Wierd raw humanity

FELICITY

One of my closest friends in high school was Felicity. Her name simultaneously reminded me of the show “Felicity,” and the “American Girls” doll by the same name. She was a few years older than me. I was 15/16 during our closest friendship, she was 18/19. Felicity had a 2-year-old son named Zane. I loved Zane, and I don’t like kids. Zane liked to sit in his high chair and fling cheerios onto the floor from a little baggie. He would giggle with such glee, though, that you couldn’t help but think it was adorable.

Felicity had it rough. Her parents were cold and unsupportive. They rejected her to the point that she cut them out of her life completely, because she felt it was healthier. The guy who got her pregnant was a new-ish boyfriend, named Justin, who she thought was prince charming. Unfortunately it turned out he was a petty thug and drug addict—but she didn’t find this out until after she was pregnant. Felicity had to cut him out, too. Not that he cared—he was relieved to be rid of her and Zane (even before Zane had a name). She was so alone; I felt so connected to her…my loyalty was fierce. I would fight with anyone for her.

Felicity’s financial situation was little better than her social one. When I met her she lived in a bedroom of a rental house, off Brooklyn Street (just past the Ave, for my Seattlites). She had been a college student—fine arts major—before becoming pregnant. She tried to make it work, but soon had to drop out. Felicity and Zane stayed in the bedroom she had rented as a college sophomore for awhile…but soon she could not afford it—and her housemates hated the baby.

A few (maybe 3 to 6) months after I got close with Felicity, she felt forced to move. She moved into a studio over a head shop just off Broadway. She didn’t like it—it was noisy and open much later than she would like, plus the neighbors were sketchy—but it was what she could afford that was on the bus line to her job as a waitress at a late night diner (The Hurricane, again for my Seattlites). It wasn’t where she wanted Zane, but she didn’t feel like she had much choice.

As I said, I loved Felicity fiercely. And I found Zane delightful. I did what I could to help her by babysitting when I could—sometimes overnight. It is also true that, as much as she was my closest friend (and she truly was—do not doubt it), I was her closest friend in the world. There is an extent to which I was her only friend. So I spent a lot of time at her place socializing with her as well. Her place was cramped, but I spent a lot of time there. It was vaguely annoying that the only place with ANY privacy was the bathroom, but I can’t say that I didn’t enjoy co-sleeping with Felicity and Zane. It felt so warm and safe. So simple, elegant, and uncomplicated. The blissfully ignorant sleep of a toddler. The exhausted sleep of a hard-working single mom. It is, in an odd way, music to the ears of an insomniac. Sound sleepers seem to help me sleep by osmosis…or something. Fuck if I know.

Suffice it to say, it was inconvenient—but I loved it. We shared dinners of Tuna Helper (which I had never experienced before), and a really big night for us was a dozen doughnuts, 2 quarts of milk, and a movie rental. Accusations were made that she was my girlfriend, and not just my friend. Honestly—I cannot say that I know. She was perfect. Our relationship was easy. The most complicated part of our relationship was that she could not afford a phone. What with the monopolies of phone companies, they are able to charge unreasonable fees. There are other ways to get in touch with people, she could use the phone at work, and there is a legal mandate she be provided an outgoing emergency line without fee. As such, it did not make sense for her to waste grocery money on a phone. Sure it made things harder sometimes, but I wouldn’t hold that against her.

How could I hold it against her? It was her defining feature. It was the single most important thing about Felicity. My best friend for several years. The most important thing to know about my best friend Felicity is that she couldn’t afford a telephone.

The fact of the matter is, though, Felicity’s name did not remind me of the show. The show didn’t come out until a couple years later. That is apparently an artifact of my recollection.  Also?  Zane was a guy I went to school with (that my parents didn’t know). I am pretty sure I got Felicity’s name from the doll. The crux of the story: Felicity wasn’t real. She was an absolute fabrication.

Most of my stories about Zane were retooling of stories my mother told me about myself as a child. I suspect that is why she loved them so much. Why she didn’t question. Why she was too charmed to doubt. Many of my stories about Felicity—particularly the crucial ones—were patterned off things my mother told me about her experiences as a single mother. I guess I left her with the option of questioning her own choices, or leaving my “friend” alone.

To this day, I have never asked. I don’t know if they really believed…or if they just gave up. What I do know is that there were so many family conversations about her. So many with my parents—explaining why I was out all night—and just as many with my sisters—explaining why I was gone so much. Even weirder? My grandmother, aunts, uncles, and cousins all knew about her too. She was the topic of conversation. Her choices the topic of debate over pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving. I do not know if they ever doubted her existence. The only questions I was leveled were: Is she your girlfriend? Are you gay? Does she think she is your girlfriend even if you don’t? What does she want from you? Is she taking advantage of you?

What I was doing during all of those days, all of those nights…a topic for another time. But I cannot help but feel some guilt: My family always asked if Felicity was taking advantage of me, but clearly it was I who was taking the advantage.

More than that, I feel sadness. My closest friend for 2 years was a figment of my imagination. I could tell you what she looked like, what she sounded like, how she acted, what her experiences were…The things we agreed on, the times we had fights…I wasn’t psychotic. I just knew that a lie had to be real. No one believes unless you make it so real they cannot ignore it. And at 15/16, I didn’t get what was creepy about creating such an elaborate lie. And I didn’t see how much of me the lie consumed. There were other things that consumed me, but there is an extent to which Felicity took energy I could not direct towards real life. Moreover, Felicity allowed me the freedom to devote my time to things I did not want anyone to know I was doing—hardly the recipe for lasting relationships.

Perhaps oddest of all (perhaps), Felicity was initially constructed to protect one person from my association. Eventually she extended far beyond him, but all of the best parts of her were drawn from him. I told my family about him through her. And he was a great influence on me. He has made me a better person…but I made his life worse. And I can never change that. And for that I am sorry.

Wow. What a downer. I do not know what this story means. Or if it means anything. Or if it was worth telling. But it strikes me as fascinating that I created a person from thin air. It was a mantra of mine around that time that, “Parents believe what they want to believe.” The thing is, it wasn’t just them. I created this person that many other people asked about for years. I do not know if I am impressed or disgusted.

Mostly…I think I just wish I could meet her. For real. Felicity…if you are out there, and you read this…I miss you.

Damnit, I am gonna do it. (Oh, and: BE AFRAID!)

So, who the hell fucking knows where this (blog) is going--if anywhere. (And likely it isn't. Let's be honest.) But, I like writing, so let's do this shysa! Besides, it is all in good fun. And who the mother-truck doesn't like fun?!

Anycow, I promised NOLA pictures, and this is just a sneak-peak. (SO MUCH SHYTE TO GET UP HERE!) The following picture, well...I have commentary, but I don't think I can possibly "introduce" it. There is no damn preparation. I sure as shit didn't get any.

Sitting in a bar in NOLA with Chaseycakes, our first night there, after 14 hours of travel...and we stumble upon a "drinking festival" of sorts. Some sort of international group that gathers to get piss drunk and they all have steins and necklaces (and some of them have vests). It was kind of like a "biker gang" for heavy drinkers that don't like to drive.

Anycow. Among them was a gent (so to speak), with long hair and wizard-ey looking robes, that (as it turned out) had tattoos of...ummm...note? So, without further ado...

The Rape-iest Tattoo EVER.

The orange blur in the lower right hand corner is Minkey. He is an Anxiety Monkey. You will hear more about him soon. He works hard for the money. So you better treat him right.

AND. (For the record.) He did not touch that tattoo. No one did. At least not in my camp. I think it is some weird rapey voodoo curse thing. If you see it, I would recommend not touching it. (Minkey sure as shit wasn't gonna "touch it.")

Another "gent" we met was named "Lamb." That is what his necklace and the lanyard on his stein said. This is him, attempting to lick Minkey.

OH NO YOU GOT DAMNED DON'T!!!

Suffice it to say, although Lamb was perfectly pleasant--fun, even--I was not going to allow him to lick my Anxiety Monkey. He could lick himself. His nose, if he was so inclined--which apparently he was...

That's right, back the tongue away from the Minkey...

Lamb was actually pretty pleasant. Funny, enjoyable...not the sort of person you tell what hotel you are staying in, but perfectly lovely. I am sure he would have loved to make time with Chaseycakes--that was obviously not happening--but his real goal seemed to be the leftover food on our plates. Amusingly, this particular festival/crawl's participants seem to spend their nights on  random resident's floors and feed themselves by scrounging fries and abandoned food. Good for them, I suppose.

As Lamb explained it, by avoiding paying for room or board, it allows the patrons of the festival/group to travel almost constantly and work rarely. As it happens, I never eat as much food as a restaurant gives me, and I rarely take food back to hotels when I am traveling--so they got half a dinner. Good for them. Wish I could do it--but that lifestyle just isn't for me.

