It’s Raining, It’s Pouring
By The Misfit | July 31, 2010My MacBook decided to tank yesterday. Not sure what the problem is, but it won’t boot up.
Just when my plans for world domination were beginning to commence.
If anyone sees Murphy, will you kick him directly in the nuts?
Hard.
Thank you.
Topics: the misfit life | 1 Comment »Sadly
By The Misfit | July 29, 2010The EBV has taken a firm foothold again. Was feeling much better for a bit, but I can’t seem to get over this last hurdle.
The only difference now is that I simply don’t have the time to rest as much as I did before I went back to work. It’s, unfortunately, not as simple as just getting a good night’s sleep.
Not sure how to remedy that without quitting my job. The whole “bills to pay” thing puts an immediate damper on that idea.
Topics: the misfit life | No Comments »Back From The Bliss of Solitude
By The Misfit | July 26, 2010This past weekend was fantastic. I couldn’t have asked for a better way to unwind nor better company with whom to unwind.
Lots of quiet time, which I so desperately needed and which wasn’t questioned. Nothing was asked of me. I got to finish Jane Slayre, finally. I’d been trying to get through the damn thing for weeks and couldn’t concentrate.
Plenty of time to think, too.
I’ve been trying to sort things out for myself. I think I said somewhere before that I was working on me. And in working on me, I’ve sort of lost myself. It’s funny how that’s worked. I’m trying to embrace my femininity and it’s thrown me off balance. I’ve always been the tomboy, more piss and vinegar and bull-in-the-china-shop than soft, demure, and girly. Add to that bossy know-it-all and snarky and you pretty much have me. I say things without thinking, do things without considering the consequences, and can be unintentionally hurtful.
This weekend was a lesson in leaning back and not feeling like I have to control everything. On one had it was extraordinarily brilliant. On the other, I discovered that I wasn’t sure what to say or how to act. I found that I was unsure of myself, which almost never happens. I felt disconnected from myself and from those around me. I felt an immense need to explain, but this past weekend wasn’t for seriousness. For a whole list of reasons. Before the weekend even arrived I promised myself I wouldn’t even remotely approach anything of a serious nature unless something was brought up by someone else. It wasn’t and therefore I kept it to myself.
I feel like I’m precariously balanced on a tightrope. I want to be me, but I want to be the best me I possibly can. I just need to find that balance between my normal self and the changes I want to incorporate.
The question is how to do that without losing the essence of who I am.
And right now it feels like it’s gone on an extended vacation.
And it’s time for it to come home.
Topics: the misfit life | No Comments »Far, Far Away
By The Misfit | July 23, 2010I’m taking a mini-vacation this weekend.
Getting the hell out of dodge.
The past month-and-a-half has been ridiculously stressful and I’m taking some much needed time to regroup.
Quiet time. Kinda sorta.
Misfit time, definitely.
See you all next week.
Topics: the misfit life | No Comments »Move Along… There’s Nothing To See Here
By The Misfit | July 20, 2010I crashed hard last night.
It felt great.
Except for the dream I had where someone hit my car.
And tried to make me feel like a jerk.
Woke up talking to myself.
Guess it’s better than having trouble sleeping.
Topics: the misfit life | No Comments »Tis A Mystery
By The Misfit | July 18, 2010I’m not sure what’s been going on for the past week.
I’ve been unduly anxious with periodic bouts of insomnia.
If I recall correctly (and my memory is always suspect) this happened right after I’d been diagnosed and right before I started feeling better.
I’m hoping that’s the case. I think the anxiety is worse than the not sleeping and the constant exhaustion. Life was amazingly wonderful when it went away completely.
Life is still amazingly wonderful. I’ve got a massage scheduled today to take care of this pinched nerve thing I’ve had going on for the past month. I’ve got a short work week coming up followed by a weekend of Misfit playtime that I’m very much looking forward to. I’ve got money coming in, despite the fact I despise my job most days of the week, especially the 5 am crawl out of bed time. I’ve got the James show coming up in a couple of months. My brother is getting back to normal.
