way to go, scab-stache.

"Please."

I left feeling anything but happy, anything but cheery and smiley. I left feeling alone and scared of that truth--born alone, die alone. I imagined that life was going to be beautiful with beaded doorways and tapestried windows. I imagined that I would love to be alone. After all of it, finally alone. But, I am scared because at the end of it all, I am the only one I can rely on, and there is no one in the world that I trust less. I wonder sometimes if I love people because I cannot love myself, or if I cannot love myself because I love people. One can only be devoted in so many ways, to so many people, to so many lengths. I can only be stretched so far with nothing but two arms. I like to believe that I am happier... and maybe I am. I don't scream at myself, I don't burst into tears, I don't hurt like I used to. I just feel uneasy. Maybe that's an understatement, but I want to feel as if everything is right in the world and my many-faced God will carry me through. I know doubtlessly and I love endlessly, but everything comes in degrees. So many directions with immeasurable potential floating somewhere in undiscovered planes. Only a God with many fingers could point us in the right direction, knowing that whatever road you take is the one you should take. Still I feel that "should" is a dirty word. Everything is as it's meant to be. Created to be perfect with flaws that are not flaws. I wanted to cry, wanted to scream. I wanted to hurt again like I've been hurt, but it's worthless. I am so much better than I used to be.

I have not always loved you as sweetly, kindly, and doubtlessly as I do now. I have no remorse for the years of which there are so many, those years in which I did not know you as I now do. But, I have taken words from your mouth and whispers from your skin. I have taken soft horse-hair brushes and painted the flush on your cheek with pale tea roses, softer than any silk. I have wrapped your neck in foxes, like a halo of renewal, like a crown of destruction. You have been my bride and I have felt for you.

no one is awake but us.

It's been three days and I've made over a hundred and forty dollars in tips alone. I don't even know what to do with myself. I could work just two and a half weeks and pay rent at this rate. It's absolute madness to actually be making good money. I guess it's pretty stereotypical that I've dropped out of college and become a waitress. I secretly always wanted to try being a waitress, but everyone told me it wasn't the job for me. Somebody has to be wrong, and I hope to high heaven it's not me because I actually like this job. It feels rewarding, even if some of the people I deal with are bitches and sons of bitches. Seriously, I want to smack some of these people, but I don't because I really do love just about everyone. I wouldn't be so spineless if I didn't enjoy bending over backwards to please everyone.

I need to start keeping track of the moneys I am making. I mainly spend money on gas, tobacco, and espresso these days. That's around two dollars for espresso daily, a little over three for tobacco every four or five days, and ten on gas every two or three days. Sometimes I will pay for food at Jan's, but mostly just gas, tobacco, and espresso. I am the most strangely high-maintenance person I know.

I need to decide how the hell I want to keep my hair, as in how long I want it to grow before I hack it off again. I don't know if I'm prepared for the massive mess of curls that my hair always becomes.

Today a regular customer pinched my arm and I just did what I always do: smile and laugh.

I don't have the urge to escape like I used to. I still want to see foreign places, but for now I am working towards a place of my own and that is enough. I am not as stray anymore, not as nomadic. My travels have ceased to be about experience and have taken an edge of urgency. I have to get from here to there, from one place to the next. I have goals and I don't know how I feel about giving up a life without points. Just in these past few days and weeks, I have come to measure my life by monetary means. I know that I earned close to one-hundred dollars in just these past two days and I know that leaves a two-hundred and seventy-five dollar gap between my present and my potential. I want that apartment so bad. I can feel it, spreading under my skin like the smooth bark on a dogwood.

I will hang mirrored tapestries from the walls and beads from the doors. I will layer the floor in cushions and rugs. I will cover the tables in ashtrays and potted plants. I will grow flowers in the windows. I will make it a home.

I need a home.

sometimes i dream i am not alone.

other times i dream i live by myself.

most times i can't tell the difference.

bahahahahahaha. I made over fifty-five dollars in tips alone. what the butt.

at this rate, I will actually be able to afford an apartment. gahhh.

this mix of reality and things working out is just too much to handle!

not only do i start on a friday, but i start on THIS FRIDAY. we're talking tomorrow. what the butt. that was only three motherfucking days of training. gahhhhhh. i better be ready for this shit. at least i get to keep all of my own tips.

