thejunipertree: (love the shark)
Dear L'Oreal,

How is it that my eyebrows, coaxed into perfect arches with your Le Kohl eyeliner (in onyx), manage to not only stay on during a knife fight, but also through-out the subsequent all-night-hanging-out-at-the-police-station? Your product is truly amazing and I have been singing its praises to everyone who will listen.

Never in my life have I experienced such staying power, not even with MAC. Your product is truly superior.

Your humble servant,


Don't get too cocky.
I still plan on using MAC for everything else.
thejunipertree: (Default)

Schizophrenia and Nicotine
The most common form of substance use disorder in people with schizophrenia is nicotine dependence due to smoking. While the prevalence of smoking in the U.S. population is about 25 to 30 percent, the prevalence among people with schizophrenia is approximately three times as high. Research has shown that the relationship between smoking and schizophrenia is complex. Although people with schizophrenia may smoke to self medicate their symptoms, smoking has been found to interfere with the response to antipsychotic drugs. Several studies have found that schizophrenia patients who smoke need higher doses of antipsychotic medication. Quitting smoking may be especially difficult for people with schizophrenia, because the symptoms of nicotine withdrawal may cause a temporary worsening of schizophrenia symptoms. However, smoking cessation strategies that include nicotine replacement methods may be effective. Doctors should carefully monitor medication dosage and response when patients with schizophrenia either start or stop smoking.
thejunipertree: (Default)
Seething mass of irrationality.
My emotions are overloaded right now.
In the fucking red.

Don't expect any straight answers from me, not that you'd have gotten them in the first place and under more "normal" conditions.
thejunipertree: (Default)
When I came into work this morning, I moved my keyboard. Underneath of it was a pile of flattened out, shiny, purple metallic wrappers.


It was a veritable dragon's hoard of treasure and I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out what it was doing under my computer keyboard.

Then I remembered.

I had been saving them from the dark chocolate Hersey kisses I'd bought months ago and eaten over the same time period, with the intent of covering my monitor with them. One by one, maybe five in a day at the most. Some days without eating any. Carefully flattening out the eggplant coloured wrappers (some of them purple and gold checkered!) and sliding them under my keyboard for safekeeping.

Sometimes, I wonder what the hell is wrong with me.

thejunipertree: (Default)
The funniest word in the entire English language is "shrubbery".

This is followed up closely by "wang", "spigot", "pussy foot", and "marmelade".

Say any of these words in conversation and watch me struggle to not bust up laughing.


Now is the time on Sprockets when I hop up and down on my desk, shouting "motherfucker!motherfucker!motherfucker!motherfucker!"
thejunipertree: (Default)
There are days when I get lost in my past, wandering around and reliving memories. All inside my puny skull.

I don't mean past, like just a few years ago. I'm talking about childhood. The things I saw and the things which were done to me. Looking back on them, I can kind of understand why I am the person I am today. Why my reactions are so sharp. And why I am so quick to believe that ever-pulsing (and growing) waves of disgust which course through my veins.

I was in sixth grade. Maybe seventh. We had off from school, for some reason or another. Maybe it was a voting day. I was at my "best friend's" house, her parents were at work. There was a whole slew of us hanging out, mostly boys because my "best friend" had the reputation of being a big slut, despite the fact that she was a virgin. Someone decided it would be a good idea if we got a ladder and climbed up to the roof. I was sitting up there, by myself, when they took the ladder away and wouldn't put it back. They told me to jump. They shouted ugly names at me. They threw things.

I screamed so loud and so long that someone two blocks heard me.

I was never afraid of heights before then. Now I am.
thejunipertree: (Default)
I am most tired. Running, running ragged all week long in an attempt to gather last minutes for Wemble's wedding this Saturday.

Allow me for a moment to rant about how she's having her wedding at ten in the morning, which means I have to be picked up at TEN OF FUCKING SEVEN Saturday morning to have my hair braided. *spit*

We went out last night, in search of a big and blue pimp ring for me to wear in the wedding, to match the dress. None was to be found. Goblin Market is sadly lacking in pimp rings, big or blue. Whoremasters!

I did, however, buy a small pair of silver earrings which are indescribable. Actually, I'm just too retarded to describe them correctly. They're kind of hoopy. But, not. And there's intricate work on them. So. Yeah.

I also bought a half a pound of dark chocolate covered pretzels, which are my Kryptonite. Yessss, my preciousssss.


