It only took 15 years…

https://x.com/yahomied/status/1830558951194124560?s=46

Am I just talking out of my ass if I say Martin Luther King Jr. isn’t important to you? I wish that was a conversation we could have, and yet as I type, I feel like we’ve danced on the surface of his sacrifice, at least once. Oh well. Things that may never be, am I right?

Dreaming in Midday

Of you, of course.

https://www.instagram.com/reel/C-J3N4bgLm_/?igsh=MWw2MGtlMGg4ajluZg==

https://www.instagram.com/reel/C_W0i2UMeoO/?igsh=cDdpc3czYjVjcXd6

Laptop takes Priority

https://www.instagram.com/reel/C9p0XGhM-uT/?igsh=YmZkeDVub2FqMmxh

At least I’m not calling myself a shaman, or psychic

https://x.com/somakazima/status/1829520385433305500?s=46

Fantasy

Back to that story about you buying a house in Boston and me living with you, I would think about buying you flowers every day, maybe once a week and buying your favorite chocolate on Amazon to make things up to you.

I wasn’t thinking the relationship would be magical and perfect, I expected fights, disagreements really, not like fistfights, and maybe strong language, but still, because I can only think and know what I would do, I would be determined to make it work.

The voices, in my fantasies, would interrupt and say things like you’d kill yourself in bed or you’re try to kill me in my sleep, but at this point and time, I welcome death, if that’s how I were to go.

I mean at least I’d be following my heart.

At least I’d be in love.

At least I’d be thinking I made the right choice, to choose someone.

It’s hard enough living with the voices, especially a few weeks ago.

Please, take me out.

Of course, this is fantasy, hallucination, delusion.

It’s more likely that NONE of this will ever happen,

not the good (for me)

or the bad (also, for me)

It just cements in my mind that I want to love you, and I want to be loved by you.

At least when I’m going crazy.

When I’m not hearing the voices, I don’t know if I’m really feeling anything.

When the voices are gone, I don’t want to immediately get into a relationship with someone else.

I have my memories with you and while I’m happy with them and that time, I know I should not live in the past, but I’m not eager to start the journey of love again.

I know I want to be more appealing to woman, and I want to make more money, and I’m on the path to do that, finishing school and working out, but at the end of that, I just feel like I’ll keep chasing sex, I don’t see a future for myself where I’m settled down.

I see parties

A uniquely decorated apartment

A liquor cabinet

But I don’t see a wife and kids.

I don’t even see a dog or a cat.

Just me

on my own.

Stuff

Voices been calling you a “slut” for a while now, maybe it’s another pun on the Norwegian language for graduate. Example below:

It’s funny to me now

A common story in my head, about you, was that your father in Law, whomever he is or isn’t, bought a house for you here in Boston, Dorchester no less, and you were to be the landlord of the property, live and or work from there while renting out the other two floors (it was a 3 family property) to make your income and we’d get back together and I’d move in with you.

It’s funny to me now, and I don’t recall if I ever brought that up but even in the worst psychosis that was some, “happy ending” I had waiting for me no matter what I thought or said.

It’s comedy gold.

Like so laughable that the little embers in me that still love you or the idea of you would dream up something that grandiose and sensational.

You have no idea what I’ve been going through, but! It’s not like you wanted to know either.

I mean hey, you were taking medication too when we met, I have no idea what you’re going through either.

Just two suffering souls I guess.

Insanity

So, I’m remembering my most recent episode of psychosis and can I at least talk about the soap opera that was you and Aaron Wall?

How for almost a month in my mind you were trying to convince him that he was “your favorite” and thats why you were still friends with him, still talking to him on social media?

I mean, even before my psychosis there was that one moment during sex where I choked you for a bit and what appeared in my mind, if not in my room was not only his father but him, having sex with his mother?

And then when we were in New York, he “turned up” and I felt the texture of the ducks penis on my tongue, and then when you motioned that you’d have hung yourself you were talking to his younger sister, Oare, because that night she was raped by him and his friends at the time…

Just a bunch of dark moments but somehow they concern him.

