August 6, 2009
Pittsburgh
I just read the Pittsburgh killer’s blog — all of it. It’s indeed interesting to see the mind cycle of someone who has the potential to kill. I often suspect I know people who could and found eery similarities to his demeanor and those people. It’s easy not to think about.
According to his blog, it’s obvious that he tied his self worth to how much he was associated with woman. It makes me wonder how a women would handle his particular mind set. My initial thought is that surely women wouldn’t take the personal responsibility of killing others out of jealousy. I am more quick to think that men are more likely to have that sort of vengeful demeanor I think, but who knows. Maybe it’s unfair of me to think so. People that are unwell are unwell, period.
I often prefer to use what the majority of what people think or say and think about the exact opposite. What if he was just as much of a victim of those women? But he knew what he was doing, and it’s outrageous he considered himself a good person. That perhaps should draw the line for me and make me stop feeling sorry for him. I like to think murders are a victim, but trying to understand or empathize people like this maybe isn’t for me to make sense of. People like this are outside of the living world, so to speak — farther than I or other harmless people could ever be. It’s not my place nor my duty to feel sorry. My heart goes out to the families and friends of the women who died. RIP.
July 28, 2009
Yawn?
And it’s late. Past late night and into the very early morning in wich people begin rising to tend to their morning lives.
Yep…
Spending quality time with my sleeping problem is alive and well as usual. It worsens particularly when I have no school, no job and no real structure present in life. Sleepy pills, please.
Speaking of structure, I so can’t wait until I start college next month! I’m going to log into mygateway at 6 AM so no one will take my damn seats!! Here’s hoping. If I have any Internet trouble tomorrow I will throw a fit of epic proportions.
In other news, I applied for more jobs today via Internet! I am dying for someone to call me back. After about twenty applications, it’s hard not to be discouraged and angry. ALL work places are interested in experienced workers and I am definaty not one of them. No, I haven’t worked before, no I have no I have no this and that degree, and no I can’t be a security guard. No one is interested in my kind right now and as a result, I am currently frazzled and discouraged.
November 29, 2008
Memory 001
Circa February, 2008
He was crying all over me. It was calm everywhere in the library except where we were sitting. The rest of the school shuffled outside of the library building, carrying on during lunch.
“Please, Erika.”
He was holding my hand. It wasn’t a talk that was any different from the rest. But this time I almost didn’t know what I was doing anymore. “Why am I doing this?” I thought. We could just be together and everything will be back to normal. But I didn’t give in. I knew in my heart that it was the right thing to do and it was the only thing that sustained me from crawling back into his arms — back into his name. I felt like I was risking everything — risking my only real friend, risking a life that was all I knew for over a year — throwing away all of my predicted future in open, welcoming flames. I knew it was the right thing to do. This was all I leaned on. This is what blind faith felt like.
”Cody come on, we have to get to class.” I forced him up and to the library exit, my arm around him, leading us outside.
November 15, 2008
living
I’m constantly searching for my self. Feverishly and hastily, tearing down wallpaper, repainting, replacing, cleaning, destroying. I’m constantly searching for a comfy place. I don’t stay where I’m uncomfortable. I don’t like to stay where I learn nothing. I want to try too many different things. I don’t know why I’m in such a hurry – I’m not a cancer patient. I always feel like I’m wasting time and need to revise/improve so I can find myself and be at peace with everything and start living. Every year I’m surprised at how things turn out and what decisions I’ve made. I think I’m impulsive — almost against my will, out of shear fear that I’m not living. What if I’m wasting time trying to not waste time?
November 9, 2008
Memory 002
Circa October 2006
I wasn’t used to jumping out windows. I never had to sneak out of someone’s house before. The sound of our feet cracking on the pavement I can still remember. We had to sneak in her house prior because Lisa’s dad doesn’t want boys in the house. I jumped first, and then him. Lisa and I made a joke about him being accustomed to jumping out of girl’s windows. Lisa, him and I met at the front of her house and waited for a car bound for a hospital.
It was mid fall, and dusk had begun to feather across the sky. The sheer layer of pink glittering across the pebbled side walk made this clear. This was my idea. “Let’s visit Chris!” I said, the thought spilling out of my mouth before I chose to think about it. I never had a friend charged into the hospital before. I had to visit.
