With extra fat comes dimples.


At thirty, it's not as cute as it sounds.





But, maybe I can pull it off for a couple of years or until I find my first wrinkle.

I haven't seen even one ant this year, yet. I just checked this livejournal to see when it was that we started having the infestation last year, you know, just to prep myself. Apparently, it started in March. I remember it was directly after all the snow had melted. Hmmm. How curious that we have absolutely none this year. Come on, an ant infestation just doesn't up and walk away by itself. They get worse year after year. Whatever. I'm confused, but I'll just take it and enjoy the non-creepy-crawlies.

I keep having dreams about Prince Edward Island and places I've never seen before. And, I can see these places FROM P.E.I.

I secretly hope that I go there and do all that I said I might. I hope to love it. I hope to find myself there. I hope to find work there, and housing. I hope to come back only to pack up and break the news.

I doubt this will happen, but it'd be something if it did.

I think I just realized that I need to find a job. And, of course, this is the worst time to try and find one. Just a part-time, 10-20 hrs a week piece of poo will do.


I still get called once and a while to work at the licence office, but I really can't stand being the middleman between customer and the moronic ministry (which is so publicly unfriendly beyond rationality, not to mention confusing and stupid, clouded with grey areas for which the middleman is ultimately held responisble for if something goes wrong via judgement calls). It's a level beyond customer service at times. It's babysitting, and I never was a good babysitter. Customers throw fits, cry, and they expect/demand the ministry to hold their hands through every step of their driving lives. Some of these people don't even know the difference between their driver's licence and their vehicle permit. And, somehow, that'll be my fault down the road when they come in with a ticket they can't pay for at our office for an expired licence or sticker.


Anyhow... This wasn't my point. The point is, I just finished breaking down Tom's financial intake and output per month, and it's not good news. Granted, I can find a couple of ways to pinch pennies, but it'll be tight to break even no matter what. Even just a couple hundred bucks from me a month would help in a big way. I guess I can't afford to take this year off, after all. But, I'm not at all ready to go back to any kind of full-time work. My nerves are still in the pisser, somewhat. Either way, though, there's not much out there.

When life tells you "no", eventually you force a fucking "yes" any way you can.




It looks like I'm going to have to fight for my freedom from all the no. No wonder I'm thinking about moving to another province away from the no-sayers. I need some yes right effing now.

The year 2027 keeps flashing in my mind. This has never happened before, that a year just gets planted in my head like this. The extremist that I am, I assume that I'm predicting the year of my death. Although, I've been proven to be a terrible psychic in any compacity, and I strongly believe that no one can really predict when the end will come.

But, the year 2027 is rooted in my mind. What a terrible number combination to be stuck with, too. 7 is my most hated number. And, 2 isn't a favourite, either. 2027 will probably come and go like every year that passes me by, but it's fun to wonder why it's bugging me and if anything will come of it.

Amy Yeo loves and misses all of her friends and wishes she wasn't such a tard.

-Now that my hair has grown past my chin for the first time in five years, it seems that I'm back to being hit on uncomfortably. I forgot how much I detested that. At least with short hair, I was outright flirted with in a direct and honest way. Now, as the hair grows longer, the way that I'm approached puts me back to uncomfortable submissiveness, and I can't stand it. You would think that being older and uglier and fatter would have ended this sort of crap, but no, it's the short hair that clinched it and it's the longer hair that's bringing it all back. I loved my short hair. I didn't have to bother with it. I didn't have to dry it. It didn't get everywhere. It didn't stick to everything. I would cut the damn thing if I weren't trying to grow it for the wedding, or if I had the money to maintain it.

-Tom's finally starting to have it out with me about "not doing anything". I had it coming, I guess. I had told him I was going to quit my job to write, but then I had a breakdown and I needed time to chill out. Well, it took me a few months to chill and now that I'm somewhat doing things pertaining to writing, he hasn't been noticing and came down on me last week. I guess he expected me to finish a novel, and so did I, but that's not happening. I've been writing, but not stories. The fact is that I LIKE doing nothing. Nothing is fun. I guess if my true ambition is to waste away, I can't count on Tom to support that. Shit. :P

-my forearms still haven't healed from pole-dancing lessons back in August/September. And, somewhere between September and late December, the option to utilize those lessons for monetary gain via a job as a stripper disappeared. My body changed again, and it's not pretty. Even if I lose the weight, I doubt my breasts will comply and magically erase the stretch marks and gravity that have afflicted them.

