Just a post, just an ordinary post

I don’t like the snow. It is cold and wet and makes driving difficult. It soaks into the ankles of my jeans and travels up my calf then I step on my pants when I get my shoes off and my socks get wet. Snow makes things slippery and dangerous. Snow makes it impossible for my mom, or anyone in construction who isn’t already rich, to work.

That being said, people need to quit bitching about it–it’s fucking winter and it’s fucking Ohio. It’s going to snow. It’s going to be as miserable this year as it was last year and next year will also suck. As far as weather goes, this state is terrible. There are about two weeks for spring and two for fall and the rest of the time here is extreme.

But snow is also pretty when it glitters. And trees are gorgeous trapped in ice, I just feel bad for them when I see them like that.

Last night I thought I was dying. Not like, I have a runny nose, I’m dying, but like I actually feared for my existence. When Andy asked me if I wanted him to take me to the hospital I almost said yes. I’ve never considered that before. After being asleep for a few hours, stabbing in my tummy woke me up. The pain in my lower abdomen was so severe I was convinced that I was already sitting in a pool of blood because it seemed like there was no other option–my body was evacuating its internal organs, rejecting my ovaries, hatching wasp larvae, something awful. I reached down–only sweating, everywhere, badly, but I was so cold. I flipped over a few times, curled in a ball, wept, bared down on the blankets and pillows; I even found myself praying.

It was way more than PMS and I didn‘t feel like I had to poop at all. Everything ran through my mind: kidney stone, food poisoning, appendix bursting, miscarriage (no, I’m not pregnant, but I was delirious from pain), an ulcer, spider bite, possession, alien abduction. I thought I should probably go into the bathroom so that when my body burst into a trillion little pieces, cleanup would be easier, but I couldn’t move. But the pain fucking could.

I felt it roll from the center of my tummy to my side then back and lower. That’s when I was convinced I was about to give birth to the Antichrist.

After about an hour and a half of me crying and Andy probably worrying himself into an ulcer, it subsided and I said I was going back to sleep and passed out.

So I woke up this morning with a dull ache that’s been going away and I realize now it was probably just a gas bubble. Just a bubble of freaking gas. Pretty much nothing at all. Can you imagine if I’d gone to the hospital?

That would have been one fucking expensive fart.

But the point of this is, when I’m in pain, I go to my happy place. It’s a beach, warm, and I lay naked on the sand and listen to the waves crash a few feet away. The sun is out. There are palm trees. And that is the opposite of Ohio weather.

Now that I think of it, though, the fear of going to the hospital is what really drives one, or me at least, to wait it out because I don’t have health insurance. Maybe my insides aren’t filling up with toxins, ya know? Not going to risk the bill either way. But this all might change. I mean, well, ugh, not sure, BUT I’ve applied to five OSU jobs, the last of which was a position actually editing. According to the website, “Your application has been forwarded to the hiring department to be considered for this position.” They all say this now, they’ve all reached this stage, but they didn’t all start out there. It’s not the default position to be “Referred.” I think I might pee.

I did eventually poop.

Why do I have all these cassettes?

Today was busy and I hardly left my room.  I’ve filled three garbage bags with junk and have more to go.  Disappointment: clean Andy’s apartment, find upwards of $200.  Clean my room, find $2.37.  Balls.  But I went to Kroger today with my mom and she bought me a glass liquid measuring cup, and I am overflowing with happiness over that.

As of now, two bookshelves are sitting in the living room, ready to be stuffed into my tiny car in the morning and taken to Columbus.  I might bring the nightstand too–if it will fit.  I figure I can move things in little bits to make this all a lot easier.  Oh, I’m moving to Columbus and in with Andy–forgot to say.

This girl is crying on Bridezillas.  Ya know what?  She does look like a stupid marshmallow, but she should really be crying because she’s a terrible person.

This is a big deal isn’t it?  I’m moving in with a boy!  Also, I’m moving out.  That’s two big deals!  To be honest, I haven’t thought about either one as a big thing.  Of course, they are, but they feel natural.  First of all, I’m 22 and a half–it’s time to GTFO.  It was time four years ago.  This year (as in 2010) was the year it HAD to happen anyway (for my sanity), so moving out doesn’t feel that “Omigosh!” anyway.  Plus, while shopping at Kroger, Mom still shops like I’m living here fulltime even though I spend more time in Columbus, so it’s anticlimactic on that front.  But her support has been shocking.  Big props to Helen.  Woot woot!

