Miracle

Paramore
Riot!

I've gone for too long living like I'm not alive
So I'm gonna start over tonight, beginning with you and I
When this memory fades
I'm gonna make sure it's replaced
With chances taken, hope embraced
And have I told you...

I'm not going
Cause I've been waiting for a miracle
And I'm not leaving
I won't let you
Let you give up on a miracle
When it might save you

We've learned to run from anything uncomfortable
We've tied our pain below
And no one ever has to know
That inside we're broken
I tried to patch things up again
So count my tears and kill these fears
But have I told you? Have I?

I'm not going
Cause I've been waiting for a miracle
And I'm not leaving
I won't let you
Let you give up on a miracle
Cause it might save you

It's not faith if, if you use your eyes
Oh, I will get it right this time (this time)
Let's leave this all behind
Oh, I will get it right this time
It's not faith if you're using your eyes
Oh, I...

I've gone for too long living like I'm not alive
So I'm gonna start over tonight, beginning with you and I
Don't want to run from anything uncomfortable
I just want
No, I just need this pain to end right here

I'm not going
Cause I've been waiting for a miracle
And I'm not leaving
I won't let you
Let you give up on a miracle
Cause it might save you
Yeah, it might save you
Oh, it might save you

It's not faith if
If you use your eyes
If you use your eyes
If you use your eyes

fingers clawing uselessly at the insides of your skull
self as jailer and prison
fighting panic amid the growing whispers
no one sees or hears or knows
quiet desperation

New Year's Eve, '07

My attempts at Cathedral Windows have yielded a disastrous pink gloop, inspiring Farah's First Law of Holiday Cooking: No recipe shall be prepared for a social occasion without having been tested prior to the day itself.

I'm running on just four hours of sleep. I'm tired and frazzled and not entirely here. My neural connections are misfiring. I said "dived" to a coworker who just might be becoming a friend, one who I would have liked to have think of me as intelligent and articulate and all that jazz but today I blurted that "I dived into the deep end of the pool..." and didn't even realize there was anything wrong with that. Blearrgghhh.

I'm taking a nap.

Real World

Matchbox Twenty
Yourself or Someone Like You

Well I wonder what it's like to be the rainmaker
I wonder what it's like to know that I made the rain
I'd store it in boxes with little yellow tags on everyone
And you can come and see them when I'm...done, when I'm done

I wonder what its like to be a super hero
I wonder where Id go if I could fly around downtown, yeah
From some other planet, I get this funky high on yellow sun
Boy I bet my friends will all be stunned, they re stunned, (yeah, yeah)

Chorus:
Straight up, what did you hope to learn about here
If I were someone else, would this all fall apart
Strange, where were you, when we started this gig,
I wish the real world, would just stop hassling me

And you
And you
And me

I wonder what it's like to be the head honcho
I wonder what I'd do if they all did just what I said
Well I'd shout out an order, I think were out of this man get me some
Boy don't make me wanna change my tone, my tone (yeah, yeah)

(chorus)

Please don't change, please don't break
Well the only thing that seems to work at all is you
Please don't change, at all from me
To you, and you to me (Yeah, yeah)

(chorus)

Well I wonder what it's like to be the rainmaker
I wonder what it's like to know that I made the rain
I'd store it in boxes with little yellow tags on everyone
And you can come and see them when I'm...done, when I'm done

I wonder what its like to be a super hero
I wonder where Id go if I could fly around downtown, yeah
From some other planet, I get this funky high on yellow sun
Boy I bet my friends will all be stunned, they re stunned, (yeah, yeah)

Chorus:
Straight up, what did you hope to learn about here
If I were someone else, would this all fall apart
Strange, where were you, when we started this gig,
I wish the real world, would just stop hassling me

And you
And you
And me

I wonder what it's like to be the head honcho
I wonder what I'd do if they all did just what I said
Well I'd shout out an order, I think were out of this man get me some
Boy don't make me wanna change my tone, my tone (yeah, yeah)

(Chorus)

Please don't change, please don't break
Well the only thing that seems to work at all is you
Please don't change, at all from me
To you, and you to me (Yeah, yeah)

(Chorus)

For some of us, there is a solitary path, assigned at birth. We live our childhood in books, our adolescence in film, and arrive at adulthood by chance, not seasoned or steeped in reality as our contemporaries, merely having reached the age to stand alongside them. We live in dreams.