I hate the word 'mellow'. I truly do. It conjures smarmy images in my head that can not be erased and it is not an enjoyable experience for me. I am not a mellow person. I am ultra-violence, damnit!

Even when my body is at rest, I am not feeling 'mellow'. If I'm lying around in the living room, covered in a blanket and smoking a goddamn joint, I am still not 'mellow'. I'm LAZY. Not 'mellow'. When I sit still, I still twitch. I think there's just too much residual speed from my college years and caffeine from my now years for me to ever truly relax.

'Mellow'. *hork*

Oh, how I hate that word.


Everyone in my office who has no idea who Nina Simone was deserves a boot to the throat. Preferably my boot doing the throating.

The people in my office who only know who she is because of that stupid Bridget Fonda movie "Point of No Return" get an extra special boot throating.



And don't me I'm looking 'mellow'.

(1.) Upon peril of my wrath will any of you comedians on my friends list or not on my friends list post some yakkity yak about me being, looking, sounding, or feeling 'mellow'. I'll never speak to you again. (2.)

(2.) I fucking mean this shit, too. (3.)

(3.) if there's even any mention in my comments section of this word, I'll press the shiny happy delete button. Don't push me.


Mar. 8th, 2003 05:27 pm
thejunipertree: (Default)
Feeling kind of squirrelly right now.

A manic phase, which has been building all week (probably from all the Red Bull I've been drinking) finally petered out with me hardcore cleaning my kitchen. At one point, my stupid ass was sitting in the sink and scrubbing the windowsill. I'm still not finished, though I am now exhausted.

There's a party this evening, in the bowels of West Philly, being thrown by one of the Engineer's co-workers. We've been invited. I'm going to know absolutely /no one/ there and this makes me skittish about going. I don't really care for parties to begin with, too many people. Now toss in the fact that I'm going to know exactly ONE person there and you've got a very ambivalent me. Though I suppose since I've drug the Engineer to enough social occasions where he didn't know a damn soul that it's just the universe's revenge on me.

ever again

Feb. 20th, 2003 01:49 pm
thejunipertree: (Default)
Backsliding into a depression, completely against my will.

I don't want to feel like this. I'm tired of it. Why do I have to constantly feel like I'm running into walls? And here I thought that over the past few weeks, I had been starting to do better.

So, why the fuck do I feel like this? Helpless. Hopeless. Unwanted. Unwanting.

Filthy. Stupid. A shapeless lump with no thought and no will.

Why do I feel like this? I don't WANT to. I want it to go away.

I want everything to go away.
thejunipertree: (Default)
Another thing to fall under the "only me" catagorey. I apparently now have a five year old stalker, at work. Some little boy called my extention today, absolutely convinced that he knew me. He wanted me to write his name down and when I asked if his daddy knew he was on the phone, he said yes. But, his mom didn't and I wasn't to tell her. He then also asked if he could call me again. And when I told him no, he told me he didn't like me. But, was going to tell his daddy that I was nice to him.


I'd clean forgotten about this, up until just now. My mind, the blank slate that it has frequently been, plucked it from the ether and deposited it into my lap. I was sitting in the overstuffed chair when his voice floated back to me, only me being the strange girl I am, I put a sinister spin onto everything. With the right inflection and intonation and a different backdrop, it would make a great scene in a movie. But, as I'm no director and have no designs on becoming one, this is just another film strip in my head that will never see the light of day. I'd write it as a story, but words wouldn't do it justice. It needs to be in a visual medium.

My eyes are burning again, as they have been doing more and more frequently. I don't know if it's the time of the year or the memories that come along with this time of the year. I've broken all my fingernails down and stripped them to the tips of my fingers.

And now, I sit here watching the lights on our wee tree flicker and scatter and fade and burn. Memories and images careen against the fragile walls of my skull. So many ghosts this season. More than usual, I would venture to say. I find dimes, constantly. Thee Pumpkin Girl told me of a Greek folk tale. Finding dimes is a sign of the dead trying to contact you. It's been happening to her, as well. But, who out of my veritable legion is trying to tap the phone? There's entirely too many of them to pinpoint it, nail it down and dissect their names.

'I still harbour so much resentment towards you', I said to him. His pointed face turned away from me in the dim and still light crashing in through a dusty window. 'For the things you did. The things you didn't do. All of it.' I blinked back scalding tears and pushed away from the table where we sat.


