Cydniey Buffers (cydniey) wrote,
Cydniey Buffers

Dear Diary, I Woke Up With a Sad

Dear Diary,

dear diaryFor reasons I will likely go into here, I woke up at 4am, and Doc had already gone to bed. So, I didn’t get to see him at all last night. I has a sad. I miss Doc. But I needed sleep.

I had had about 6 hours sleep in 48. I guess it was a manic phase. I say was, because I don’t feel the massive acceleration in inspiration that I felt, anymore. Maybe I’m just not awake, yet. We shall see what the day brings. If not, I still have tons of stuff to finish. And all manner of “administrative” work, listing the bothersome stuff on Etsy so I can unload it and it doesn’t sit around forever like my other jewelry.

I not only did countless hours of jewelry work yesterday, I wrote an article on asexuality for The Mighty. If I could have made it longer, I would have shopped it around, but I could only pad it to 650 words, so I gave it to The Mighty. It could still get picked up and syndicated through them. If they publish it. Again, I don’t know that they will. It’s kind of a fringe, or envelope pushing, taboo mentioning article. We shall see.

Whoa, I have tan lines on my fingers from my rings. Neat. I guess time spent in the sun isn’t wasted, and I haven’t dear diarybeen imagining the bleaching of my scars like fish belly flesh.

I have just mined the litter boxes, relieved the waste baskets of their burdens, changed the full kitchen trash bag, and taken the whole ugly load out to the curb. And there is no way I am letting Doc know how gratified it makes me to get garbage out of this house, or he would make me do it all the time. The only thing that gratifies me more, is him getting garbage out of this house, because most of it, and all of it that is “saved” is his. I just got rid of immediate stuff today. His one bag of recycling crept up to two for a week before creeping back down to one last night. And a “burn bag” has reappeared like a cheap Vegas magic trick in the kitchen, again. I thought that had been relegated to the mud room.

I feel accomplished, if not more awake. I feel like I haven’t really done anything. And I’m running out of cigarette tubes, which stresses me out. Maybe I’ll take an early Xanax, and stave off any anxiety, I have started my girly time.

dear diaryI mean, I’ve posted on all three FB pages. Circus Catimus multiple times. I’m trying to make two posts a day there. And one post a day at Fabulous Disaster that isn’t a new journal announcement, but is an announcement of another kind. That one is going to be hard. That means doing something of note each and every day. I mean, I have the outlets. And once my phone gets here, I can use my selfies/photos at Instagram as another. So I guess it won’t be that hard. It just seems hard. Ana is that productive and she has a child and real husband and real household and real money issues. I don’t know how she does it.

But today is taken care of. I can worry about tomorrow later. I’m sure opportunities to make something will come up. If nothing else, I have a hundred beads to add to a necklace and finish it and I’ll have that. I also have the rest of the sales to add to Etsy. Someone is following the Japanese Happy Cat charm bracelet already. Yay!

The pictures I have scattered around are of the things I have made over the last couple of days. Mostly the Period Power/Period Pride line, but some others, like the Happy Cat charm bracelet and the Goddess necklaces. They are all on sale at Etsy. Or, will be in the next few hours. Some are on sale as I write this. Some are not. I cannot stand listing dear diarystuff, it is such administrative, data-entry busy-work. My dad, when computers first came home, used to make me do hours and hours of unpaid data-entry of addresses and client details onto 3.5″ floppy disks and print out labels for them, one client to a disk. I could slam my head on a table just thinking about it. The sheer trauma of being responsible for that at 14.

That’s why I resisted being an administrative assistant for so long. Not because I thought I couldn’t do it. I went into Kelly services and learned Outlook, Word, and Excel in one afternoon, well enough to test in the 90th percentile and land a job in a week that hired me permanently within 30 days at 3x minimum wage. To sit on my ass and fill out 20 sheets of paperwork a day. I wrote. I wrote a lot. They eventually hired a manager and assigned her to oversee me, and she had an overreach problem and I quit, after I had an emotional breakdown, blamed her, made her cry, and left satisfied and escorted out of the building.

Wow, I’ve had a colorful past, haven’t I? Even I enjoy reading some of the memories I’ve been coming up with lately. Some of the best ones, I haven’t even written down. Like a lot of the new ones from elementary school. I figured dear diarysomething else out about that time. I was really happy then. The people I was surrounded by at school, I had grown up around, they all knew I was a little weird. No one cared. So when I spent my recesses and lunches in the library with the librarian, or with the teachers in the courtyard, studying, no one said boo about it. It wasn’t until I was moved, that I was labeled as strange. Doc asked, “Why did you move?” “Because my dad couldn’t hold down a job and my mom wanted to leave. They owned the house. The school was K-12, I could have spent my whole education there, accepted.” He just shook his head and cursed at my parents in what I assume was Japanese.