So, more to come. No more rape-ey tattoos, though. Though definitely some possible whores (with all respect, just listing a profession--not a judgement), and some certain (or nearly) whore-houses. It may have come to pass that Minkey and I swung around the stripper-pole at a whore-house. Maybe.

I guess you will have to wait and see.

Itty-bitty-titty-committee

Hello imaginary friends! That title is kind of irrelevant. Which means it mostly to completely is. I love that saying, though. It is just terribly satisfying to say. I have a tiny notebook computer named the itty-bitty-computer-committee (aka, babybot). Which is as bad a name as the title of this post--but almost as relevant. All of this to say: Short Story Time! I want to come up with an alliteration that uses "anecdote," but it didn't really work. All I came up with was Abbreviated Anecdotes Anon (which sounds like there won't be any drinking) or Abbreviated Anecdote Hour (which really only works when spoken). So! In the absence of a real post (due to ongoing chaos), random short stories!

I had totally forgotten about this movie. As I recall, it wasn't fantastic--but it definitely had it's moments. Source

• I was gonna tell you that the reason the title phrase just amuses me but doesn't offend me was that I was never teased about having small boobs. But that would be a lie. I was just never teased using that phrase. I was the first girl in my school to get boobs (at around 11-12), and as a result was constantly teased about how flat chested I was. While at the same time the boys kept trying to touch the boobs they said didn't exist. People are confusing. Particularly middle-schoolers. They are also assholes. Particularly middle-schoolers.



This comes up on the first page of images if you google "middle school assholes." I think middle schoolers are evil, but hippos rock my socks. So I went with this. Source

•  When I was about 5 or 6, I got in trouble for some damn thing (it was always something) and my parents sent me to my room. I tried to argue with them, to no avail. I felt this was a terrible injustice. I brooded and stewed in my room, until finally I stormed out to the living room to give them a piece of my mind. I apparently delivered some wee tirade about my rights, only the conclusion of which I recall. I summed up my point by saying something to the effect of, "You can't just treat me like that! I have rights! I am a human bean, you know!" My precociousness was no match for the hilarity of calling myself a "human bean," and so of course my parents burst out laughing. Not realizing my error, this only enraged me further. My efforts to have them brought up on charges in The Hague were unsuccessful.



This is NOT what I MEANT! Source

• The only time I have been to Honolulu (it was just overnight, on my way back from Samoa) I had a very hung-over breakfast drinking a li hing mui margarita listening to the two prostitutes at the table next to me talk about the guy that got thrown out of a 5th story window that morning at the hotel where one of them was turning a trick that morning. Her nipple kept popping out of her shirt, and all I could think was that I would be really pissed if I was a prostitute and had to work the morning shift. I can't imagine it helps with tips.

This really was the sexiest (and most photogenic) part of the story. Source

• I ran a 5k Saturday morning, but then basically spent the rest of the weekend getting smashed on vodkarade and watching/hanging out at a bike polo tournament. I have to say, bike polo is kind of the balls.

Hopefully I will get around to finishing the post about the pimp I was drinking with later this week. But, seriously, who the fuck knows!? (Damnit. I need and interrobang. Where is an interrobang when you need one!?)

P.S. Speaking of interrobangs...THIS just makes me laugh too hard. I have done my fair share of "walks of shame," but I think having specific clothing for that really takes the fun out of it. I never really saw the "shame" in it, either. But I suppose if you make it a regular enough occurance that you need a special wardrobe...that is probably outside my area of expertise.

Naked Scarlett Johansson in a bathtub full of bourbon

"He is more awesome that a bathtub filled with bourbon and Scarlett Johansson." I am pretty sure that was the sentence that did it. I was trying to explain how awesome Jsun is, and that was the first good metaphor that popped into my mind. Because bathtubs are the best place in the world, bourbon is the sweet southern nectar of the gods, and Scarlett Johansson is achingly beautiful (but also seems like the sort of person you'd like to get a beer and shoot the shit with...or sit in a bathtub full of bourbon with while you both drink manhattans and tell stories about the most embarrassing place/time you ever farted/dropped the f-bomb...you know, whatever).