The bigger deal is that I’m moving in with Andy.  With a boy!  I very much love him.  He is the things that I am not, and that makes me feel really complete.  He appreciates the things about me that I value the most and always hoped someone would care about.  He can get me to laugh at my saddest.  He’s carefree and yet recognizes what’s important in life.  Not to mention his gorgeous eyes.  Oh, golly.

There’s this comfort of sleeping next to someone, even when they squish you, that I don’t think you can get anywhere else.  Especially when that someone groggily rolls over and pulls you against them in their sleep and mumbles something about love into your hair.  You might wake up with a cramp or two, but it really doesn’t matter.

I’m not saying every day is going to be perfect.  I’m not expecting it to be easy, but I am expecting it to be fun.  And, though not easy, I don’t think it’s going to necessarily be difficult.  At least, we’re not going to make it difficult.  Neither of us have lived with a significant other before, we don’t have lots of mistakes to have learned from, but we’re also not jaded.  And I’m excited.  So excited

When is there gonna be a Friends reunion?

For real because, ya know, I invested a lot into those people and, truthfully, I love them. They’re MY friends. And I don’t see why this time apart has to mean anything. It’s not like there haven’t been lulls before. Their lives were changing so much and mine was staying the same–they were the constant. Now mine is changing and they’re staying the same–I need them to be my constant. There is little I can do about the show’s inexistence, Must-See TV has altered its lineup numerous times since the late 90s, but I feel like we’re all really still the same.

All I really know is even at my worst, I’m best with you.

To My Favorite Couple

And so began, three years ago today, the world’s greatest love affair.

I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you

Dear Everyone,

Some of you I have directed here, others I know will end up here on their own, and others will hear or have heard some of this stuff already. Basically, I’m apologizing in advance for wasting your time, if that’s what this turns out to be. It’s just that this post boils down to an email I probably need to send and personalize to a lot of different people, but I’m just sharing with all of you at once. Because I’m sweet like that…right?

First, I want to say thank you. Because you’ve been very nice to me and you’ve done everything I’ve ever asked of you without complaint. You’ve also done more than I’ve asked of you just because you’re amazing. The simple fact is, sometimes I think I’m the only person who actually exists in the world because I have all of the best people in my life, so no one else could possibly exist. Does that make sense?

So here’s the thing: I’m not going to grad school. Not now. School will always be there. That phrase usually translates to “Okay, so she’s never going” in peoples’ heads. That’s fine–I don’t need anyone to believe me or accept the things that I want as the legitimate path for me to take in life. I got really excited about the idea of grad school and there are things about it that still intrigue me, but where will it lead? I think that, in two or three years, I would just end up in the same place I am after these four years of school–with no real-life experience. Yes, I would be living on my own, but I would still spend days on end in the ivory tower, blind to the world. Do you know how I figured this out? Miami asked for an essay that essentially asked, “Why do you want to go to grad school?”

I could not write it. I’ve spewed loads of bullshit at people my whole life through the written word, but this…I couldn’t betray myself like that.

I also need to say this: I’m sorry. There are a lot of things that I have not done that I’ve said I will do. I’ve taken a very long time to respond to a shit-ton of people lately, but my life’s been turned upside down. I spent a very long time hiding things from the people that I love the most and have only in the past few years really let them know the truth. Still, people who have played major roles in my life, coworkers, bosses, acquaintance/friends, have never known real things about me. I’ve hidden that stuff well, I think, and given as much of myself to them all as I could. It has recently really caught up with me.

So now, with the least amount of responsibility in my life that I’ve EVER had, a big thing has been dropped into my lap; I finally contacted my biological father. If you’ve read my blog, I’ve mentioned this slightly recently. I also haven’t blogged that much since I got a response. You see, it would have been easy to share with the “world” everything if things had gone poorly or if I didn’t know I had a whole new audience that I was afraid of offending, but, as it turns out, there’s this whole, big, great family of people out there who are reading and they actually care. It’s the weirdest thing ever. I mean, I know people care–my best friends are the most caring people I’ve ever met, so obviously I know what love is–but this just shocked me.

But besides shocking me, it made me shut down. I’ve been preparing my entire life for this moment, subconsciously at the least, for the worst possible thing. For this man I’ve never met to tell me I still mean nothing to him and never will. Or for him to be dead. Or just something awful. For no response at all. But none of that happened. It’s been. It’s been good. His family has contacted me. They’re so sweet. And I’m so conflicted about it all.

