You hit me just like heroin...

Sometimes we do stupid things. Humans I mean. We do things like fall for the wrong people. Care about people who barely care about themselves and can therefore hardly find it in them to care about others. And we care about them even when they disappoint us and frustrate us and worry us. We care about them even when we know they're so sad and broken and barely anything but a fiction. And even knowing all this we let them break our hearts again and again and again.

Dear readers, please forgive your sweet Dormouse for being so shallow and susceptible to flights of fancy. A dear friend of mine has been in a dark place (admittedly not darker than usual but for some reason it is getting to me more) and I'm worried for him. I wouldn't like to be so presumptuous as to attempt to cheer him up, I know how terribly I hate it when other people attempt to make me happy when I'm barely capable of picking myself up off the floor. However, I love him and I want wholeheartedly for him to be okay.

"Be okay." What the fuck does that even mean? Be happy? Be...normal? Behave in the societally appropriate manner? Most days I can barely fucking understand how to feel okay. How could I presume to ask someone else I love to feel in a way I don't even know how to feel? And of course I worry about my growing dependence on his morbid sensibilities. Today he spoke to me of a love of a certain drug and the way he purred about it was so enticing. I could feel myself back there in my dark room, my friend's hands on my arm, injecting liquid joy directly into my veins. I could be happy listening to him tell me about using it, making me crave it, until it drove me to insanity. Until all I would want is to beg him to kiss it into every inch of my skin. This is dangerous. I absolutely cannot allow him to drive me to distraction in this way. But his words are...so lovely. It hurt my throat to tell him to stop. The words had to be ripped from me. All I wanted was for him to go on and on and on. Problematic relationship much? Oh well. He's really a lovely gentleman when you let him be. As long as you don't mind the touch of the morbid.

The past year was but as yesterday to Peter.

The past year was not, however, as yesterday to your dearly beloved Dormouse. 2011 was a totally shit year. Between Bear and I ending our three and a half year relationship, my father dying, and my idiotic decision to move back home to an island in the middle of nowhere I'm ready to shed 2011 like last season's fur. I'm looking forward. I'm off to graduate school, moving back to New York, and trying to find my footing again. No more backslides. 2012 will be for distancing myself from the pain and the self-destruction and the fog of mental illness. Or...I hope it will. Maybe this year can be the year I figure out how to be a human person. Wouldn't that be nice?

Just a little bit of pixie dust...

I'm in a weird place right now. It's been a tough year and I'm not sure how to deal with it all. Every time I think I'm taking a step forward I seem to take two steps backward. It's...deeply unsatisfying to say the least. But it's the holiday season and I'm trying to be optimistic about my life. So happy holidays all you lovely readers!

He took Mrs. Darling's kiss with him...

Dear Dormouse,

Not every man is the last man you were with. Not every man is S. Not every man will say the words, "I knew I was toying with you but it was so much fun I couldn't stop." In short, not every man will derive pleasure from making you cry. This is important to remember because you deserve happiness. And you're with someone now who could make you happy. So let him try. Stop doubting his motives and assuming he's laughing at you behind your back and just be with him. Do you think you can do that? Do you think you can try? I think you can.

All it takes is faith and trust...

I got a date! I got a date! La la la!

Okay, imagine me spinning around in circles all night last night singing this little ditty. Now there's a follow up verse. It goes like this:

I got a second date! I got a second date! La la la!

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I, your lovely Dormouse, have managed to get not just one but two dates! Hooray for me! The first date was quite nice. I hope it can only get better from here. Maybe it's best not to get one's hopes up? But I want to get happy so badly and tonight I giggled like a fool and kissed like a teenager in a public place. My nerves are still humming and I'm smiling with all my teeth. So let's hope for the best on this, okay? Between you and me, I really like him...

To die must be an awfully big adventure...