-May is coming up fast, and I had better get some solid plans in motion if I want to get to PEI before late May to mid-June. My first trip alone! My first time in an airplane!! By myself and no one else! Just the thought is so freeing and powerful. This is going to be a highly important experience for me. Complete independance. It speaks volumes that my mother is desperately against me going by myself and scrambling to find ways around this. "Bring Dad! Dad would love to go! You wouldn't have to worry about transportation around the island." "Bring me! I want to go. I'd leave you alone." To which I scoffed and said "No you wouldn't". And, no, she wouldn't. "Don't you want to take Tom? It's such a romantic place. You NEED to have someone to share it with." Any romance I get out of the place would be one for my notebook. Besides, Prince Edward Island is only romantic if your plans aren't to squat around in muck, digging for clams, or dumping it out in fishing gear on a boat trying to help trap lobster. What's really going to flip mom's lid later is if I like island life enough to tell her that I'm not returning to Ontario. This is possible. Not probable, but I don't have anything that forces me to reside in Ontario. The only people I see frequently are my parents. For the gaps in between seeing my friends as it is, I can easily fly back every few months and it'll be just the same. Tom has a good job keeping him here, but there's an Enterprise in PEI. And, I might be inclined to do what I want to anyways, even if it excludes Tom (in which case, my PEI resiency would probably be short-lived).

-I'm so happy that passports are easier to get now. Nothing about having a doctor or dentist be a guarantor. WHEEE!!!

Dear Livejournal,

Please don't die.

But if you do, can you give me a few weeks notice so that I can gather my entries up and save them for future reference?


-Amy

I don't know what is exactly going on in my head, but I seem to get these notions and get passionate about them.

In the past, whenever I was dumped and going though something upsetting, I always had the instinct to flee to somewhere far away for a while. Run away and hide and maybe start somewhere else. Australia, Ireland... But, I never did it. I always stayed put. Maybe it's never having done any of that. Maybe I'm just changing or wanting to feel independant. But, I seem to have a desire to travel to PEI by myself for a week or two. Why PEI?? Don't know. Been there once when I was a teen. I want to stay locked up in a room with a bed, a desk, a window, and a bathroom. I want to be as reclusive as I wish, to answer to no one, to get up as early as I desire and trap lobster and other crustations. Fishing??? ME????? I don't know, man... I just want to. I don't understand it, but I need to fuck off and be by myself completely. Maybe I'll get some writing done, or not at all. Maybe I'll get some thinking done, or not at all. Maybe I'll figure out what or who I am, or maybe I won't at all. I have no expectations except to just enjoy doing it all by myself, to be self-reliant, to be me completely... Whoever that is.

Frankly, I think that Tom and I may postpone our wedding. We can't figure it out. We can't commit to a plan. Tom wants to avoid anything that'll stress me out (with good reason), and I don't want to be screwed out of a ceremony just because I'm likely to have several nervous fits between now and the wedding. To be honest, I just don't care about having a wedding right now. It's not a good time, personally speaking. I'm in the worst shape of my life, physically at least, and I'm more keen on this PEI self-discovery thing more than any wedding plans. Tom and I are a sure thing, no doubt, so waiting shouldn't be a big deal.

To be honest, I'm more excited about being by myself right now than getting hitched. We really are already hitched, I know. We're approaching our nineth year together. I'm lucky that Tom is easy-going enough to be happy for me and let me bugger off however I wish. I suppose that's true love right there, and no legal document could make it any more punctuated.

I told my mom about my desire to go to PEI by myself. What a mistake that was. She seems to think that obviously means something is wrong, something is missing, and that I should talk to someone. WTF?? I told her all I wanted to talk to was myself and the lobsters. "Hey, lobster, how ya doing this morning?"