In third grade, we made a giant Save the Whales poster that hung in the carpeted indoor courtyard with the older kids’ posters, and we got to go in and tour the posters and meditate on their message while listening to whale song fill the echoing room. Our poster was colored with magic markers, and you could tell, short strokes colored in the body of the giant blue whale (we did a blue whale because we only had two grey magic markers). The big kids got to use tempera. Vivid colors, rough to the touch, but so nice to look at. Painted on long strips of thick rough paper kept on heavy metal rolls with sharp blades to cut the paper to length. It came in all manner of muted colors. The brown, dark red and black and yellow were always left over at the end of the year. dear diaryThe librarian showed me. She would give me rolls of paper on the last day of school and pastels that would show up on the weird colors to use during the summer and always tell me she wanted to see what I made at the beginning of next year. The only year I made anything I wanted to show her was the year we moved to Idaho and I never went back.

There, I just wrote an article on self-harm for The Mighty. Maybe with this one I can break out of the Schizophrenia category and into a different, more mainstream category for a bit. So, now I have three articles pending there. And I have no idea when or if any of them will get published. Two are taboo, one has a poem in it. so, I’m thinking, no. But I had to try.

So, I have done something today, so far. I should go in and empty the dishwasher and refill it. There’s just a few dishes, but we’ve been keeping the sinks empty since starting to use the dishwasher again. I’d like to keep that up. It is so nice to walk in there and have it clean. IT makes me want to cook for myself. Not that there is a lot that I can cook. Though, I do need to make potato pancakes tonight, or today, whenever I’m hungry for them.

dear diaryThe cats have all disappeared. It’s like they know I want to take their pictures today. Which brings me to my cameras. I’ve had them 10 years. I have taken great care of them. Kept them wrapped in cloth, in padded cases. Never dropped them, kept them clean. Hacked the firmware to make them more functional, never taxed them. And they hate me. They haven’t given me decent pictures in over a year. The photos look good on the camera, even when I zoom in on them to check them. Then, on the computer, they look like hell. They can’t handle any kind of natural light or flash. Nor can they handle darkness or dim. Even secured to a tripod, they are blurry. I literally get better pictures with a handheld camera phone. Once I get mine, the cats have had it. I will follow them around everywhere.

You know what? I’m going to make earrings to go with that necklace I’m finishing and sell them as a set. Maybe I will make earrings to go with the Green Goddess Necklace, as well. Yes, I think I will. A few minutes more, with materials I have, and I can add a few more dollars to the price. Really, right now, this is all about making some scratch real quick. Doc is on a money making frenzy, and I figured I would do the same thing and see what we could come up with. He wants to buy/lease a dear diarycar. And I want him to be able to.

Oh, J, of B and J, texted yesterday. Apparently they need help with rent. It didn’t occur to them to fix the scooter and charge us for it and make the rent that way? Instead they will beg for more? No. The ATM is closed. Fuck them. We are done. Keep the fucking scooter. Stop texting and calling. It’s really annoying.

Doc asked the creepy guy next door not to be so creepy. So now I’m the strange girl. I guess I don’t care, as long as I don’t have to deal with creepy guy. I mean, I plan to walk my pet rats down the street, I AM the strange girl. I dress my dog all in black, with a pink leash. I have a flock of black cats that follow me around the neighborhood. I have purple hair and I don’t wear pants outside in the studio when I’m working and I dance with abandon. I AM the strange girl. I don’t think the neighborhood has any doubt of that at this point of our living here.

dear diaryI think I’m going to submit a story to Another “for the exposure” gig. But one I think I can get in on. If I can think of an article after I go through some of the ones already posted. And read the submission guidelines. The more writing credits I can get, the sooner I can go to a publication that pays and submit samples of my writing for real, paying gigs. I will get in, it will happen. It will just take some time. Which reminds me, I have to update my profile to reflect this stuff. Right now I already have about 8 tabs open, I don’t know how many more I dare open. I guess I could open another window and star over again. That makes sense.

Okay, linkedin updated with publication credit. Yeah, I want to add more. I’ll start looking for more mental health places to publish, and then branch out slowly.


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