So, WTF is with this anxiety crap?
Topics: the misfit life | No Comments »Of Frogs and Princes
By The Misfit | July 15, 2010She lies in bed, the room dark and comfy. Wrapped in a feather comforter, she watches the shadows cast by flickering wicks, her thoughts running the gamut between what was, what is, and what may be. Perhaps she’d watched too many romance movies, but she wanted her fairy tale. Perhaps she’d find it, but who could say for sure?
When she was eighteen she met a skinhead boy trapped in a man’s body. Strung out on white lines, he’d give her piggyback rides while she inhaled the scent of his leather jacket. She loved the smell of leather. They’d play putt-putt in the dark-he was a sore loser, so she let him win. In the middle of the night, when the damp air left a sheen of dew on her car, he’d write letters in the upper corner of the windshield-backwards so she could read them from her seat. These letters would eventually form a sentence. It was up to her to decipher their meaning. She never did.
When she was nineteen she met a punk rock boy trapped in a man’s body. She gave him everything. He gave her nothing but silence. One day he began to speak. Like the pied piper, he led her on an eight-year journey. The past came full circle to create the present. She was pissed, but grateful.
When she was twenty she met a goth boy trapped in a man’s body. Tall, skinny he was, with curly blonde Martin Gore hair. Classes called, but she declined their invitation for a rendezvous at the mall. She gave him black roses while he drained her soul. She swore she’d never again pursue a crush based on a haircut.
When she was twenty-and-a-half she met a normal boy trapped in a man’s body. She thought perhaps it would be better. “No more weirdos for me, thankyouverymuch.” He lived in a trailer on his grandparents’ property. They’d motor about in the darkness, playing Nitzer Ebb. She laughed every time they passed Lakeside Drive. Seven months came and went. Seven months it took her to realize he was the worst of all. Rivals unraveled and extracted the perfect revenge, so perhaps it was all worth it.
When she was twenty-one she met an alcoholic boy trapped in a man’s body. Good-hearted, he tried to teach her to play tennis. She sucked. He told her she kissed like a demon. She thought it an appropriate description, somehow. Once he told her she should learn to keep her mouth shut. Drunk or not, she told him to go fuck himself. She would not be controlled.
When she was twenty-two she met a gutter punk boy trapped in a man’s body. He was a plaything who rang her after being arrested so she could bail him out. She didn’t. When he was jumped by a Florida redneck, she protected him. She had a scar to prove it. Hygiene stopped being important to him. He stopped being important to her. She decided an eighteen-year-old boy was just too young.
When she was twenty-three she met an Army boy trapped in a man’s body. Lured by sweet talk and promises, she embarked on a transatlantic adventure. In search of a ring. She never found it.
When she was twenty-four she met a martial arts boy trapped in a man’s body. He was afraid of her boldness. She found that funny. He cringed every time she stood up to someone. She wanted to call him Napoleon. After finding his roommates consorting with two fifteen-year-old girls high on pot and beer, he couldn’t understand why she was so pissed. After finding his roommates consorting with two fifteen-year-old girls high on pot and beer, she couldn’t understand why he wasn’t.
When she was twenty-five she stopped meeting. Tired, reclusive, she stopped living.
When she was twenty-nine she met a man trapped in a man’s body. From the Midwest to Europe she thought she’d found her fairy tale. Not perfection, but, perhaps, perfect for her. She was wrong. An overindulgence in serial killers scared her. He berated her like a child for a powdered sugar, whipped cream incident. She decided he was psychotic and left.
When she was twenty-eight she met a rock star boy trapped in a man’s body. She was smitten, despite the fact that he lived three-thousand miles away. Four years and hundreds of emails later she moved. Three-thousand miles. Just to see if she could jerk off the impossible. She couldn’t.