I think it just hit me that I work from three to eleven. Yeah, forty hours a week, which means that my hours more than doubled as soon as I took this job. Ridiculous, but I do love it. Apparently the owner even likes me. Fresh meat, I guess.

I think my first day is a fucking friday. WHAT THE BUTT. WHAT THE BUTT. That, or a Wednesday, which seems just as rushy after today. Being in the restaurant business should tell me that I WILL NOT BE OKAY TO WAITRESS BY MYSELF FOR THE FIRST TIME ON A MOTHERFUCKING FRIDAY.

dear sir,
what the butt.
sincerely,
mia

done deal, bitches. motherfucking done deal.

I was informed that I had gotten the job at Jan's House after a brief conversation around noon with the owner. I was also informed that I would start today and work an eight hour shift from three until eleven. The waitress that helped to train me today was a total sweetheart. I apparently looked a little lost throughout my shift, but my cashier skills did come in handy. I made a decent amount of money, but not enough to cover rent. Apparently the average is fifty dollars in undeclared tips alone, plus the 3-whatever I will hopefully be making after my training is over, and that will definitely cover rent for the apartment I'm looking at. I am going to be a fish out of water for a while... or a chicken running around with its head cut off... but, I can do this. It will be so worth it. I actually felt good about all the work I was doing and not like it was useless. I even got a few compliments on my personality, and I did my damnedest to make sure I did my best. I know I'm "different," and I have a "different" personality, but I'm genuinely nice and I like to see people satisfied, maybe even happy. I don't like letting people down, but I know everyone makes mistakes and the best time to make them is now when I can learn from them. I've asked a lot of questions and I asked how I was doing, and everyone said I was doing pretty well. I mean, considering that I've never been a waitress, I feel pretty satisfied with how I did. There's always room for improvement, but it's always one step at a time.

I don't know how waitresses cope with the insecurity of fluid income. That is the one bit that worries me. I will work five days a week at Jan's, so even if I just work two days for TJ's, it should help a lot. That would mean working fifty-two hours a week, which is crazy, but I can handle it. I know I can. First, I'll get my schedule worked out at Jan's and get into the swing of things, and then I'll see about some extra hours at TJ's. After all, I got a raise to seven-fifty an hour and work six hour shifts most of the time, so that could really help. Either way it's better than nothing and it's better to have a job in Greensboro than not at all when I'm trying to move there.

GAHHH. I am still so excited, but I know that if the pay isn't enough than I can't keep it. Or, I'll have to get another job... or still work at TJ's, but I think I know a thrift shop that may hire me because I'm "adorable" and I know cool/weird clothes when I see them. Hell yes.

I think you're so, so beautiful.

classifieds make me nauseous, but commitment makes me sicker.



I want a studio apartment, and there might be an available one less than twenty minutes away from Jan's House, which is where I am currently trying my damnedest to get a job. I might actually get a place of my own. I might actually get a real job. I might actually have a place where I can do everything without feeling judged and nagged and pestered. Hell, I might hate it, but I think it could be really, really worth it. I am ill with this false sense of propriety. Yes, the world has been kind, but no, the sun doesn't give the moon its rays while expecting the payment to be tenfold. These are my pounds of flesh and I'm keeping them.

these days have been good.
-smoking my first rolled cigarette in ages while listening to Gogol Bordello
-knowing that my fur coat is indeed going with me on whatever trip I make
-packing all of my necessities and necessary luxuries into the back of my station wagon
-driving up and down the streets I know like the back of my hand and the veins of my eyelids
-seeing over ten cop cars in less than forty minutes
-understanding that sometimes it is more than a desire that drives me to be wild

some wounds heal differently. existence fades from scene to scene before a camera with many lenses.

yes yes yes yes yes.

...!

gahhhhhhh. still no real clue as to what the fuck i want my tattoo to look like and where i want it to be. damn. still going to at least get a touch-up on the wisteria, but i really wanted that tattoo today. my mother even said she would front me the money if it ended up costing over sixty! what the butt. i am pretty sure she also paid for my rook or my septum. one of those, because i am still not quite sure when i got the rook. must look that up.

in just about ten hours I will be getting a new tattoo, but I don't know where and how, just that it will involve "be the poem." somehow. maybe it will involve uv ink. yeahuh.