Nov. 3rd, 2002 11:30 pm
thejunipertree: (Default)
Tomorrow is my first day of work at the new job. I'm still holding feelings of strangeness about this, but I'm going to attempt to see how it goes. If this place sucks, then I'm going to be on the phone to my recruiter so fast people's heads will spin. I will not tolerate another work environment like the one I left in May. WILL NOT. I don't care how much they pay me. I'm sick of being unhappy in my workplace.

On the way to the bookstore this evening, I saw a cat on the side of the road. Or at least I thought I did (I'll get to that bit in a minute). It was tiger striped, much like my poor lost Hecubus looked, and was lying on the shoulder of the road. But, not dead looking. Or even hurt looking, from my brief glimpse. It had its head up, in that cat-loungey fashion. But, what the hell would a cat be doing lounging on the side of a very busy road in extremely cold weather?

My hands trembled on the steering wheel and thoughts began to race through my mind. What if it was hurt? After a bit of wembling (while still driving), I turned the car around and headed back, mentally berating myself the entire time. What the fuck would I have done, if it was hurt?

Driving back, I realised I didn't turn around at the right point. So, I had to turn around again and drive a bit farther down before doubling back the way I had came. Driving slow, so slow, with my hazard lights on. Peering at the shoulder of the road with intense concentration.


No cat.

Was it even there, in the first place? I'm beginning to think that it wasn't. Mostly because of the casual way it seemed to be lying down. It looked just like any of my cats would, if they were lying on the floor or the couch or the big overstuffed chair.

My head is spinning, still. And I have to attempt to be in bed by midnight, as I'm getting up fuckall early in the morning. gah.
thejunipertree: (Default)
Job interview today. Which went decidely odd. The woman who interviewed me spoke rather fast and didn't ask very many questions. Especially not the one which I dread hearing (and always hear at every interview).

So. Tell me a little about yourself?

I really despise that question. It's far too difficult to squish a life as complicated as my own into a short and concise thirty second soundbyte.

Would you like to hear about how I was a drug addict in college and that was one of the main reasons why I dropped out?

Or would you like to hear about how I pull my hair out uncontrollably and unconciously?

How about a story of the time I found my father's crystal meth stash when I was ten? And all the unnamed feelings resentment fear disappointment curiousity which arose after that.

Maybe you'd like to hear about the horrid betrayals I've inflicted on those I love and those who have loved me, all because I'm too fucked up too understand that I am indeed capable of being loved.

How about this, I can tell you all about how when I was sixteen I got involved with a guy seven years my senior. And you'll get to listen to all the gritty details of how he lied to me and terrified me and stole my purityinnocencetrust. And about how I've never ONCE felt truly clean since that day.

I could even tell you about I'm afraid that my cat hates me because everytime he comes near me, I have to stick a needle into him.

Or maybe I can even tell you the real reasons why I want to be a mortician.


She didn't ask that question. And I didn't say those things to her. So, I reckon the interview went fairly well. I don't know.

iron wool

Sep. 27th, 2002 02:49 am
thejunipertree: (Default)
My head hurts.

And it's a strange kind of hurting. Not your normal, run of the mill headache. It's not even really a headache, if you look right at it.

It's more like the memory of pain.

I have a dim memory caught in the whorls of my brain of when I was four or five. I was at my father's house and sitting on top of his sideboard for some lost-to-time reason. And I fell off. I remember my head hitting the ground. The dull thud of bone striking floor. And the fog filling my eyesight slow and sinuous like an enormous grey serpent. They rushed me to the emergency room, with two black eyes beginning to form. It was the first of many concussions I've suffered throughout my life.

I remember car crashes, this is how they feel. The smack of my head against the passenger side window. The sudden black and red flowers blooming in my vision. My jaw clenching tight tight tighter.

There was also a time, when I was a bit older, that I was attempting to hang upside from a metal bar in a department store. One of those smooth markers that line the cash register area and keep the carts together. I hung onto the bar, threaded my knees inbetween my hands, and flipped over. My head struck the tiled floor. The only time in my life that I've been too tall to accomplish something. I closed my eyes and moaned, feeling the copper taste of blood fill my mouth from my bitten tongue.

A pulsing, growing...something. It doesn't even qualify as an ache, really. It's just there. And it won't go away. Driving in the rain, it was a constant reminder of what would happen if I let my attention stray from the road for just a second. The blurry windshield, the wind buffetting my small form back and forth across the black mirrored asphalt.