And of course this has caused new problems with my mom. I love her. She loves me. We love each other too much. We’re the kind of people who Lifetime writes shitty dramas about. Only we don’t have any sappy writer to make everything right in the end or any fade-to-black screen and “20 years later” subtitle to fast forward to when everything turns out to be all right. We just have now and real life. And it’s really hard. I just realized the other day that if she ever read a single word that I’ve published online for anyone at all to read that she would be appalled. And I’m really ashamed about that. I don’t think I’m necessarily wrong, but it just feels bad.

So maybe now I need to say what I’m going to do: I’m going to get a job. I’m going to move out. I’m going to go to school for social work. I’m going to listen everyday for my calling. Because it’s selfish of me to go to school for something that only I want that may never help anyone else. And here’s the thing:

I watch a lot of movies–you all know this. Movies about everything. I love them. But I always get the same feeling after them–even after the insane, that-made-no-sense movie. There is almost always a regular dude in every movie and that dude is never happy with his regular life. Do you know why he’s not happy? Because he’s not letting himself be. He’s bored, he wants something more, he’s letting stupid shit get him down. Inevitably something happens and he gets his happy or he dies never getting it or whatever, but when I’m done watching and can pop out the DVD and put that imaginary regular dude back into the case where he fake exists, I always get this same feeling: I want that. I want that regular stuff. I could do good with that regular stuff. I could do amazing, big awesomeness with that regular stuff.

Because these people living regular lives could do so much awesome stuff: they could give to charity, they could donate their extra time, they could care so much more about the people around them. They could fucking smile.

So I’m going to.

I’m sorry. I love you. Thank you,

Ashley

P.S. And I’m really going to try to get back to you real soon. I promise

I get so weak

I’m sitting in Andy’s beanbag chair in my underwear. He’s asleep in his bed. Yes, it is weird he’s sleeping at night when this is when he’s normally awake, but you may as well save your dirty comments: the truth is much dirtier than you can come up with

I’m only awake because I went to finish up my online tutoring a few hours ago and it was a disaster–the thing wouldn’t load and support isn’t there at this hour and there was only the ONE paper in the cache and I effed it up, of course. That’s a tiny thing though. Practically nothing compared to everything else that’s gone on lately. I’ve gone from feeling elated about things to utterly distraught. Hopeful to hopeless. Excited to worn out. It’s no one’s fault, just a hodgepodge of everything.

I write this blog, it revolves around me, but I don’t like to be the center, really. Sure, I am a Leo, I’ve done a couple musicals, my friends let me talk incessantly about my problems, but I think I, for the most part, marginalize things. This isn’t a complaint, just a personal observation. Maybe I’m totally wrong. But I think I’ve been taught to.

My decisions affect others way too much. Egotistical? Probably, but this has only proven itself to be true. I like this, though because, do you know what it means? I matter. I’m important to somebody. To somebodies. They love me. And I hope no one ever thinks I don’t cherish the love they so graciously give me.

Nonetheless, love can be very demanding, right Gerard? (Right, he’s whine.) And so very soon–VERY SOON–I will be moving out.

I don’t know how Andy has sixteen times the neighbors I do and yet it’s so quiet here compared to New Lex.

But what I do know is I’m very content right now.

I love you all. More than I have words for.

Goodnight.

limitless undying love

I made no resolution this year.  I am quite happy about this now that I realize it.  This means I cannot fail at anything; I can just exist and let life happen to me.  Not inactively exist, but exist in the now.  More than a quarter of my life may be over, but all that means is that there are three more quarters left.

I’m listening to “Blackbird.”  It’s one of my favorite Beatles songs.  I think I’m supposed to like “Paperback Writer” the most on principle–I do love it too.  Of course, I am most fond of Evan Rachel Wood singing “Blackbird” with her sad, beautiful voice.  (I need high ceilings too.  Did you know she’s on and off with Marilyn Manson?  It’s true.  True blood.)

I’ve probably said this a billion times before, but if you haven’t seen Across The Universe, you should.  Even if you don’t like The Beatles.  Actually, especially if you don’t like The Beatles because you probably don’t like them without actually knowing their music and you’ll be able to realize just how gorgeous and transcendent this music is when it’s not attached to them.