I love my family. Tonight I mainly mean my grandparents, mainly my grandpa and grandma here in Winston. They are so beautiful to me. In my eyes, they are perfect even though I know they've done imperfectly. They have always been there for me and have supported my every step in the right direction.

I am almost crying right now because visiting them after getting off work at ten tonight, seeing their smiles and frowns, hearing their stories, reading them some of my writing and really feeling their encouragement... all of it just makes me realize how very good they are.

I'm terrified of losing them. I don't know what I'll do when I lose someone close to me, but tonight I mean them. I don't know how I will go on.

Tonight I will get down on my knees and pray for my family, but mostly in the name of my grandma and grandpa. For them to be treated with as much care as they've given me, and I will thank God for all of xer beauty in life, death, and between.

I have loved them as they've loved me: with everything and more.

I wish I had more to remember them and us by. All I have is old/bad photos and formal portraits.

I want them to have the impact on the world that they deserve. They are good people with good intentions and God always sets their path with tender care that takes a careful eye to see.

What can I do besides what they want me to? I need to dedicate my work to everyone I love, but they deserve a special kind of work. I want to tell the stories and share the photos and the interviews. They are so beautiful and good and full of love.

So, um... here are some photos that I did not take at an angle. I am always afraid that my face is crooked. My eyes, my lips, my eyebrows, etc. But, nobody is perfectly symmetrical, and I guess I'm just afraid that it's more noticeable with me. Like, distractingly noticeable. Anyways, I am even full-on smiling with my teeth showing in one of these, and that has become rare in photos I take of myself. Bless change and happiness and acceptance, because I am as I should be. You know The Weakerthans have that song "Aside?" That is kind of my theme-song on a lot of days. It just feel fitting, am I right?


Aside

Measure me in metered lines
And one decisive stare
The time it takes to get from here to there
My ribs that show through t-shirts
And these shoes I got for free
I'm unconsoled
I'm lonely
I am so much better than I used to be
Terrified of telephones
And shopping malls and knives
Drowning in the pools of other lives
Rely a bit too heavily
On alcohol and irony
Get clobbered on by courtesy
In love with love and lousy poetry
And I'm leaning on this broken fence
Between past and present tense
And I'm losing all those stupid games
That I swore I'd never play
But it almost feels okay
Circumnavigate this body
Of wonder and uncertainty
Armed with every precious failure
And amateur cartography
I'm breathing deep before
I spread those maps out on my bedroom floor
And I'm leaning on this broken fence
Between past and present tense
And I'm losing all those stupid games
That I swore I'd never play
But it feels okay
And I'm leaving with goodbye
And I'm losing but I'll try
With the last ways left
To remember sing
My imperfect offering

p.s. Dear Honeychild,
I am still making you that mix. There might be two, like one that is "us" and one that is "me." The "us" one will probably be quite familiar. The "me" one will probably not be as familiar.

p.p.s. I almost misspelled "familiar."

why the hell did my body tell me to wake up a few minutes ago if all it wanted to do was toss, turn, and vomit?

i hate this. i am tired.

I have been pretty successful.

Malaprops:
-"The PowerBook"
-"Transgender Warriors"

Barnes and Noble:
-"Gender Outlaw"

A.C. Moore:
-oil paints
-watercolor paints
-paintbrushes
-sketchbook and colored pencils
-glue dots
-fox beanie baby

GoodWill:
-beige slouch boots with cuffed tops
-navy pinstriped blazer with mahogany suede collar

Random Thrift Store:
-Greek (wolf? rabbit? fake?) fur coat of my dreams
-bright rainbow heart earrings
-red suspenders

Walgreens:
-ridiculous amount of mechanical pencils

I found out how to hack my own computer into letting me transfer music from my ipod onto my external hard-drive without paying a damned cent.

I tried on a giant black victorian wig covered in fake spider-webs, spiders, and blood-spatter.

I made BFFs with a store clerk named Mercedes at Macy's and she is going to try and hook a sister up.

I saw some of my babies.

I started a new writing-only journal called "Nine Foxes," which YOU should friend if you (STILL) have a livejournal.

I have regularly worn makeup.

I have showered daily? Say what?

I have gone to therapy with the therapist I trust more than most, if not all.