I tried to look at it objectively, and no, there really is nothing "wrong". The only thing I feel that is missing is my independance (did I ever have this??) and sense of identity. It's right on the surface, I know. It's for me to reach out and find it. I actually am feeling good, to be honest. 30 is shaping up to be a great age so far, and it's only February. I can track my life and pinpoint times of notable developed wisdom, but something is very distinctive about this particular spurt... The wisdom is for MY benefit. It's not to teach to anyone, but to shut up and learn it for myself.

My lack of motivation is killing me.


I can say what I want about whatever anxiety or alcohol related problems I have, but the lack of motivation is what is the most problematic for me. It's always been there. I know how different my life could be if this wasn't an issue. It'd be a successful one. I'd be more healthy, I'd be more active, I'd be more free, I'd be richer (or at least on my way to becoming that). Of all the damn things I need to change, this lack of motivation is the first I need resolved. Not the booze, not the nerves, but this chronic funk which has been with me since I was thirteen. I don't even have the motivation to make a doctor's appointment so that I can get a recommendation for help with it. So stupid. What a waste of perfectly good life. As much as I like who I am, I am so angry with myself sometimes because of this.

For my thirtieth birthday, I got a new batch of stretch marks... this time on my breasts as well as the ass again. Well, that's it folks. My boobs were the best physical thing left about me that was super fabulous and enviable. Shit. Ah well. I also got a Wii Fit and found out how much I weigh. Yet another awesome delightful experience. I thought that things were bad when I was 115 a few years ago. I knew I gained a bunch this year, but I never expected me to see 136. Amazingly, I'm not flipping out about either the weight or the stretch marks. It's disappointing (especially the boob thing), but the shell always falls apart eventually. I can't expect much when I'm as inactive as I am. And, it was going to happen when/if I have kids (if that's even possible). At least I'm in good physical health (as I type this sick with a cold).


But, I've been 30 for a week now, and it's already a positive thing. Why? I don't know. I'm making it positive, I guess. My main goals in life are starting to change. Well, in a way. I still want to do what I always wanted to do, but now I'm starting to think that I may want to also utilize my talents for... get this... worthier causes. Can you believe it? I can't, although maybe I should have seen it coming years ago when I found extreme facination in everything that scared me about end-of-the-world scenarios on Exit Mundi. Or, how nuclear radiation scares me. I should have known that eventually I was going to evolve from wanting to make the world pretty into helping to make the world not die. No one is ever REALLY remembered forever, especially when there is no world left to remember things. So, why not do something that will truly impact people and make a difference? Why not help preserve life? Why not help make this Earth last just a little bit longer? Without me, I'm fucked and that's about all that would be impacted in the long run. But, without this world, everyone's fucked. Who cares about a dickheaded woman's ramblings over their own lives due to a crumbling planet? So, although I still want to write and create music and all that jazz, it looks like my life's job is up for a little description revision.

I was just going through one of my email accounts, reading emails from the past. I really miss my friends. In these emails, you can really see where things just declined and how slow or quickly it happened. You can see the tail end of my absolute comfort with my friends, still feeling the freedom to be myself, exactly how I am/was. And, you can see where my paranoia was rooted and when I let it take over. You can see that it didn't start in my head, but following a string of things, large and tiny, evolving into what you have now: This socialphobic broken down recluse, not by choice, but by self-protection. Why couldn't I have been born a less vulnerable and fragile thing? Though, coupled with my selfishness and abrasiveness, it's just the most effed-up mix of polar opposite personality traits. With one word, I can rub people the wrong way, and I usually do. I can't stand it, because I want to be loved and adored, but everything I say, people seem to hate or ignore. So, unless I'm well protected under some mask, I don't say much anymore (the inability to vocally express myself very well highly encourages this). My choices, as confident as I am when I make them at the time, seem to always be the wrong ones. I never had to hide my weaknesses before. I never had to worry about being a drama-whore, or immature and babyish and weak, or too strange, or too psychotic, or too drunk, or too whateverthehellIwas. But, seeds were planted long ago, my overworking mind being perfect soil, and they were nurtured very well. Now, from the garden of doubt, stands a full-length mirror. This mirror does more than what you'd think. It also acts as a wall. I can't be myself without reservation first.