Paul McCartney wrote “Blackbird” about the American Civil Rights Movement.  I didn’t know this for a long time.  To me, the song was always about gaining freedom but was never attached to a very specific act.  It’s always interesting when someone from the outside comments on a situation.  This white boy from Liverpool.  I don’t know, not when people who have no idea what’s going on with something decide they know what’s best.  I suppose The Beatles weren’t really on the outside though.  In any case, what I mean is, they are seemingly disconnected, but actually connected.  And that makes me feel like I could too be a part of something I am perhaps not.  That we all could.

I wanted to see Precious a while back and I figured that it would be the first movie I would ever go to the theater and go see alone because I assumed no one else would want to see it.  But everyone did.  (Except for Molly’s dad who is not a “fan” of abused women.)  I’m incredibly glad I got to sit between Molly and Maggie during it and was not there by myself.

So, I recommend it.  I don’t know if it’s genuinely based on a single true story or a compilation of partially experienced truths (what I’m betting on), but it kind of doesn’t matter because the fact is that those kinds of things happen all the time.  It didn’t exactly shock me.  Not that it wasn’t heart wrenching or moving, but I think it was just done so “real” that there was never really a moment where I went, “Oh my god, I can’t believe that.”  The people behind us asked one another if it were based on a true story in kind of horrified voices, not like how I thought we asked one another.  That was what surprised me: that not everyone realizes that there are really shitty things that happen.  And even way worse things than those happen every day.  In some ways, when I think about it, it’s almost bad for people to see the movie because they’ll still believe those kinds of things are contained solely to the screen whether or not they think it’s based on fact.  But that’s just one of those odd thoughts that sift through my mind and are quickly replaced by camera angles and casting that ultimately make me say, “Hell yes go see it!”

But there was this moment during the film when I’m pretty sure every person in the audience collectively gasped.  I used to be really loud and talkative during movies.  Now I still kind of am, but I try very hard to not be.  I also get annoyed by people who make a whole lot of noises during movies (like the “awwws” and such) so I try to not do this, but sometimes I can’t help myself.  Like when Michael Myers walked up to that little boy in the second Halloween, I could not stop the rather loud “Oh, no!” that came out.  But this collective gasp, it was weird and I don’t think anyone could not do it.

And that’s why I love movies.  Which was not the point of this blog, but it’s what it came to.  I enjoy books, but I like movies more.  I understand that people can be totally immersed in a book–I have been.  How they become major parts of you and how you carry them and live them because you spend so much time with them (days for quick readers, I know, but that it a long time).  But I understand when people say this not because I’ve necessarily felt this way about books, but because I feel this way about movies.  I know you think it’s not possible because you feel that strongly about books and a movie is only a few short hours, but it IS the way I feel about movies.  Sure, there are bad movies, but there are good ones.  Ones that steal away parts of your soul.  Ones with lines delivered in ways that are simply perfect.  Ones that teach you something in an hour and a half that you never ever forget.  And, what they have over books, is that they can be shared.  Everyone in the theater can gasp, all at exactly the same time, and feel that moment of whatever it is and it’s the same.  And that’s magic!

So anyway, “Blackbird,” Precious…my life is fucking good.  2009 was fucking good.

I won’t regret saying this

I’ve decided that I may as well start writing this for real instead of in my head.  This will be my greatest work.  Unfortunately, now it sounds like a bunch of word shit, which is like word vomit only it comes out your ass.

I started it in late, late summer, and this part, the maybe opening, is roughly based on a letter I once wrote Molly in which I actually wrote most of this a lot better.  So I may write the whole thing as a letter in hopes that it stop sucking and start being canon worthy.

Because that’s all that matters, right?

It’s creative non-fiction.  Meaning some of this just isn’t true, but it pretty much is:

“That’s you and me and your mom.”

The explanation was so simple, the joke truer than any of us could know at the time.

I looked down at the figurine that Dale had given my mom.  Then, the move didn’t even seem like it was going to happen even thought it was a week away.  I turned the molded piece of clay over in my hands to admire it from all angles; humanoid bears, a cute couple, stood on a small grassy area pulling a cart loaded up with all of their earth while possessions.  On the back sat a smaller bear, the “me” bear, dangling its feet off and staring back at the road they’d been on.  To my 11-year-old senses, I was annoyed that that little bear looked more like a boy than the girl that I clearly was.  That’s what I remember most–that’s the feeling that wins over the day we left for Ohio.