When she was thirty she met a man not trapped. He was her friend, brutal and honest. She appreciated that. No thoughts of fairy tales clouded her vision. Acceptance.
When she was thirty-three she met an overgrown frat boy trapped in a man’s body. He liked to sit in the quiet of the night and exchange “remember when” stories with his brother while nestled next to her. They usually involved girls and bragging rights.
When she was thirty-five she met a gamer geek trapped in a man’s body. She adored him. Fully. For the first time in her adult life she felt safe. That was right before she wanted to gouge her heart out with a spoon.
O glorious day, when men were men and women were women. When the games of old were tucked away, when hindsight was twenty-twenty, when all was said and done, where would she be? Exactly where she was.
Copyright 2010 K. Pierce
Topics: the misfit life | No Comments »And So It Starts
By The Misfit | July 12, 2010At the time of this writing I am thirty-nine years old with yet another toe-dipping into a relationship perhaps best left in the past to my credit – as if I’m not already indebted enough. Unlike others who scratch their conquests in stone or the ever cliché bedpost, I much prefer to gouge a deep gash next to the ones already scaring the non-tangible. My badge of honor isn’t the actual relationship demise, but rather the scars that are created in the aftermath.
During this most recent adjustment period (which has lasted three years and has consistently been characterized by the manic-depressive lunacy of I love him. I hate him. I miss him. Fuck him. Bastard. What in the hell was I thinking? Is this really worth it? It’s not that he doesn’t care, he’s just scared. He’ll come back. He won’t come back. I deserve better than this. I will not cry. I will not cry. Analyze. Analyze. Rationalize. Rationalize. Blah. Blah. Blah.) I thought it would be a good time to undertake a project I’ve been talking about for years: transcribing my handwritten diaries into an electronic file. I mean, focusing on things other than him is part of the growing process.
Right?
In my zeal to completely erase the most recent from memory, I conveniently forgot that my diaries generally fall into a pattern of one or two diaries per relationship, which isn’t too hard to do considering I haven’t looked at them since they were written – the first one dates back to when I was nineteen. What could provide more ammo for my current plummet into the realm of navigating the emotional confusion than reading about scars that already exist?
So, I dug the first couple out of their hiding places, dusted them off, and got to work. The more I read, the more I typed. The more I typed, the more I thought. The more I thought, the more I realized two things: one: I compartmentalize everything by who I was dating, or was interested in, when. For instance, if you ask me what I was doing in a specific year, I’m inclined to start my answer with, “I was dating [insert name of choice here]….” or “That was when I had a crush on [insert name of choice here]…” or some variation thereof. (It seems to be the only way I can remember what I was doing at any given time. I know people who do the same thing with concerts, but I haven’t yet come across anyone else who uses relationships as mile markers.) And two – I have a very bad habit of dating or being attracted to men who are emotionally retarded.
Now before I get pegged as a misandrist or worse, it is recognizing this fact that has made me address my own emotional retardedness. I’ve long acknowledged my affinity for people who are dysfunctional – people who are as hurt and as lost as I am, wandering around looking for the place we belong – it’s never been a closely guarded secret that I have an affinity for men with wounds in need of healing. The question I’ve had to ask myself is why? Aside from having an older brother who essentially terrorized me (as older brothers are wont to do) while we were growing up, I didn’t have a particularly screwed-up childhood. My parents have been married forty some odd years and not once have I ever heard them raise their voices to each other. Neither of them are alcoholics or drug users. My brother isn’t an alcoholic or drug user. I’m not an alcoholic or drug user. I didn’t grow up too quickly. I have loved and lost no more or less than the average person. So what is it that has drawn me to people who are floundering through life as much, if not more so, than I am?