Now, I'm so tired that I don't even know where I'm going with this. But, I doubt I have much of an audience, so what the fuck? My point was that I miss my friends very much. I barely have the energy or confidence to lift a finger to show it unless I've had a drink or two, but I really do miss. I wish I felt better.


And, I know it's my fault, the not-lifting-a-finger thing, that I can't do anything but cry when I think about New Year's Eve. Fucking thirty, and just like every year, no one gives a fucking shit. I seriously can't even talk about it with Tom, because I can't make it even partially through the conversation without waterworks. Because, I know no matter what we do, go away or stay here, it's going to be New Years for everyone else and only my 30th birthday for me alone. And, seeing as this is a milestone birthday... Yeah, I'm extra fucking upset about it. If Tom has to work on that day, I told him not to even come home, because I'll be too far down in my own little zone by the time he's done. I'll just be hiding alone somewhere, thinking about how fucking far I can run the hell away from this town, this country, this life. Irony is, it would take so very little to 180 this thing into something completely wicked awesome, for even the mirror to smash into a vapour of nothingness.

This is the wrong time in my life for this to happen to me today.

So, I've been having intense nervous/emotional breakdowns since the beginning October. I have quit my job, and have been living rather reclusively, more than I had been already. I have quit going to Wednesday circles, and have not been handling myself well at choir practices to the point where I'm nearly quitting that also. Since May, if not years before, I've been having the precise feeling that life/god/the world has been out to get me. Freakish bad luck has been plaguing me, to the point of seriously breaking me down.

So, here I've been for the past month, TRYING to settle myself and avoid anything that could cause me stress or anxiety. I've had slight paranoia about things around me, including the feeling that my computer had been hacked last week.

Well today, the story, and the bad luck, found me.

Last night, I didn't get to sleep until 6:30am. Now, Tom usually tries not to wake me, even when he's coming home for lunch. He'll often quietly open the bedroom door to see if I'm asleep, and then close it and move around quietly in the apartment. The bedroom door, however, makes a farting noise when opened, and usually wakes me up. So, when the door farted today at 1pm and closed gently, as always, I got right up, opened the bedroom door to greet Tommy. HOWEVER, IT WASN'T TOMMY. I greeted the back of someone as he was leaving the apartment from the front. Now, I can pretend to believe that I dreamed the sound of the door waking me up, and I can also almost pretend to believe that I dreamed the man walking out of the apartment. But, seeing the apartment door fully opened and shutting behind him, I can't pretend. Nor, can I pretend to have dreamed saying "Tommy?" and hearing the man answer "No, it's....(I don't know what after that, he was mumbling and I was just waking up)" as he kept on walking out. Nor can I pretend that I didn't hear him walk down the stairs of the building and hear the building's door open and close. Nothing was taken. Nothing was moved. I was totally confused. For a few moments, I was still thinking it had been Tom. Then, I was thinking it was the guy across the hall trying to get to his apartment through the back because the front door was locked on him again. But, he vacated that apartment a week ago. Then, I thought that maybe the landlady had sent someone in. But, why would that someone open the door to the bedroom?? The guy didn't come back, so it couldn't have been someone to clean out the apartment across the hall. But, the guy didn't rush out. He walked calmly as if he belonged here, as if he fucking owned the place. I called Tom and he came home for the rest of the day. We're keeping the doors locked now, forever.

But, now it's 2am, and every noise I hear is fucking me up. I'm sitting here, with the sharpest knife in the apartment on my lap (which happens to be the largest), a personal alarm at my reach (an EXTREMELY loud noise maker that my sister got for me last Christmas), and my cell phone on charge so that I'll have it on me all day tomorrow if I need to call 911. I'll probably sleep on the futon in the living room tonight (if I sleep at all) so that any little sound will wake me up.

God, I feel so fucking insane right now. As if I needed more shit to push me further into psychological dysfunction. Of all the times I went on 3am strolls around Whitby's secluded streets alone. Of all the times I went to that strip bar by myself, stripped my ass off for kicks, and walked home by myself, even meeting and chatting with strangers on the way... Of all the stupid and potentially dangerous situations I've basically dared to be placed in and have tempted the fates with... it actually happens while sleeping in my own home where I'm supposed to feel most safe. I actually wasn't scared all day after this, just creeped out and obsessed with thoughts about it. But, right now, in the dead of night, I'm feeling terrified.