And all the while, the iron wool stuffing filling up my skull. The dense thudding of blood behind my eyes. Starbursts of light in the quick and temporary blackness which oozes Turkish coffee thick whenever I blink.

A memory, that won't go away.
thejunipertree: (Default)
The writeup of my weekend hasn't been finished, as some of you are quick to note. But, I just haven't felt up to finishing it right now. My brain is weary and I have entirely too much sensory overflow. Too much implant. This wee little brain can only hold so much.


I rub my eyes and light another cigarette. Plug another song into my player. Today has been a day of searching for MP3s, but without knowing what exactly it is I'm searching for. I keep listening to "Dear God" by XTC over and over again. And every time, it kicks my in the heart.

I'm not quite sure why, really.

It's the strength of the words. The conviction found behind his voice. The pain. The sadness. And the longing for absolution and completion.

Things I can identify with all too well.

A talk with Thee Pumpkin Girl last night revealed that she re-met the scary zombie scarecrow on stilts and his friend, Head Cage Zombie (which you may remember from my account of my Horrorfind weekend). They recognised her as the "friend of the girl who ducked under the table when she saw us coming."

Apparently, they had thought I was just playing along. And were a bit confused and angry at The Engineer's reaction. Truth be told, I was only half playing around. And half scared out of my mind. When I am confronted by someone in a mask, especially when I don't know said someone personally, all the neurons start misfiring in my brain. I shut down and can only think one thing. flee.

I really can't help it, it's not something which I can control. No matter how much anyone tells me how ridiculous the act truly is. I couldn't explain enough times that night to everyone that I wasn't really just a big baby. Even standing there talking to Heb, as she wore the pig mask bought earlier that day, I couldn't take it. I would take a step back. And she, either messing with me or not understanding why I was stepping away, would take a step forward.

And I feel like a huge doofus because of it. That my reality is so askew in my head, that I can't even take something as simple as a Halloween fright mask. Especially when one of my greatest and truest loves in life is horror movies.

Ahh, but on the screen it is a completely different story. And it's a subject which I have been known to expound upon at great length. The safe scare which can be found in a horror movie. You watch it, snug on your couch or in your bedroom, completely content in the knowledge that it is fake. That none of this is actually happening to you. It still gives you a thrill to watch the atrocities which unfold on the screen, but it is a small and inconsquential thrill. At most, it only gives you a few unruly dreams.

Now, imagine being confronted with the same dreamscape. Only in the flesh. It's a different story completely now, isn't it? You see the person in the mask. You can touch them, if you so desire. But in your mind, back in the primordial recesses which are only rarely accessed, you fear. You giggle nervously and try to play it off.

It was humiliating, what I did. The diving under the table and screaming. It reminds of when I was younger and my brothers would chase me through the house wearing masks, with fake plastic knives. And how they laughed at me when I would lock myself in the bathroom for hours and refuse to step foot out.

This only multiplied, as I grew older.

Out of all the things which I wish I could change about myself, the one I hold most close to my heart and wish for the strongest, is the desire to be normal.

Normal and unbroken.
thejunipertree: (Default)
Once again, I have managed to fuck up something beyond all possible belief.

Go me.

I am one of the biggest fucking idiots I know, let me tell you.

Being taken into consideration is the idea of deleting this journal, removing all my contact lists, and just eradicating myself from the lives of everyone that I associate with.

Because everything which I touch turns to shit, in the end. So, I might as well make a preemptive strike, yes?

There would be less frustration and nasty situations if I did. All I ever do is fuck things up for the rest of you.

And I listen to this song yet again.

don't worry, baby.
it'll be all right.
thejunipertree: (Default)
Expectation fills the air which I breathe. And I'm not entirely sure why. But, I feel as if I'm on the edge of a cliff. Waiting, just waiting for something.

It's not an unpleasant feeling, I don't think. It's just a stillness in the house. A hushed quiet. Like watching a clock's hands sweep slowly around its face.

I don't know if I'm waiting for an event, a communication, a sign. But, every so often my heart begins to race furiously in my chest and my hands tremble.

It could even just be a result of too much sleep. Sleep, with me, is either feast or famine. And lately I've been gorging myself at Morpheus's table. My days drift by listlessly, with early afternoon finding me still wrapped in my favourite blanket and a cat's purr rumbling quietly in my ear.

Hypersomnia, I am told, can be brought on by stress. The body is shutting itself down in an effort to preserve it. I sleep and sleep, only to wake feeling as if a truck has driven itself across my body.