There had been talk of Vermont, Massachusetts, and even Kansas.  Montpelier, Boston, Topeka.  I had taken to learning the capitals of these places just in case we did end up there–it would be useful knowledge.  But we ended up in Ohio.  Columbus.  But actually we’re out in the middle of nowhere.  Now here I am, 22, without a shred of an idea what to do with my life.  I’ve always been worried what would come next, but there’s always been a barrier between the present me and the next big, scary step.  But now my nose is pressed right up against it and I’ve got to say, the smell’s not too pleasant.

Or that might be the stench of a male cat marking his territory just outside my window before he skitters under the fence, across the concrete slab porch of my child-molesting neighbor, and in through the door of the morbidly obese woman and her mentally handicapped husband two apartments down.  Or they could be brother and sister.  Or mother and son.  Or all there–I don’t really know these people and my assumptions are always negatively biased.

The complex I live in is made up of six buildings with six apartments in each building.  The entire building is the size of your house.  Your downstairs, actually.  And I’m not saying you live in a mansion.  My two aforementioned neighbors and I make up the front of building five  and three other groups of people occupy the spaces behind us.  I only know they are there because an acquaintance asked if there were vacancies and my mother found out from the landlord that there were none.  It was okay though; she and her fiancé were looking for a place with two bedrooms so he’d have somewhere to store his weights.

I’ve never gotten used to being cramped and sometimes the suffocation really gets to me, but after seven years with my mother in a one bedroom the size of your den, I can accept it.

Huzzah?

Yeay for starting to put fingers to keyboard again at least!

And Molly gave me some music for Christmas.  I love it, apparently.

Shut up.

I have a comic that I never update.  I just went today to check on it, so I went to another girl’s comic that I really like.  She had a link there to her boyfriend’s comic.  This is his:

My Life Comics

Then hers:

Ginger Curls

Shut up.  Too cute.  And this is why nerdy people (like me) are the best.

The end.

P.S. I updated another dwindled dawn finally.  Getting back on track.

Justifying Circles

First of all, thank you everyone who invited me on Christmas Eve. Mom pulled through, but you all are more than wonderful. I love you.

So this is Christmas.

This will be my last one like it. No matter what changes I do or don’t make in the next year, I will not be here next Christmas.

Timing is everything, they say. That’s true.

Mom is asleep and I’m neither texting nor talking to anyone right now. This is very rare, and I’m extremely glad that it is because of the feelings that just came over me. Not loneliness, none of that stuff, but just the thought of the impending future made me incredibly somber. How do I know what choices I’m supposed to make? Or do I have to make choices at all? Will other people fold for me for once? What role am I supposed to play in this world?

WHEN AM I GOING TO BE ABLE TO WRITE AGAIN?

What the fuck is wrong with me? Seriously. I want to go into a creative writing program but I haven’t written a worthwhile word in months. Can someone please just take care of me and force me to write for them? Like, seriously, steal my cat and threaten to hurt her if I don’t or something because I am broooooken. I’ve thought all my life, since I was five, right after the farmer/veterinarian phase, that I was going to grow up to be a writer, and yet I don’t read and I can’t string together a satisfactory fictional tale even with nothing else to do. Should I just take classes instead? Workshops only? Can I even afford school? Is it fucking worth it at all? The degree is terminal after all.  Of course it’s worth it.  That was dumb.  I just fear it’s not in me.  I hate to do badly at things.

The thing is, I have my thesis planned. I’m applying for fiction, but my thesis would be largely creative non-fiction because I think that’s what I’m best at, I just don’t feel like I can apply to creative non-fiction when I don’t have any stuff for a portfolio in that nor a very eventful life. Okay, those of you who ACTUALLY know me are probably thinking there are some bits that are a little like a Lifetime movie, but I’m saving it all for the master work. My great American novel. And then I’ll be done. I’ll go on to write erotic fantasy fiction under a different name and A.K. Caggiano will die at the peak of her career, leaving Ashley Keniston to be a dirty whore on the page.

Ugh, whatever. I’ve finally got Helen to back the Master’s program–that’s my problem. She’s okay with it now, so I’m not.

I’m such a rebel. Hardly a saint.

This post should be about Jesus’ birthday. I have sucked at that this year, like a lot of years. It’s now the 26^th. But I am selfish. And I should be incredibly thankful right about now seeing as I’m getting so much of what I want. So much that my heart may just overflow. Thank you.

Compass points. I would like for you to be my compass point.