A bathtub, sans bourbon and Scarlett Johansson source

(Though, and this just adds to my amusement, in my mind I thought I had written "a bathtub filled with bourbon and a naked Scarlett Johansson." I later tried to explain this to Jsun, so he would know just how much of a BAMF I find him to be, and he said the nudity was implied by the bathtub. I don't know about you but I have had clothes on in the tub--not to mention having been naked just about everywhere else--so I am not as confident that bathtub implies naked. It could just be that he spends more time inferring people are naked than me, I don't know. And this has gotten wildly off topic.)

Bourbon, sans bathtub and naked Scarlett Johansson source

Anycow, I was looking at my blog analytics a day or two later and discovered that someone had found my blog by googling "Scarlett Johansson naked." It just freaking made my day. Then Jsun had to actually google it to see where my blog came up, but after 4 pages he got bored. But I am going to assume google analytics wasn't lying. It just makes me wonder how many pages of results they combed through before finding my blog. They must have really wanted to see Scarlett Johansson naked. Though, I can't say that I blame them. I suspect my blog was a disappointment. (I didn't even SAY naked Scarlett Johansson. Before.) And now with this post, I will likely disappoint more people. So I should probably just stop...but it amuses me too much so I won't. But I also won't show you Scarlett Johansson naked. I respect her too much for that.

Scarlett Johansson, sans bathtub, bourbon, and naked source

P.S. Though using a popular search or celebrity is a pretty common SEO tactic, I totally wasn't going to do it until I read about it from my Aunt Becky--and while she may not have invented it, it is always more fun to give credit to people who tickle your imagination than to be a leper's dildo and pretend you live in a vacuum and never get inspiration from anywhere. But really what made me do it? I read that post and later that day found the search for naked Scarlett Johansson that found my blog. So, really? Not even my fault. It was fate. Or coincidence. Or whatever you want to call it. But it isn't my fault. And I call it Science.

P.P.S. What is the point of all of this? A) it is entertaining as shit how people find your blog sometimes, and B) I am tired because I am moving and packing and house repairing, but wanted to post something. I have some story ideas percolating, though.

P.P.P.S. C) A point? Really? From me? I think you are confused. I just say stuff.

Naked Insecurity. Well, at Least It's Naked...Everybody Likes Naked. Everybody.

This post is about revealing a list of my secrets as a blogger, and was inspired by Lauren from Filing Jointly...finally and is an attempt to address #B1 (or B#1? #1B? Or should it be HL#1? Whatever...I think I am stalling...hey, did I ever tell you about the time I broke my foot playing frisbee?)

Okay. I am going to do an easy list first, and then try and work up to a list of more challenging secrets. Deep breath. Here we go...

First the super easy list:

1. Methodique Boisson is not my real name. She is a persona (both in the virtual world and the real world) that I adopt to express a part of myself that cannot be associated with my professional life. (Though I would add the caveat that this is really me—the me I am with friends and family and even complete strangers—just not a me that I can have a google-able record of floating around for professional adversaries to have. I feel slightly embarrassed about the use of a pseudonym, because I am a pretty open person—but pragmatism dictates I pretend to be more inhibited than I am. But I suppose that is more affecting a level of inhibition that is more stringent than I am comfortable with, rather than pretending. Hmmmm. This wasn’t as easy as I thought.)

2. Redacted. In it's place I will confess this: I ruin stuff all the time. It isn't "intentional," exactly, but in hind sight it sure looks like I did it on purpose. I am not sure if this is the clarity of hindsight, denial about my culpability, or a combination of the two.

3. I am simultaneously convinced that I am “too much” and “not enough.” I am too loud, too smart, too needy, too distant, too independent, too intense, too emotional, too vibrant, too complicated, and too strange. (Holy shit the word “too” looks dumb after you use it that many times.) I am not smart enough, pretty enough, thin enough, strong enough, fun enough, kind enough, friendly enough, a good enough daughter, a good enough friend, a good enough employee, a good enough professional, or a good enough partner. And the fact of the matter is, I have a lot of objective data to dispute all of that. But sometimes, I believe it anyway. I used to believe them all at once (as amazing and contradictory as that is—the brain can pull off some amazing contortions), and I have gotten to the place where that only happens once in a very great while. But they are sneaky, these thoughts, and they have split up so as to better infiltrate my defenses. They pop up just one or a few at a time now. But I am calling that progress.