Screw resolutions, this idea is much better. I have 1001 days to complete 101 goals, or else. I don't know what happens if I don't do it. I'm guessing it's like a written Unbreakable Vow, and I'll explode or die if I don't accomplish it all. :P~~~ Just Kiddin'.
( Read my 101 Goals )

A couple of explanations:

-Alicia is Tommy's budgie. She shows affection to Tommy by bunting his nose with her little beak. It's really cute. She used to do the same to me a couple of years ago. She loved me just as much as she loved Tom, but one day she took strange to me and bit me. She stopped chirping to my whistles, too. Well, I've been wary of her since, and though she moves in to do it to me at times now, I can't bring myself to do #85

-#16 just means lose the extra inches I have, which shouldn't be too hard (I hope). I'd like to fit into these gold pants again, without blobbies spilling out from the waistline

-Soft swear words like "damn" are exempt from #33

-Attendance mandatory for #73, not participation

-I mean somewhere outside Canada in #75

-I used to know how to do #96 moderately, but lately, the same old tricks just aren't cutting it

Okay, so I'm not a kid person. More over, I am not a baby person. I never babysat of my own free will when I was a preteen, and when I did, oh Jeezzz, did I ever suck monster balls. I would call my mommy to come over and help me. I held my nephew maybe once as a baby. A few years ago, I held my great neice... like... twice... Ever... Probably like a football.


So, what the hell? I'm all excited that Dan's coming over with her new baby boy at 11am. Why do I care so much? Is it because Dan's my friend, and I've never known her as a mom, and I have no concept of what it is like and I want to know?

I don't know. All I know, is that I can't wait to meet Sullivan... for whatever reason.

Three years ago, I lost a few pages of Taboo, and I stopped writing it completely. The pages honestly just up and walked away by themselves. I looked everywhere. I even moved out last year and didn't find them. I finally concluded that I had left them in a magazine that got thrown out.


Well, we were just over at Tom's parent's house and I was looking in some packed, unmoved boxes for Tom's file folio, and what did I find?? Those friggin' pages!!! I couldn't believe it. I CAN'T believe it. And, it's so weird, because they weren't deep in this box, and they weren't with any other things that were mine. Plus, I had lost these sheets before Tom's family moved to that house three years ago, and these boxes were packed just last year after we got the apartment. So effing eerie and strange. There's no reason why I would have brought these sheets over to Tom's at all at any point. They were at my parent's house and that's all.


I don't even know what to make of this, but I'm pretty overwhelmed. This month, I've been seriously thinking about quitting my job to start writing again. It's been ages since I've written anything on paper. And, it just seems that finding these sheets is permission for me to do just that. As if they were just biding time until they thought that I was ready. So weird, and so cool.


TABOO IS BACK!!!!

Just like everyone else, I've been neglecting my livejournal. I want to come back to it, though. Writing elsewhere just isn't the same.

Okay, so I'm on my way to another round of major life changes. It's building up, it's in the works, and I can feel it boiling up in the very pit of me. The only barrier I have is, again, the confusion of what to do first. I didn't even realize that I was in a limbo or that life had become stagnant, but when you want a change, there must be a reason why.

1. I need to quit my stupid-assed job. Every working day that goes by, I'm ten times closer to putting my two-weeks in, and I've been on the very tip of the edge for a long while now. I wake up every day with fear and dread in my gut, and I leave the apartment with a chip on my shoulder, as the last thing I see is Princess Bumbles on her hind legs BEGGING me for attention that I can't stop to give. For at least six months, my bank balance hasn't grown at all, which leads me to realize how little I'm actually making. I have no benefits, no pension, no lunch, no breaks, and it's non-stop high stress all day long until I come home. This, my friends, is dumb.

2. Although there are things about me that I'm proud of, It's about time that I make a valliant effort to be a better, happier, and peaceful person. These breakdowns have to stop. My temper has to end. My bad luck needs to cease. The stress in my life has got to go. And, it won't happen with me sitting here doing nothing about it. I need a good psychologist, not these fluffy counsellors from public services who you go to just to "talk". I don't want to talk anymore. I need someone to give me the right tools to fix myself. I've put so much effort into my losses for years, that I've crippled myself. It's no wonder why I have no energy and can't handle a full-time job, and that I don't write or make music anymore. I haven't picked up the guitar in months. This mourning about IS a full-time job. I have completely defeated myself. And, it needs to fucking end.