I have written bunches and bunches.



But, I haven't really started what I set out to begin. And I still have to complete my routine of going through these bullshit motions, despite the fact that I know more and more each day that I do not belong in this style.

I am always different and it's hard to think that way. The moment I write it down, I'm already different. I wonder just how many commas I'm using that are unnecessary. Once again, it's hard to think that way.

I have applied at Ed McKay's and filled out the application for Hot Topic. Don't you dare fucking judge me... Hot Topic's piercing and tattoo policies are fucking fantastic. They encourage that shit, plus crazy-ass makeup and clothing. Heaven much? Next I will go to the mall and fill out the one for Macy's (just because the clerk, Mercedes, was such a total sweetheart) and maybe grab one from Pac Sun or the bookstore. I have to fill out the apps for Border's and run by B&N to see if they would prefer a walk-in or an online one. These are all in Winston Salem ad it kind of sucks that I can't work in Greensboro, but I understand why. Until I get a full-time job, I will keep working at TJ's for my grandfather. It's really not such a bad deal, because making 7.00 an hour to be a cashier, etc. is a pretty good deal when I've never had a job other than "working" for Habitat for Humanity. I have learned better customer service skills and how to take orders from my superiors without throwing a defiant hissy fit. I still hate the rush to get out, because it usually involves my grandfather assigning fifty errands I could have done earlier, but I figure he does it to extend my working time so he can pay me more, which is sort of cool with me. Plus, he lets me take breaks to smoke and eat, etc. All I have to do is ask and make sure everything is in order. If nothing else, it's taught me how to be polite (like I normally am with strangers) without causing everyone else any kind of hassle. I haven't become less nervous, because I am constantly afraid of making mistakes and embarrassing myself, etc., but that probably won't fade until I am in a job that I go to routinely instead of just being randomly called in whenever I'm home.

Sometimes I feel like my glory days were too early and short-lived. Those days where it was freedom just to run away from campus and hop a train from one side of the block to the next, and then go antique browsing. Because it really was browsing--we never bought anything. When we didn't have cars and wandering around was the thing to do, when we had to buy cigarettes from one store, when the only drugs that we did were alcohol and pot. I loved so purely when my mind was free from the constant chains of my self-hating thoughts. Life was crazy. I was crazy. But, Greensboro was my turf. I knew my territory like the back of my hand, and the future was hazy. Now I listen to "Left and Leaving" and try not to cry, because I miss it so truly I can feel it in my bones, further still in a place inside me that bears no name. People loved me and not because I am different, but because I'm me, and that entails being different and wild and crazy and self-defined and loving you with all of my heart and more. When I wore pearls and the Queens of the Stone Age shirt my father got from a free concert in New Orleans after Katrina. When I still spoke to my father.

Before I realized that I couldn't let him come visit me in Winston Salem because my mother's girlfriend had done things that were unforgivable in his eyes. I haven't fully forgiven her either. I have never wanted to strike someone more than when she called my father a sperm-donor and then postured herself as if going to hit him or me or both. I wanted to punch her in the fucking throat, but I didn't, and sometimes I still regret that. It was like that time Alex Cowett asked my father if he had a job yet. But I was only 10 then and it would have been okay. Because fighting is forgivable when you're young. Even when seemingly justified, I stop myself these days. I don't want to hurt people because I know how it hurts outside and inside. There's no salve for that kind of hurt. It's why I knew how to cut my mother down time and time again just by telling her all of the mistakes she had made in raising me. It's why she knew how to cut me down by saying I'd end up like my father. But, fuck that. I am not her and I am not my father and I am not anyone but myself. Maybe that scares me, but it's true. Inarguably definite, because I am one of a kind, even if that kind is undefined.

These days, it's like my mind is somewhere in Purgatory (I will always fall back into Catholicism) while my body dances through the proper motions of survival, of coping with my decisions and the directions my life has taken. I've been told it's no one's fault but my own, and I agree completely. I am such an event at all times, there is no question whose fault it is. But, it is not even fault. These are the results of my decisions, not the consequences of my mistakes.

