Cydniey Buffers (cydniey) wrote,
Cydniey Buffers

Sorry so long.

Ok, I know that some of you out there can actually use an infrared mouse with some kind of precision, or at least with less evidence of a stroke than I can. And you're likely giggling madly at how spoilt I am with my fancy chewed up trackball. But . . . WAH!

There is this cherry car up the street. A Packard Clipper. Yeah, I know, I had never heard of it, either. I always kind of assumed Packard went down in the Depression and didn't bounce back, but I was so wrong. They made it at least into the 60's, even including at one point, a three wheeler, rather bulbous looking thing. They don't seem to have made it to the Muscle Car era. They did sports coupes through the 60's, possibly in the early 70's that were very angular, like young, under developed DeLoreans. Kind of weird. Either European inspired, or maybe an aborted foray into sports cars. I am just going by photos and could be completely wrong. I'm doing my best Jeremy Clarkson here.

One of the reasons I like the Cymbalta is that when you take it, you feel at least a bit of the effects at once, within a few hours. I took a xanax when Doc left, then cleaned the hell out of the house.

I was going to play with my cameras and try to get a new head shot that looked nothing like me. But I ended up having to recharge all my cameras. Ooops. So tomorrow, maybe.

So, I have one of these:

it has chimes inside and hangs on a metal keychain. Attached to that keychain is a weaving of knotted leather with semi-precious gems on wire in the knots. It used to be my therapy thing, that I would hold and play with at the Doctor's office. I discovered two skull bracelets, one of bone, one of wood, a black leather band, a pair of sterling cat earrings, and the therapy thing. All in this cigar box from Dirk Vermin 13 years ago, locked away in my bottom drawer. Yeah, "Bad Ink", that Dirk Vermin. Half his shop used to be an art gallery. I got the box for a many artist show. Everyone transform a cigar box. I kind of lost my shit before that happened. I also showed in a multi-artist Halloween themed show. No one seemed to get my piece and I declared it a piece of shit.

It was a sparkly, glittering collage of the biggest and brighetst of Vegas; covered with spattered blood, cobwebs, psychedelic bugs I made with a Creepy Crawler set from Toys-R-Us, and this big, gaudy, velvet orange ad black door bow like you see in the suburbs with a minivan and a passel of kids. Really, my art is so obvious, it hurts. The bright-shiny, and the grime it brings, then hidden by gentrification and suburbanization. It's gone forever.

End of name-dropping anecdote. Time for a cigarette.

I just sussed something out. In a crowd of people, I am the least likely to talk; but if I do talk, I am most likely to be the center of attention. And not in a bad sorority chick or religious nut way. It's just that if the mood strikes me to talk, it's likely to add some snark or wit to the conversation, and when it happens, I'm always ready to go wit to wit just for entertainment sake. You think I'm sarcastic here, put half a beer in me, or a shot of vodka, and put me in the vicinity of either really stupid people or really clever people. If I'm in the mood, I'll find my way to them.

I don't get invited to parties anymore. One night at a party, my feet were killing me, and there was a chair in a corner of a main room, so I was in the traffic pattern of everything, but I could sit in peace. Had I known the people, I would have sat on the pool table. Well, my siting there alone freaked out the drunken and methed out "hostess" and she had to be distracted while Doc spirited me out of there. I had no idea any of that happened until almost a year later.

So, I guess you could say I helped ruin things for Doc with the Family. But he's the one who told the Good Ol' Gossip Boys that I was ill. And they didn't get why Doc just leave me, it wasn't like we had kids together. They don't get it.

I'm going to bed. I'm having some heavy thoughts. Lots of conflicting things. Own it, own it all. Do I have the strength to keep on owning it? If all the future holds is more futility, can I still stay on my feet? Is there a breaking point that maybe I should be aware of? Is there a point where I am supposed to give up and relax? Am I any of the things I think I am? Or am I really just another grasping, desperate, drama whore? A complete fraud? Yeah, I can't stay awake on these thoughts, my head will start leaking and completely ruin this shirt, and I'm kind of partial to this shirt.

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