In some ways, I wish it to stop. But, in life becomes wonderous behind closed eyes. You still smile on my face. And you don't have a black demon gnawing its way through your guts. You live around the corner from me and you never existed. And I drift through this perfect half world with a whole and unbroken mind, free from delusion and weakness.

I'm going out to watch the stars.


Jul. 23rd, 2002 06:54 pm
thejunipertree: (Default)
An observation.

For some untold reason, my fingers have been taking on a life of their own as I type. I'll be thinking of the next word, but these independant bitches decide that instead of typing "jar", I need to type "chair".

I would also appear to be misspelling words that I know I can damn well spell.

This is most distressing and I would like to know the cause of it.
thejunipertree: (Default)

All I want to do is cry.

There is this sick sadness welling up in my chest again. And I don't know where it's coming from. But, it's there. And it's a leaden weight for me to carry around wherever I go.

There is something inside of me that is struggling to get out. Only I don't know what it is. I can feel it fluttering and fighting against my bones.


make it stop.
thejunipertree: (Default)
okay okay okay

The movie, Donnie Darko. They're telling me to write about this.

There's a boy, who has issues. He rides his bike and walks around at night a lot. One night, in the wee hours, he falls asleep and meets a giant bunny rabbit named Frank. The next morning, a plane loses it's jet engine onto his house. In his room, it fell. If he'd been in bed, it would have killed him.

Frank is a figment of his imagination. Frank exists only in his own shifting plane. There are so many planes that people just can't see, no matter how they try to open their eyes. And I'm not talking about the planes in the sky that go vrrrrooom and shake during take off and land on people's beds in the middle of the night, you numb fuck. I'm talking about the planes of existence. Home on the range.

The movie stretches and twists and turns and I sat transfixed, watching it all. This happened many weeks ago, mind. Many weeks ago and it's still stuck inside me. The most beautiful piece I've ever seen.

If I stretch up on my toes, I think I can brush the ceiling with my fingers. Somehow, as short as I am, I doubt this would actually happen if I did it.

Frank tells Donnie to do things, despite the fact that Frank is actually a very nice person. Inside. I wonder what goes through his own head, the real head. Not the bunny one.

See, it's like a storm window. Two panes of glass with an empty space in between. You look through the window and see only the other side, the space on the other side of the glass. But, there's a place in between. It looks like there's nothing there, but in actuality there is. It's an entirely new area of thought.

Two worlds, just right there. The one outside the glass. And the one in. However, if you looked at from the point of view of the person between the glass, there's actually three. The one in, and then one on either side of you. Because it's not like a mirror with only one static view. Both sides have something different in them.

A big enough crack in this window and you can see into the middle bits. An even bigger crack and you could probably find some way of getting through the crack to the place in the center, or even to the other side. Depending on big the window was, how big the crack in the glass, and the absolute necessity of being there before someone takes the whole damn window out and has it fixed. Maybe even replaced with shatterproof glass.

But, yes. You can go through the crack and possibly see what there is to see in the areas that you normally can't see.

It comes down to the question of: how do you find the crack?

It takes very special eyes.

I just deleted a sentence. Someone isn't pleased with that.


Jul. 10th, 2002 03:03 am
thejunipertree: (Default)
My head is twisted round itself again.

Everything has been so screwy lately, it's finally starting to take its toll on me. Driving this evening to my father's house was a practice in desperately concentrating on the road and trying not to sob.

There's scratching at the walls again. I can hear you there.

I'm asked a simple and understandable request, my stupid paranoid head blows it out of proportion. I read someone's LJ entry about a case of horrid and sickening animal abuse court trial, and I'm left shaking and ill to the point of break down. I need to make more than two trips while out running errands and I growl to myself. Driving down the road, I convinced myself that I actually hit somebody and just kept going. I had to restrain myself from turning back to check. I also convinced myself that someone specific is reading this, just so they can find out what I'm doing so they can steal it.

Don't ask.

Do. Not. Ask.

And I know /you/ are reading this and laughing at me. You are, yes you. You sick fuck. Why don't you ever shut the fuck up? You never do. and it's all I can do to not shove a screwdriver through my ear to make it all go quiet again.

It's been so long since it's been quiet. I want that back again.

Back again, by candlelight. To Babylon, we go.

A short, sharp blow to the nape of the neck.


thejunipertree: (Default)

January 2011

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