And he and I have never been good friends, I mean we’re aware of each other but I can’t recall ever having his number in my phone, and if I did, I never called or texted him…

It just, it closes the gap between how you may have found me on xanga. Somehow he’s the glue that got us together.

But man, why would I ever hear something like that?

You can see how this feels alien to me, right?

https://www.instagram.com/reel/C_LQMmRu4Y8/?igsh=bXEwZWdxd3Fibm5x

You're right, and Google Confirms it

I can’t find that orange website with your name on it, but it’s making me itch to look for it.

I googled your maiden name, there isn’t even a picture, just some article about women that have been sexually assaulted in the music industry.

You’re right, you aren’t the same person anymore, and google not only confirms it, it acts as if who you were, doesn’t even exist.

It’d be nice if my musings, my curiosity, stopped here, and I went on my way, but no, I do know who you are now, you and your “wonderful” husband. You with your child.

That sounds brooding and ominous but I don’t mean it to be.

I woke up this morning and thought, maybe even said to myself “yeah, she has a life of her own with someone else, better than you, maybe he makes a lot of money, who knows, better than you (me) anyway.”

I got dressed.

I went to work.

I’m at work.

I took my medication.

Not even certain why I’m blogging this, why this needed to be let out.

The voices haven’t been as bad these last few (two) days, but that doesn’t mean much. I had a few years when they weren’t as bad and look what still happened…

You’re the second girl I’ve dated thats blocked me on everything.

I wonder if its me, or if I just know how to pick them.

But I also thought, I don’t want anyone that’s going to try and dominate me.

I remember a while back, when we were talking, that you said you liked “bitches”

men that had a, for lack of a better term, more “submissive” personality.

I’m anything but that.

Yeah I want to make my partner happy, but I can be a scoundrel.

There must be other reasons as to why we’re no longer compatible, but its a one sided debate, argument.

Since I’m so obviously head over heels about you, and at the same time I’m not.

I’m angry too.

I don’t want to hurt you, but I am hurting, not being heard.

and even if I was, then what? What comes next? a check-in once every few months?

You won’t tell me anything I can’t do anything about.

I’m sure you have confidants that understand the puns in your dying language, the nuance, the idioms.

And should I really be this bent out of shape because you were some person from halfway across the world that I met?

When I’ve gone to London to meet a girl from Costa Rica, when I’ve met a girl from Turkey? Bulgaria? Sweden? Denmark?

Yeah, because you wanted to meet me, I was desired, it was exciting, something in me changed…

I don’t know, it feels so commonplace now that I’m an adult, now that I have money to travel, I wonder if it’s always been that way for you.

Like how Americans, unless unsupervised, don’t drink alcohol until they’re 21, and in Europe you might as well have been born supping on a bottle of wine.

Cultural differences like that, seem big, but the gap closes really quickly, so what’s keeping the gap open between us?

Why couldn’t we be friends?

I feel like we could have, I feel like that for everyone, and more of ten than not, I’m wrong, but I try.

I love.

So why?

Right right right, that old tried and true xanga saying:

“Relationships are a two way street.”

And only once of us is driving.

Word.

Palabra.

Hate it here

Too long to screenshot:

I hate how my psychosis has made me think/look for clues about how my ex is living as if something odd in my life is insight into what’s happening to her. Like some pornstars botched boob job is actually a reference to her own ordeals with plastic surgery, something I could never know unless she told me, and yet, due to the law of synchronicity or some shit, it has to relate to her, because it couldn’t just be a one off in the media I consume. Hate it.

The Audacity to Hope

Why does this small part of myself exist?

Why does it make it seem like any other love would be mundane?

Why can’t I just believe the words she wrote and write her off as some brain damaged racist?

Of course, perhaps this would be more manageable without voices in my head, constantly bringing her up, but I have that too.

Only a few seconds ago a CNN article came up about Ghosting.

I’ll share the title, and the most obvious, and yet should be followed, excerpt: