| View Blog
|
| Introductions--masochistic and a bit insane.
|
|
|
I blame my crappy friends for my poor conversational skills. If they hadn't ditched me for weed and people who had the time to go steal things from the 99 cents store with them. I'm too paranoid for weed, who needs more anxiety problems? And the same goes for shoplifting.
I wasn't always like this—struggling for words, stuttering at least twice in a single conversation, unable to think of a passable topic of interest. I used to be great at talking, which was how people were drawn to me back then. Now I don't mean to sound stuck up by saying that, but yeah, people liked me before. A lot. I was the crazy punk girl who always had something random to say. Now I'm the quiet who-knows-what-the-hell-she-is-anymore girl who people avoid talking to because just carrying on a convo with me is like watching a starlet repeatedly go to rehab, only to get out to suck on a bottle again, paparazzi capturing it all. It's a bit painful. Unless you're one of those people who find it endearing, and hope that the next Britney Spears has things work out for her. Or if you're one of those who laughs and speculates. You know, a bit masochistic. Those kind of people like me. They like watching my verbal car crashes. And sometimes they try to fix me.
About masochism. I used to be some sort of a masochist. I suppose I still am, sort of. See, back then, when I still had mad people skills, I also cut myself. If you could call it that. What I would do was get the little metal nail filer that comes attached to cheap nail trimmers, and scrape it against my skin until a passable wound was made. The stinging and slight swelling that came after the initial numbness was addictive. It started as a “hey I've heard of this and want to see what it's all about” thing, and turned into the way I dealt with things. I never really had a big problem with it.
Most people who've never done it see it as such a horrible thing, a thing that ruins lives. And true, maybe I began to dependent on that as a clutch, but it never made things worse than they were. No adults never found out. If it wasn't for a boyfriend who made me promise to never do it again, I would probably still be cutting. But I've quit, and become one of those people who is just a bit disgusted by the kids who do it.
A lot of the cutters I know do it for the attention they get after telling their friends about it and it annoys me. As if I was ever much different, but still.
The way I still practice masochism is by the way I absolutely love shots and needles and safety pins. Yum. I found this out slowly, starting by piercing the skin on my lower arm with a safety pin, completely loving it. I only removed it because I knew my parents would freak out if they saw it. Although I could hide it. I mean, I hid the cutting for 3 years. Then I took a sewing needle one day from my mother's sewing kit, and shoved it deep into my thumb. I felt it enter the little muscle, and it hurt like a mother but I kept it there, nudging it deeper every time I got too used to the pain.
And what convinced me hook line and sinker that I was completely into needles and all that was when I went to get that Gardasil shot, you know, to prevent HPV, and the nurse just stabbed the needle into my arm and pulled it out, all in less than a couple seconds. A tingle of pain manifested in my upper arm but also I felt a little thrill. The nurse said that some girls said it hurt for a day, and some said it didn't hurt at all. I found myself wishing it would hurt for a day, or even better, two days.
It's not like I get turned on by pain. Well, biting maybe, but doesn't everyone like biting? Other than biting, I don't get turned on by pain; I just really really like it.
I got a haircut yesterday. It's not much different from my other hairstyles, but you know how a little change can make everything completely different—that's what has happened with my hair. The hairstylist did something different, and I don't know what, but I don't like it.
First of all, this woman rushed while cutting my hair. Never a good idea. A friend came in to have his hair cut by her and she got all joyful and hyper and started whisking my hair all around, cutting off bits and pieces. I guess she hadn't seen him in a while. So I ended up walking out of the salon with very damp hair, poorly done layers, and hair a good inch shorter than I had asked for. What a gyp.
I suppose this is all I will write for now. By now you must think that I am a complete and total freak, hung up on pain and anti-social. But the truth is I'm a very social girl. When I'm with the right people. There are so many other things about me. But reading this over, I could see why you would be completely appalled by myself and not want anything to do with me. Some of the things I wrote about are somewhat odd. Yet this first blog is just about a few of the things I refuse to tell others. At least when I'm lacking this anonymity. Will write more later.
-Marissa |
|
Posted by SuperMariss on 2008-05-12 23:58:59 | Rating: | Views: 42
|
| |
|
|