4. I have really horrible nightmares. Some of them are just scary in the normal sort of way. Some of them are really gruesome. Really. The other night I spent the entire night sinking in and out of sleep, and every time I fell asleep I was in the middle of being stabbed and tortured. Sometimes I just have to watch the gruesome stuff happen to others. My brain has come up with some bizarre terrible things. How terrible you ask? Meat hook roller coaster. That is all I have to say about that. As a result, I do not like horror movies or really gory films (unless it is intentionally campy—then I sort of like those). I see enough of that crap in my nightmares. Plus, I think I am afraid of making it worse. I have had these nightmares in some form or another since I was a kid. When I was in high school, I had dreams about any person I was dating killing me. Fortunately, those have stopped. Other than me, (nearly) everyone in these dreams is a stranger now. I have started writing some of them down with the notion of trying to flesh them out into short stories or a horror novel. Maybe putting that shit on paper will get it out of my brain.

5. Related to #4 (as well as some stuff from my past), I suspect, I hate going to bed. When I was a baby, I apparently slept 8-12 hours a night and napped as well. When I was a kid I was a serious insomniac, I remember not sleeping at night as far back as about 5 or 6. Sometimes I just couldn’t sleep, the rest of the nights it was really difficult. In my teens, 4 hours of sleep was a good night. This came in handy in college, as a 20 hour day was old news to me.

Then, in my mid-20’s, I got really sick. I actually got a couple of kinds of really sick at once. As in, aside from doctor’s visits I didn’t get out of bed for 3 months (except to use the bathroom) or leave the house for 6 months. As in, my family started taking pictures of me in my sleep because they thought I might be dying. As in, doctors sent me to the ER several times a week, and no one knew what was wrong for months but everyone agreed it was serious. It sucked. I slept 20+ hours a day and was in constant pain. Even my dreams were about how tired I was and how much pain I was in. Dreaming of being gruelingly exhausted is one of the cruelest experiences I have had. Eventually I got better. I had to sleep more for a long time, but I learned to respect my body better. I slept better. Then I went to grad school, and apparently forgot every last damn thing I had learned about my body. I worked as many as 12-16 hours in a day and then read/studied at night. Sleep has been a problem again ever since. I can’t fall asleep. I can’t stay asleep. A few years ago I went 2 ½ months without sleeping more than 2 hours in a night, and most nights I got no sleep. I was hallucinating and had trouble functioning. I was barely able to scrape by at work.*

So all of this background is to say, between the nightmares and the insomnia, laying down to go to sleep is a daunting task. As a result it is difficult to get me to go to bed. (This in turn likely contributes to why I so enjoy sex that is anywhere but bed.) There is an extent to which the more tired I am, the more I need to go to bed, the harder it is to get me to go. Any number of friends and relatives can attest to this. It is not conscious avoidance, though. In the moment it just feels like I am having too much fun or I am too busy to be bothered with sleep. I just keep going…and then I collapse. I wake up on the sofa sometimes because I refuse to go to bed, but then just pass out.

I think it is getting better, though. I have a great DRP (pronounced “derp,” and standing for domestic romantic partner**), and he actually holds me all night long. That all but eliminates the nightmares, and the few I have are milder and I don’t feel scared when I wake up. It is also a really great time when we talk and connect, so I love going to bed with him. It is far from resolved, though. I am still working. Writing about it has given me some new ideas…so, I guess, thank you.

Well fuck. That was supposed to be the easy list. That was not easy. And I had a hard list and everything! How about this: Because that wasn’t easy, I’ll only post the hard list, but not explain. Deal? Deal. (Is this emotional exhibitionism? Is emotional exhibitionism a thing? I think I just like to really tackle a challenge if I am going to take it.)

The hard list:
1. I really want to be a writer and want people to read this blog, but also am embarrassed to share it with anyone.
2. I sometimes throw temper tantrums. Not as many as I used to, but I do.
3. I reflexively eavesdrop.
4. I used to use a lot of drugs.
5. I have been assaulted multiple times and by multiple people, and secretly (irrationally) worry it is something about me that caused this.

Just like ripping off a band-aid.

*Interestingly, this episode was resolved by my first visit to an acupuncturist. She said it was no wonder I could not sleep, I had flaming bucket loads too much yang (as in the component of yin and yang associated with speed, fire, masculinity, and aggression). I don’t know if it was the acupuncture or not. That night I had a huge bonfire (not recommended—seemingly coincidental), and it was just so appealing. I stood so close my face was stinging from the heat. That night I fell straight to sleep and woke 9 hours later. The streak was broken.

**There is no good word for this. We settled on derp because it is short and easy to say…and just god awful. If it can’t be good, embrace the crapiness.