post than making sure it was a good one. Better luck next week.

Wander safely,

Arc.