Finally we were in the car. I was squeezed in next to him, and between four other people with the same desire to visit. I made sure the girl next to me shared my seatbelt. The next time a crowded situation like this arose, I did not care to acknowledge any seat belts.
The open windows in the car let in a sharp breeze, the exact kind of breeze that comes with the peak of autum weather. “Are you two going out?” Lisa’s boyfriend asked this.
“Yes”
“How long?”
“A week and a half.”
I responded to this with silence, still a little resentful toward my impulsive decisions, but still somewhat glad — remembering I only live once. Looking back, I only remember unacknowledging what came with everything I ever signed up for. This tendency I have tamed, but still cannot shake. It’s all that allows me to live.
The hospital was far, but it was closest to the location of the car accident that occured only three nights ago. I remember putting my head down onto my desk at school as soon as I heard the news, suddenly forgetting that I wished Chris were there in class to eat the rest of the hershey bar. Now I was here in a full car trying to see him.
—
It was already dark as the car pulled into the parking lot of the hospital. Lisa and her boyfriend were ahead of us arm in arm. We trailed behind with the others, holding hands. I was eager to see Chris and go home. Unfortunately, he was not in the condition for visitors. Outside of the hospital, about twenty friends wanting to visit ended up in a circle, the youngest ones making everyone say a prayer for Chris. I was crying – he did not know how to respond to this. As the circle connected around us, we ended up apart of it, I could feel his cold hand clamping in mine — sensing the awkwardness of prayer for him. I acknowledged the lack of defiance.
—
I stared at a strange looking device at the foot of his hospital bed. It was holding a large amount of red liquid I hoped was not blood.
“Look, Erika, this is full of blood!!”
“Ugh.”
His dad had taken us to the hospital this time, and visitors were allowed on this particular day and this particular time. It was just the two of us, with Chris and his mother, who coincidentally also worked at this hospital. All four of us decided not to blame April for abandoning the car wreck that night. However, his mom resented she had went home and slept that night, thinking Chris and Beth were dead. What happened that night still questions what I think of human empathy in the time of panic.
Chris was stable enough to walk us out of his room to the elevator this time, his blood filled device in hand. He was glad we had come. I could tell he was growing resltess of the grey walled envirement. “No big hugs, please! My stitches will rip open!” He said this just in time. This is where we departed with Chris.
I’ll always remember the dreary scenery of the hospital basement that we ended up in while getting lost in the enormous hospital building. Pink butterflies, that appeared to be old, were lined across the grey walls awkwardly, as if they no longer belonged nor were necessary. This I found just as eery as an old janitor’s glare. Back in the elevator.”No, stupid head, it’s this one!” I said, as I randomly chose an elevator button.
—
These memories come to mind at the start of every November. I don’t know if this is so because it was first of many times spending a whole day with someone socially associated with my name or if it is because of the loud profoundness of what came with the event and settings. The latter I think is truer. Both nights I cannot forget.
October 8, 2008
x’s across the eyes
I saw it. Not even. Just a glimpse. Just enough to be able to mention. Barely. And it makes perfect sense. I’ve felt like i’ve seen only the shadow of the anotomy of something enormous.
At least I know it’s not just me that sees it.
Sometimes people are no good. Mercilessly.
September 19, 2008
Please do give me “the look”. Please look at me while your oppinion of me is running through your head like a subconcious running faucet. Please look at me while concluding you know the concept and know what’s going on. Please look at me disaprovingly and have every negative fiber of preconception you care enough to feel towards me become confirmed.
It only makes me more REAL
in a way I cannot accomplish myself.
Thank you, “fans” — for the amusement and your time.
August 14, 2008
Frames
Everything doesn’t look real sometimes. A women’s yelling, a man talking on the phone, a car slowing down to a stop. It all looks different. Like a music video scene, where there’s more behind the images than what is shown. It brings a surreal, pulling notion that there’s something more behind it. A begging feeling of hope that something will explain everything about the lifeless symbol. Something. But nothing comes. And everything remains an empty plastic frame.
August 8, 2008
If I could step out and try to touch this situation, it would run away. Something undefinable would refuse to be justified. Like those little threads that float inside your eye — threads that run away from human focus. Despite not being able to focus onto them they were definately, unavoidably real. No question about it.
Reality could house the most severe little things. What defines severe? Is weakness a factor of severity? The human mind should not be devestated by one thing. Maybe something big enough to severely overthrow you could easily be in motion by a small protagonist. Something easy to repell, maybe.
