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Mixing and Chilling


[Profanity warning]

I’ve been feeling terrible as of late. My diet is slipping. I’m slipping back into terrible habits. The war against food is a mighty one. I bet you know all about that, yourself.

I’ve been working on my personality and traits for a long time. I’ve spent so much time alone that I decided to look inward and work on myself instead of worrying about everyone else and how I was excluded. It wasn’t for increased happiness, though that was the outcome. It was because I was bored and had nothing to do and I disliked the way everyone around me treated me, so I thought about what it’d be like to have a friend like I wanted.

I engineered myself to become my own best friend. Since no one else could be the kind of friend I needed, let alone wanted, I looked at the things I didn’t like about myself and didn’t like in my former friends and started to break the bad habits to form new habits.

Being two-faced was one of those habits. Lying. Making promises I never intended to keep. Saying things I didn’t mean. Spending time with people who made me feel worse instead of better. I stopped letting fear stop me. I stopped saying yes to everything. I stopped complaining. I stopped telling people negative things for the sake of bringing them down. I stopped buying things I didn’t really need. I stopped buying things that wouldn’t last me for eons. I stopped a lot of things, maybe too many things, and closed down to just myself. I probably went too far on being my own best friend.

There was not much else I could do, though. Nobody wants to talk about difficult subjects like being raped. I remember, for about eighteen months or maybe two years, I was depressed and suicidal. I sought comfort from people online. Before that, I was a ray of sunshine, but one day I couldn’t deal with the trauma of my abuse. I couldn’t lie about it anymore. I couldn’t hide it anymore. I tried to speak to peers I’d obtained online to no avail. In fact, one of them told me that nobody cares about my sob story. That was a proverbial slap in the face, let me tell you. I was infuriated at being invalidated over and over, so I chose a different way to go: I went solo. I cut myself off from pretty much all people, angry that they wouldn’t help me get through my grief and the mental anguish of my trauma. They refused. It had become clear to me that there would be no comfort from the living.

So I turned to the dead for comfort. I collected bits of dead things. I never killed anything myself, outside of a fish fry dinner or the occasional bug because, let’s face it, to live is to murder something… but I didn’t kill cats or dogs or anything like that. I decided to steal my older brother’s schtick and start collecting carcasses and bones. I had a piece of deer jaw that I found at the nature reserve near the beach, a perfectly preserved dead bumble bee, and driftwood. Later on, I obtained a dragonfly carcass and more bits of bones from the wild, turkey feathers, and so on. I thought of these as Mother Nature’s gifts to me, to protect and preserve and worship. These creatures, no matter how big or small they were, were part of the cycle of life. They lived and they died and their spirits were still in their remnants, so I cherished them. They became my friends rather than human beings.

My brother was an odd beast, honestly. He brought home cat and dog skulls from the woods whenever he found them. He might have killed them, I suppose. I never thought so because they were devoid of flesh, of blood, of tissue. He would take tapered candles and drip wax onto their pristine skulls and then jam the candle down onto the molten wax, fusing the two things together. One Halloween, we dressed up as Satan worshipers to hand out candy on the porch. We took a black cloth and draped it over our make shift table, we used standard wheat flour to draw a pentacle on top, and then we took his skull and candle creations and placed them around the table, lighting all the candles for the duration of trick-or-treating hours. It was so convincing, small children cried. They wouldn’t come onto the porch to ask for candy; they just cried at the bottom of the steps and their parents felt obligated to come up for them instead. Maybe their parents were creeped out, too… who knows? This is when I came to feel like Halloween was the only time I could be whatever I wanted to be — anything but myself. Later, I told myself that every day was Halloween, just be myself wherever it took me.

I always loved dressing up, actually. I had a purple ballgown style skirt in high school that I wore on dress-down days with a white button-up shirt that had gold buttons. (We had a dress code and purple was not part of the code.) The rest of the time, I basically wore all black. I think people thought I was completely disturbed, but I wore all black because I was tired of starting my period in the middle of classes and ending up with a visible mark on my clothes. I was, after all, called Period Stain for it in middle school. I had hoped to escape that one in high school, but it seems quite unlikely. I do not know what else those vicious punks said behind my back. (Vicious punks = nameless, faceless class mates.)

I would have been happier born in the Victorian era, I know that now. Or even six thousand years ago, when my witch powers would have marked me as a wise one, someone to listen to and go to for advice. Someone to trust with problems. Someone to seek for comfort. Someone who could manipulate the spirit world as necessary to marry it to the physical plane of existence.

I used to identify as a Wiccan when I was in high school. I’m actually rather miffed because I told a classmate that over summer break once. The following school year, he was in journalism class and wanted to interview me. He did interview me, on everything but Wicca. When I read the newspaper article, however, it was focused on Wicca itself. It hardly even had my name in it, sadly. I don’t think this did any favors for anyone. I probably had them all convinced that I’m a psychopath. I know I wore a purple trench coat during high school and when news of Columbine came out, I worried that my peers would think I’d do that to them.

Maybe they should have been kinder to me instead of fearing me for no reason.