3. I haven't gone to the liquor store in three weeks, as I just can't afford it. I'm not sure what's going to happen (my pattern seems to be teetotal or limit for months and then binge the hell out for awhile), but I hope that my drinking habits have a transformation as well. Within two months prior to this, I've pollished off 17 bottles of booze. My mid-drift shows what my entire lifestyle is doing to me. Booze can't be helping, that's for sure.

4. I need my driver's licence. This has been a few months coming, too. I just have to f'n study that handbook and f'n write that test. I want my own car. I want my PT Cruiser and live in the boonies on the lake.

5. I want to move into a house, rent or own. This apartment is cheap, which is great, but we need more room. It's always a disaster, half because we're messy pigs, and half because there's no room to put anything except on the floor. I want Bumbles to be a free-range bunny in her own room or basement... and I want to install a brass pole. I'm considering not moving on to the third level of pole-dancing lessons. When I'm in class at the studio, I am unbelievably terrible and can barely look at the poles without slipping, but I'm just fine when I'm practicing on my own at the Royal. But, even at the Royal, I'm not comfortable enough to experiment, and I would be if I were alone. I can teach myself with YouTube anyhow, I'm sure.

6. So, in accordance with #2, I want to be writing and making music again. BUT... I want the motivation to DO SOMETHING with them, finally. I have all the ambition in the world and confidence that I could be successful, but then... that's all I ever had. Never did I have any follow through. I want to quit my job, but you know what? I don't want another one to replace it. This is it. THIS IS THE TIME TO FOLLOW MY DREAMS. I'm in a position now where I don't need my parent's approval and can ignore their disapproval. Tom is behind me completely and even agreed to support me, which is all I should need. And, I'm too old to deny myself what has been my true life's occupation since I was thirteen years old. I just need help to get past the blocks in my life that have prevented me from going for it.

I will stop putting energy in my miseries and losses, although I'm proud of the spirit, intentions, and goodness in my heart about them. I need that attention elsewhere now, directed to a more bountiful path. I want more for myself, and I'm ready to be responsible for my own... everything. I don't know if I ever completely got out of the depression I got myself into when I was very young, or if I've just developed a new one and have been living in it in the past eight years. Whatever it is... I'm going to rid myself of it the best I can.

You know what I'd like? If everyone would stop talking sex to me. Stop with the retarded lines. Stop looking for something derogatory in everything I write. But, then when they stop, they don't want to talk to me.

I have real things to say, motherfuckers.

And, all I've had to say, I've spewed on here before. I don't get answers or help here, and I don't see how I can expect them from horny dickheads elsewhere.

I often get the feeling that I'm good for a laugh or a lark and that's it. Is it paranoia, really?

My recent failure of easily picking up pole dancing has made me think of a few things that I just want to jot down for myself.

I wonder what it means to not know your left from your right right away, or needing to do the L-trick with your left hand to recall which is which? Is it related to mixing up numbers? Because, I do that often, too. And, would that be related to not being able to do math in your head without using your fingers? Because, I have to do that, too, or I just fuck it and use a calculator for the simplest pieces of addition or subtraction. But, I have a pretty good sense of direction, mostly (except when in Niagara-on-the-Lake).

Why in hell do they make kids read aloud in school? Okay, I know why, buy why did they have to make ME read aloud in school? I tried to tell teachers that even though I read well aloud with excellent intonation and sentence flow, good pronounciation (as long as I knew the word), I'd have not a damn clue as to what I had just read. It was so frustrating to be following along just perfectly, then to be interrupted by my own reading out loud because the teacher called on me for a few paragraphs, then, while the rest of the class just continued from where I left off, I'd have to go back and re-read what I just read, and then try and catch up with the rest of the class. I was proud to not do what so many kids did, combine sentenses together without a break, or ignore commas, speak in monotone, or say the wrong words. But, it was embarassing to realize that I had no idea what I had just finished saying.