These days, the mirror does not scare me and does not please me. I wonder if this is what it feels like to accept what you see. When people say I'm beautiful, I catch myself saying thank you and smiling and laughing. It's not bragging and it's certainly not vanity. I am not vain. I am not any of those self-righteous things that I've feared being all of my life. I feel as if I have been privileged, but I am not a spoiled brat. No matter how many times I'm told by someone whose opinion I care about that I act as if I'm arrogant or entitled, it isn't true. Sometimes I am just acknowledging how good my life has been and how God really has smiled upon me. I'm so smart, so talented, so... beautiful? I feel unsure typing that last one, but I don't think I would get as many compliments if I wasn't actually what they say I am. I love it when elder men and women give me those double-edged compliments, like "it's a good thing you're so pretty" regarding my shaved head. A few days ago some random guy outside of work was just like, "Hey, sexy." I don't feel like that's misogynistic. I feel like that's a compliment in the given context. Normally, when somebody says that it is accompanied by really obnoxious body language that makes it inappropriate, but he was just smiling and kept walking. Saturday night, some beautiful guy at the gas station was getting into his car and waved at me before saying, "You're really beautiful." I smiled and said thanks. That was the day I got my fur coat, etc. It just made that day a little bit better. I've always gotten compliments, and while they used to make me uncomfortable, now they just reinforce what I'm starting to feel about myself. I just thought about one occasion that was particularly uncomfortable. One of my best friends in tenth grade told me I was "beautiful in a different way." Back then, it hurt. Now I appreciate it because it's true and it was just an awkward phrasing of something she meant to be really heartfelt. In a group therapy session for young adults in Renfrew, one super sweet girl went on for around five minutes about how I was one of the most beautiful people she had ever met. Not even just the outside, but the inside too. Because I am beautiful in myself and to others. She said I had one of the best noses ever. :)

Even with the compliments, I am not defined by other people's perceptions of me. I like seeing myself as I do, as a combination of all these pieces that make me who I am. I don't really know what I look like, but I like what I see these days. Not even just my face, but I like my body, too. I like this combination of soft, solid, curvy, etc. I like my hands and my feet, my long fingers and my long toes. I love that my thighs and butt have finally gotten some of the weight I gained a while back. I love that my hips seem wider, even if my muffin-top is fiercer than ever. I like that my shoulders are broad and that my collarbones are not crazy-obvious. I like that I can have fat and muscle and bone without forcing one to dominate the others. I like my thick lips and my teeth (I have cute teeth, don't lie!). I like my freckles on my shoulders and my face. I like my chipmunk cheeks and my smile lines. I like my nose, even if I have no clue what it really looks like other than small and kind of pointy and with nostrils. I really like my eyes, because they are pointed and bright, like red-veined ivory almonds. Even my eyebrows are winning me over as I look through photos of myself, whether or not they are thin and femme or thick and masculine. Everything just kind of fits into place, if that makes sense. Oh God, I forgot to mention my belly. I know that's usually a sensitive thing for a lot of people, but I really don't mind it anymore. It's wide and plump, but that's better than how it used to be... and I mean way better.

As far as how my physical self fits into gender and sex, I feel like a woman. Maybe a girl. Mostly I feel like a kid, but not like a child. I don't feel like a young woman or a teenaged girl. I feel like a genderqueer female. I don't always express myself that way, but I will probably always define myself that way. It just works. For me, when I feel comfortable with my physical self, I feel better about my mental self and visa versa. Sexual orientation wise, I will call myself a dyke and be pansexual until they come up with a more vague and ambiguous label for me to squeeze myself into. I'm kind of hoping they get rid of all of the terms except queer and dyke anyways, just because queer is functional and dyke is kind of just a nickname, a title of grandeur. I've always been queer and I've always been a dyke. Looking back, there is no question. I've just never known which labels to claim. Tomboy, lesbian, etc. I just don't like those. They feel odd for me.

I still want to be a drag-queen/king just so I can be fucking glamorously fantastic and fabulous, but that's an expression kind of thing for the most part. It has a little to do with identity (my craving for playing dress-up), but I can do without it. I just have those hopes of strutting my stuff in tuxedos and cat-suits and dresses and capes and boleros and platform heels and leather and lace and studs, etc. I want to go all out, balls to the wall with my life. But in the end, I wear creepers and skinny jeans just to run errands. I do my makeup casually even though I want to wear falsies and glitter, etc. I settle for urchin when I want glam. But, I strut all the same.