We will never truly connect to others, not in the usual way. Yet we long to, for we are only human. And so we turn to the canvas, the blank page, the keyboard, the unmolded clay, and begin our work.

dumdum and dumber

A coworker for whom I have no respect called me an idiot today, though I know her IQ is two-thirds or less mine, and maybe even as little as half, the incident still rankles. What the hell am I doing, going on my seventh year as an hourly Wal-Mart associate, having my intelligence questioned by people who never finished high school or learned the proper spelling (never mind management) of the departments they've "managed" for years?

And why, after all these years, did I never learn to debate, to argue, to muster up sassy comebacks?

Above is a picture of a woman named Sarah, who died on one of the happiest days of her life.
Killer Wave Sweeps Away Wife

~*~*~*

If I were truly honest, I would say that most of the time, most days, I feel sad, dejected, depressed. My life, such as it is, is unimportant, forgettable, disposable, deniable. If I were gone tomorrow, people might feel sad in a "She was only 28, she had her whole life ahead of her" sort of way, and a handful who actually knew me might miss me for a while, but they'd get over it.

I am an ant. I have made no difference. If I died tomorrow they'd promote someone else to Department Manager, Patrick would move out and someone else would live in this apartment, Cocoa might mope for a few days, but then she'd be fine. None of it matters. At all.

I'm not trying to hurt myself. But if someone pushed me out the door of a speeding car and into oncoming traffic, and oblivion followed, I wouldn't particularly mind.

It's funny, the nature of fear. I left the church a long time ago, but sometimes I wonder if there is a hell and if I'm going to burn in it. Most days I don't believe it, but with my luck the afterlife will be something like that movie, "Defending Your Life," and I'll be stuck with having to justify a dispensable, indefensible life.

I don't know where I'm going with this. I guess I'm tired of limping along, and no one can or should help with this anyway. Patrick's known for a while that I'm depressed but yesterday in the car I said something that I guess overstepped the line for him. So I'm packing it away again, putting on a big smile and swallowing the bitterness down whole. Most of it is just poor self-care anyway. So I've resolved to eat salads for lunch, sleep 8 hours each night, and work out at least thrice weekly. We'll see how I feel after three weeks of this.

Home sick.

I sit at my cluttered computer desk and munch on what has become my weekend breakfast of choice: orange marmalade generously slathered onto two slices of buttered cinnamon-raisin toast. I'm back to drinking green tea, this time from my black new mug, a capacious ceramic piece that goes for just a buck at any Wal-Mart.

I slept through most of yesterday, missing out on a Six Flags trip and a backyard barbecue. It was just one of those days when I wish I could curl up inside the womb, rocking in the roiling tides, comforted by the beating of my heart.

We finally ventured out just before six, to return library items and check out new ones. I had that strange overly sensitive feeling one gets when feverish: my clothes felt too rough and restrictive, and the lightest breeze gave me chills.

Patrick and I got haircuts, too: him because he needs one, me because he's been telling me for the longest time that I do too. I'm indifferent, for once. He tells me now that it looks the same; I basically just got my layered cut a long-overdue trim. The lady hairdresser told me I'm pretty and Patrick's sooo nice, that I'm lucky that he's neat and that we don't have kids yet, because as they grow problems grow with them.

I'm done dreaming. I don't know what to wish for anymore.

His name is Kyle.

My Music Monkey, that is.

