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If I only felt safe in my garage. But the closest thing I have now'adays is either buried beneath the disaster that is my room, in the car (though sometimes, not even there), or sitting in front of my moniter click click clicking through the web, or conquering Medieval Britain.
Tonight, it was conquering Medieval Britain. The Piets rock my world! Vikings? HA! They do nothing! The Welsh? A Pain in the pinky toe! The Scots? Don't make me giggle. I shall rule the islands until the waves swallow them whole! I rule the WORLD!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAAHA!
So, video games are good. They make for good stress relieve. Vanishing self inside of a mock campaign. No real harm, no real foul, and wonderful kudos.
Geek. Chant it like a mantra: I'm a vorpel bunny hobbit chaotic good neutral vampire cleric with plus 10 critical damage and a precocious plus ten sword of flaming zen.
My so-called safe places are getting rarer, if that is even possible. I'm even having difficulty withdrawing into my head. I seem to be finding far too much stacked in the back behind the Father Loathing and the High School memories. If you pick up the First Kiss and dust it off, you might find a half useful used ego.
The car is a fun place. It's like a suit of armor from the world around me. But the heat and the strange new smells that I've discovered in there are keeping me out of the clubhouse. Windows must be down and music blaring. Because it's the way of the car. I can't nap in there anymore, because if she's not moving at 80, she's not worth being in.
But while the music is blaring and my foot is going down, I keep turning my thoughts inward, peering, and pointing fingers at myself. Damn introspective crap.
The bathroom is a lovely place. You can sing along with music (if you do that thing), just as long as you have the windows closed (my neighbors are nosey, and the houses are close together). And you can think while the hot water streams over you, washing out the cobwebs from each intimate nook and cranny. Wash out the cobwebs from your head, along with the conditioner. But I look into the mirror and what do I see?
Who knows. I stopped making sense. I think it's the lack of sleep. Or the lack of food (I forgot to eat again. How do I have this little belly doing that?).
Where was I going with this?
Either way, I'm going to the garage to put in a load of laundry. Because there are wonderful quiet moments doing laundry late at night. Save for the crickets chirping. And the intermitant helicopter and siren. But other than that, it's a good quick, quiet moment.
A cup of soap, a twist of the wrist and a pull on the nob, drop the lid, and let it run. A quiet whirr and a rhythmic thump, thump, thump as the tub agitates the load. Just white noise--or grey, if you would--numbing the senses, even to myself.
Rivers is right: In the garage, I feel safe, no one laughs about my ways. In the garage, where I belong, no one hears me sing this song.
And the concrete floor isn't as cold as it seems.
Tonight, it was conquering Medieval Britain. The Piets rock my world! Vikings? HA! They do nothing! The Welsh? A Pain in the pinky toe! The Scots? Don't make me giggle. I shall rule the islands until the waves swallow them whole! I rule the WORLD!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAAHA!
So, video games are good. They make for good stress relieve. Vanishing self inside of a mock campaign. No real harm, no real foul, and wonderful kudos.
Geek. Chant it like a mantra: I'm a vorpel bunny hobbit chaotic good neutral vampire cleric with plus 10 critical damage and a precocious plus ten sword of flaming zen.
My so-called safe places are getting rarer, if that is even possible. I'm even having difficulty withdrawing into my head. I seem to be finding far too much stacked in the back behind the Father Loathing and the High School memories. If you pick up the First Kiss and dust it off, you might find a half useful used ego.
The car is a fun place. It's like a suit of armor from the world around me. But the heat and the strange new smells that I've discovered in there are keeping me out of the clubhouse. Windows must be down and music blaring. Because it's the way of the car. I can't nap in there anymore, because if she's not moving at 80, she's not worth being in.
But while the music is blaring and my foot is going down, I keep turning my thoughts inward, peering, and pointing fingers at myself. Damn introspective crap.
The bathroom is a lovely place. You can sing along with music (if you do that thing), just as long as you have the windows closed (my neighbors are nosey, and the houses are close together). And you can think while the hot water streams over you, washing out the cobwebs from each intimate nook and cranny. Wash out the cobwebs from your head, along with the conditioner. But I look into the mirror and what do I see?
Who knows. I stopped making sense. I think it's the lack of sleep. Or the lack of food (I forgot to eat again. How do I have this little belly doing that?).
Where was I going with this?
Either way, I'm going to the garage to put in a load of laundry. Because there are wonderful quiet moments doing laundry late at night. Save for the crickets chirping. And the intermitant helicopter and siren. But other than that, it's a good quick, quiet moment.
A cup of soap, a twist of the wrist and a pull on the nob, drop the lid, and let it run. A quiet whirr and a rhythmic thump, thump, thump as the tub agitates the load. Just white noise--or grey, if you would--numbing the senses, even to myself.
Rivers is right: In the garage, I feel safe, no one laughs about my ways. In the garage, where I belong, no one hears me sing this song.
And the concrete floor isn't as cold as it seems.