These essays are in response to that exploration. As is customary when writing about real people, names (and sometimes places) have been changed. While I will admit to having a bit of revenge (I’d be a liar if I didn’t feel resentment toward a few of them) I will not hold them up to ridicule simply for ridicule’s sake; just because the relationships failed doesn’t mean that any or all or none of us are bad people – we’ve all been frogs or princes (or princesses, as the case may be) for someone else. We’re all a little bit screwed-up. These essays are about what I’ve learned from men – and I have learned from them, sometimes painfully so. Additionally, corresponding ages have been played with under creative license, and facts, of course, fall under the heading of my recollections and are subject to the fallibility of said recollections.
Some of you will recognize yourself within these pages. I will neither confirm nor deny anything. And despite my seeming cynicism and occasional bitterness, rest assured that I hope you’ve found the place you belong.
Topics: misfit musings | No Comments »In Which The Misfit Bares Her Soul
By The Misfit | July 11, 2010For someone who insists she doesn’t need to be in a relationship, I spend an awful lot of time thinking about them. When I was in college working on my BA, I took a Creative Non Fiction course, which I loved. It didn’t take me long to discover that much of what I wrote concerned relationships. I’ve been contemplating putting them into a book for the past ten years, but keep getting distracted by any number of things. Men, probably.
I have a bad habit of doing that. 
Anyway, I figured I’d put them to good use and post them here. Most of them were written years ago – much of the contemplation I’ve been doing more recently has been kept to my own private journals and hasn’t been put into a form fit for public consumption. I’m hoping that by sharing these I’ll be motivated to get back to doing more than just talking about writing.
For those of you who think it would be a good idea to steal them to post on another site, please don’t. They are all original works and if I find out they’ve been posted elsewhere without my permission, I will hunt you down. If you would like to post them on another site please leave a comment, and I will email you privately.
I would love to hear your thoughts on them, too, of course, so please feel free to leave a comment if the mood strikes you. I <3 constructive criticism.
So, with those thoughts in mind, please stay tuned.
Topics: misfit musings | No Comments »A “Bitch” Post Especially For Tokenblogger
By The Misfit | July 9, 2010So, I’m at work the other day, having a freak out moment because no one has been able to get a hold of my brother who was released from the hospital not too long ago*. I’m sitting in my temporary office space on the verge of tears because my inner drama queen is on overtime shifting from one bad scenario to another. Add to that the fact that I’ve had a pinched nerve in my left shoulder for about 4 weeks now that simply will not go away making me feel like crying anyway, and you’ve got a not-so-great situation.
Anyway, I’m sitting there trying to hold it together, cause Lord knows I haven’t done nearly enough crying the past couple of weeks, when hot, bald, married guy pokes his head in my office to say hello.
The conversation when a little something like this:
HBMG: Good morning.
Me: *sniff* Good morning.
HBMG: How are you?
Me: Freaking out because no one can get a hold of my brother who was just released from the hospital not too long ago.
*crickets chirping*
I don’t know why it is that I have to dump crap like that on people who don’t know me well enough to even remotely care. I swear I need to wear a crown that signifies that I’m the Queen of TMI.
What perplexes me more is why he occasionally goes out of his way to even approach me. Dude is married. We don’t have any office interaction. He doesn’t ask me to run copies or create a PowerPoint presentation or run papers to another office. There is absolute no reason for him to go out of his way to even so much as talk to me.
And what really irritates me at the moment is the lingering question as to why I seem to be wholly incapable of meeting someone who isn’t a jerk, or who actually likes me enough to pursue me, or who I don’t manage to run off in short order.
I’m envisioning my rocking chair on my porch, my passel of cats, and my bitchy attitude screeching at the kids to stay off my lawn.
*no brothers were hurt, killed, or maimed for this blog post.
UPDATE: God has a really warped sense of humor.
So, hot bald guy isn’t married, but the woman I was told was his wife WAS his wife. Not only that, but they’re dating.
I’ll give you one guess out of whose mouth this tidbit came…
Go ahead.
Guess.
*sigh*
Topics: the misfit life | 2 Comments »