Though I live for Ugly Betty, life cruelly and indifferently goes on. It's all senseless and meaningless, and no one has time anymore, everyone's oh-so-nice and well-meaning, but they're all just so busy. And still someone asked me to smile, because when I smile it means it can't be all that bad. And to think, he's not even a friend.

That's not the first time I've gotten that either. What the hell is wrong with people. Ano ba 'ko - aliw?

Hi-hello-howareyous and i'm-fine-thank-yous, but if I keeled over tomorrow you might be sad for a little while but you'd get over it. Everybody would.

I just want to stay home and nibble at frozen strawberries and watch my Netflix DVDs. I wish the world would just go away.

Currently...

Still depressed.

Watching: Jeff Dunham's Arguing With Myself and Spark of Insanity; Ugly Betty.

Listening to: Sara Bareilles, Josef, Bryan Adams, plus the usual: Nickelback, Daughtry, Matchbox Twenty.

Excited about: (or, as much as you can be when the overriding feeling is still detached, depressed, hopeless)
Elizabeth: The Golden Age; Exile on Mainstream; the next Ugly Betty disk from Netflix.

Wanting:













a Matchbox Twenty USB wristband of their album, even though I don't need it;















a Rob Thomas tee, which I may just get away with wearing at work;

This house, even though it's been ebby.com forever and the price keeps going up;

A limited edition Lagerfeld Steinway grand

~*~*~*

Been asked what's wrong, why I'm not "the usual happy Farah". What the fuck. What makes people think I'm happy? What makes them think they know me at all? They think because they see me every day, and I'm singing, that it's all sunshine and good cheer. I'm short with customers and coworkers both. It's all I can do not to cuss anybody out. I really don't want to be anywhere but at home.

135 lbs, a light weight attributable to lost muscle mass. Haven't been back to the gym since weeks before Inventory. My clothes are just as snug and I'm tired and achy all the time.

I made arroz caldo tonight, the first time in a long time. Yesterday it was Manwiches, which it's true are not like my sloppy joes. Not better or worse, just different. And easier.


On a friend's recommendation I got an adorable iFlops Monkey to replace my speakers at work. I haven't decided on a name yet.













I want new shoes, red ones. None have really grabbed me yet, though. I don't know if I want to dress up for Halloween this year.

I was surfing ToysRus.com and found this pic.

B-Daman Battle Basic Figure: Wing Ninjaby:

Yeah, okay. So my mind is in the gutter. I get that. But really now.

The housewarming went better than I expected.

Most people treated it as a cookout, and there were only a handful of gifts, but everyone did bring food. Though there had been some guest list concerns early on, the final mix turned out just fine.

I got to meet Faith's kids Chad and Diaz for the first time. Imagine if you will a chest-high 3-year-old and a waist-high 2-year-old. Chad is a handful, and little sister Diaz is, as she declared when she approached me, "a princess". Apparently she'd decided I was her throne for the evening, and squatted in my lap to draw and watch people, when she wasn't styling my hair or asking to be flipped or spun.

~*~*~*

We returned Amy the chow chow to her owner last week. Apparently her real name is Onyx, she's 13 years old, and had wandered from housing community across the street and into our apartment complex. I do miss her, even though she was temperamental and didn't get along with Cocoa.

~*~*~*

We picked up the Legendary edition of Halo 3 at Best Buy on Friday even though we don't have an XBox 360. Dean does, and we thought we'd be able to play the much-vaunted 4-plyear co-op. As it turns out, you need 2 XBoxes and Xbox Live or System Link for 4-player Campaign mode. Patrick of course will be Master Chief, Dean I suppose will want to be the arbiter, which gives me a choice between the two new Elites. Around Thanksgiving, when Patrick and I can comfortably afford to buy a 360 of our own. The graphics are amazing though, and the story and gameplay as entertaining as one would expect - if not more so.















Pic snagged from the Bungie forums.