Some nights for no good reason and out of nowhere I miss my father. He's not coming back. And I know that, obviously. I've known it since the moment my mom told me he died (I hate that word). Except I have these nights where it suddenly feels like new information. I remember and then there I am in a sobbing heap in the middle of my bed. Does it hurt less? Ever? I didn't even get to say goodbye. So busy chasing my fucking dreams 6000 miles away I didn't even tell him I loved him, or that I forgave him for everything that happened, or that I was sorry for all the things I did. Why didn't I get that chance?

-The Dormouse

In the end she grew up of her own free will a day quicker than the other girls...

Dual post tonight. Part fat girl rant part personal bit. We might get a little feminist up in here. You know you love it.

So today I'm at Barnes and Noble browsing novels. I went in to buy a specific novel (The Magician King by Lev Grossman, which I found and bought in case you were wondering, along with a copy of the complete novels of Jane Austen because it was only $25) but ended up wandering around teen fiction for a bit and of course I found something there to make me mad. It's a novel called Life in the Fat Lane. You can check here for a plot synopsis and some really scathing reviews. If you don't want to click my helpfully provided link then I'll sum up what I got from the back of the book (let's be honest here: I was in the bookstore looking for something else, I didn't pause to read an entire book that had already pissed me off in a few short paragraphs on the back cover). Lara (Laura? I can't remember) is a beautiful girl and everybody wants to be her. Then she gets fat for no fucking reason. Now everyone hates her and she hates herself (she also apparently hates other fat people even more than she did before according to the internet reviewers). There are only two ways I can see this ending: Lara loses the weight and is incredibly relieved to never have to live as an ugly fat girl again OR Lara doesn't lose the weight but learns an all-important Fat Girl Life Lesson. By this point I'm sure you realize I don't agree with either of these conclusions. Both are detrimental and I think they're bad for the same reason. Both conclusions treat life as a fat girl as a learning opportunity. Either you learn to appreciate what you had (your "perfect" skinny body) or you learn that Fat Girl Life Lesson.

As a fat girl I have to say I'm fucking insulted. My life is not your FUCKING LEARNING OPPORTUNITY! I don't have the answers to life because people weren't nice to me because I'm fat. One day in my body probably will teach you a lot of lessons. You'll learn how to make kickass indie playlists, you'll learn how not to punch your heterosexist, racist, sizeist, grandmother in the face every time she opens her mouth, you'll probably learn how to recycle a ridiculous amount of industrial sized printer cartridges, you might even learn how to make the best pot of mac and cheese you've ever experienced in your entire life. Yes, these are all really cool things to know (especially the mac cheese thing. I'm pretty impressed with myself on that one). You know what they're not? They're not all important life lessons that will change your personality and the way you view the world (okay, dealing with my grandmother might do all those things but that's something unique to me; I do not share the old bitch with all the fat girls in all the world). I resent the idea that my life as a fat girl is so fucking abnormal, so fucking out there, that simply being me will teach some other lady all the important things she needs to know about life, the universe, and everything. Let me tell you the extra 60 pounds I'm packing did not come with an instruction manual on how to live my life and be a better person. Stop making books and TV shows and films where skinny girls learn about life through becoming fat. I am just as lost as the next person. My excess weight does not make me any more capable than anyone else and it just pisses me off when being a fat girl becomes this mystical magical thing that you learn from and then you get to transform into the beautiful princess. I'm already the fucking beautiful princess and fuck you if you can't figure it out.

In other news, the other night I said the following sentence to a friend of mine: I love the awful way he makes me feel so good. I am baffled by my own self because I know the sentence is true. There's a guy who makes me feel so amazingly lovely while simultaneously making me feel so dirty deep inside. It's been bothering me. I know I'm being used. I know I'm using him. It's a strange tug-of-war and even though we're both winning I get the feeling we're both losing too. Anyway, that's just a random middle of the night thought. My mind is wandering to all these strange places right now. Time to step back, look at myself in the mirror, and reaffirm how fucking fabulous I am. Maybe you all should do it too. We can always use a little reminder of our own greatness now and again. So, whoever you are, you're beautiful, you're wonderful, you're smart, but don't let me sit here and tell you this. Go tell it to yourself.

-The Dormouse