Maybe they should know I have had access to an AK-47 my entire lifetime, and so did my little brother that they know so well, and he was more likely to take their lives than I ever would be.

I guess the bottom line is, you worried about the wrong child. You must have been confused since I wore all black and revered the dead and he wore all light colors like white and khaki and tried to blend in with the rest of you imbeciles.

Not once did any of you ever fact check a damn thing. And you call yourselves forward thinkers? I have more choice words for you, but I’ll refrain from vulgarity for the sake of the rest of humanity.

High school murdered a version of me that used to exist and then they pretended they weren’t culpable for any of it by spreading rumors and gossip and mean-spirited bull shit behind my back. And my brother most likely didn’t help with any of it.

In fact, I asked to take my bestie to prom because she wanted to go but underclassmen couldn’t purchase tickets to the senior prom. That was the stupidest rule there ever was. So I asked if I could buy her a ticket. This got misinterpreted, I found out later, to ‘Eevie is GAY!’ Fuck you all.

Whoops. My vulgarity came back.

I have learned since then, from my spirit guide, that there was a boy who would have gone to prom to dance with me or would have asked me out to go if he didn’t hear that I was gay. I’m not fucking gay, you dingbats! And those of you who whispered Arellis is gay as if that made any difference in how delightful of a young lady she was ought to hang yourselves for being Grade A assholes. It’s none of your fucking business. (Arellis, if you heard them, you should know you were smoking hot and that’s the reason they were assholes to you over this potential difference.)

Wait. You’re probably still smoking hot.

And I’m still straight.

Hard to believe, isn’t it? A woman complimenting another woman to tell her that she’s good-looking. To build her up. To encourage her self-esteem and self-identity to take root and flourish. It’s a foreign concept to most of you, I am well aware of that one. I flirted with everyone for a long time in my 20s and early 30s because flirting never hurt anyone. And you know what I discovered? Flirting actually made people less likely to be sexually vulgar at me when I didn’t want it to happen. It’s like they knew I thought they were attractive, so they relaxed. They stopped daydreaming about being with me because they knew the opportunity existed. That’s what one of them told me later on, anyway.

I’m done flirting, though. At least, I think I am. Maybe it’ll come back. It seems like that part of me is dead now. However, when a woman with high charisma flirts with someone like a virgin, they get quite satisfied; they believe in themselves instead of focusing on something like the fact they are still a virgin. It’s a small thing that will change in time and there is nothing wrong with being a virgin at all. We all started that way, didn’t we?

Did you forget you were a noob once?

I did, briefly… though not regarding that topic. I forgot what it’s like to be lost, confused, unsure of myself, looking for guidance and love. I figured out how to love myself somewhere along the way. It was in the middle of a marriage proposal to another human being, actually… when I wrote down a list of traits I perceived the other human being to have and realized these were all things people told me I achieved.

Kindness
Humility
Protectiveness

That’s just a teaser. You can decide for yourself if I am anything or nothing all on your own. I know you will, anyway, because you are stuck in your emotional body, most likely, like I was for a while. When you are stuck in your emotional body, you react to how you feel about what people say rather than perceiving the reality that is.

This happened once to my high school bestie. It was very disappointing. We spent all our time writing crazy short stories about kids stealing toasters from Jesus and drawing Hell Scouts, a rip-off of Sailor Moon but with characters from our own high school group. And, of course, the Hell Scouts were sent to torment Jesus by stealing his toaster. By an evil English teacher named Mrs. Ciminella, who was Rosalia’s mother. Rosalia was my BFF and she was convinced that she was adopted, which I of course validated because I’m like that. I validate everyone to the best of my ability. Apparently, this is a psychology thing that is required to you know, finish your PhD. Wish I knew that sooner. I would have gone into psychology, if I thought about it.

But if I went into psychology, I’d have a completely different story than the enchanting story I’m telling you in snippets. So, I can’t complain. I have quite the story to convey, as you will see.

I’m going to tell you right now I am getting creative with some of the details, so I will leave it up to you to decide what’s fact and what’s fiction.

Going back to being creepy… The spirit guide tells me there’s a body (well, several bodies) hidden in the walls of an ancient Victorian mansion. There’s a weird space in the second floor bathroom where approximately three feet of potential space is wasted by what seems to be a superfluous wall. I spoke to my father about this, since he was the one who bought the place after all, and he told me that the person who sold him the house claimed that the exterior wall was moved and they never finished it properly up there.

I call bull shit. Two out four rooms have this extra space walled off. Why not all four? The only reason it’s incredibly obvious is there is a window in the middle of one of the rooms and you can walk that three feet from the main floor of the room.

A visual of the wasted space in the Victorian mansion.

I’m 99% convinced there are actually dead bodies back there. Then, in the basement, there’s a coal room with a packed dirt floor. I’ve always wondered how many people were buried under there. I get it, I’m creepy and preoccupied with death. I was suicidal for ages. But what if I’m right? What if I go to renovate this thing upon my parents’ death and I find out the house belonged to a serial killer or somma?


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