~*~*~*

I swear I can't write English good no more.
Fk.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

It's been a long workweek. Six days and 60-something hours long, with Inventory smack-dab in the middle of all that. And what could be better than a housewarming, a convenient excuse for a casual get-together with coworkers after all that hard work?

Except that we've seen more of each other this week than we're accustomed or inclined to. I'm worried that Faith not might have fun at her own party. At this point, I'm committed to the event and need to start getting ready. I made brownies and chili, and am having Patrick drop me off at Dee's house so she can teach me how to make pancit before we meet up with the group.

Permanently or temporarily, we've adopted another dog.

It's been nice and cool lately, so I decided to open the windows. From my second-floor vantage point I saw a little black chow casually roaming the apartment complex, stopping to sniff a bush here, urinating over there, then continuing on its way. It was on the other I went outside to pet it, and it followed me halfway home. We stopped to ask a neighbor if she knew the dog, or of anyone looking for it. Neither of us had seen this particular chow before.

She's lying on the kitchen floor right now, panting and drooling onto a deep purple towel that was supposed to be Cocoa's next chew toy. They've both been fed and walked and provided with water. They're not getting along. The chow has established her dominance already, even though she's half Cocoa's size (and probably age) and has been here about five minutes. She's friendly towards Patrick and myself, but barks and growls when Cocoa gets too close.

The cat is freaking out. And having to play bouncer during the occasional dominance spats is no tea party.

2 a.m. again

As always, my depression is due in large part to poor self-care: lack of exercise, irregular and inadequate sleep hours, and poor diet choices.

The new Matchbox Twenty album, Exile on Mainstream, is coming out Oct. 2. It's a greatest hits album of sorts, with six new tracks. I don't really care for "How Far We've Come".

I feel heavier than ever, and yet guys circle me now: in cars here at the apartment complex while I'm walking Cocoa, and at work.

I'm badly in need of a vacation. Some days I wish I could just lapse into a coma for a few days. With any luck I'll awaken refreshed with no need to explain myself.

3 a.m. and I'm up making Spam fried rice.

Yesterday Faith, Keldric, Will and I were at Store 880 in Irving, helping out because tomorrow's their post-remodel Re-"Grand Opening". I had fun, though I got dusty and it was a little scary being in a "ghetto" store. Still, I didn't see used needles or crack pipes in the parking lot.

Afterwards we met up with the monthly after-hours group at Mexi-Go. I only had time for one margarita before Patrick arrived but I'd been up since 4 a.m. so it was time for me to leave. I hit the pillows almost as soon as we got home.

Now in the wee hours of the morning I find myself wide awake. I've paid bills, taken out the trash and put away dishes. I think I'll enter contests for another thirty minutes and then try for a nap.

I'm battling depression again.

There's nothing really wrong. These feelings will pass, I know.

Patrick's taken up golf. He's been to the driving range twice this weekend. A friend gave him a set of Wilson clubs, and I bought the matching golf bag from Walmart.com. It should arrive by next weekend.

Thursday's after-hours gathering will be at Mexi-Go. They have excellent margaritas, I am told, but since I'm going to be making some of my own for a cookout tomorrow, I don't know if I want to go.

My sales associate will be away on medical leave during the 2.5 weeks leading up to inventory. I'm starting to panic.

In other news, we didn't win the $330 million lottery jackpot this past Friday, though some lucky Houstonian did. I'm a little more addicted to my contests than usual: resentful of time spent away from the computer, anxious to check my email to see if I've won anything interesting, angry that I still haven't.

When I allow myself to wallow in my darker moods I feel it's all so pointless anyhow, that I'm a waste of time and money and potential, that no one needs me or is dependent on me, that none of it makes a difference.

Some days just feel like killing time.

new shoes!

AK Anne Klein's Maconcave (?),

Cream-colored leather with very Chanel quilting, finished with black piping, ribbon and wedge.

$29.97 plus tax at DSW

The first stanza of Mariah Carey's "Someday"

Fiona Apple's "Criminal"