015

 

 

Someone broke into our house. 

Nothing was taken. Still, this happened while I was awake and I heard nothing. I was the first to go downstairs in the morning, and I saw the door to the kitchen, which I had locked a few hours before, widely open. 

Someone had moved the freezer to get into the house through the small bathroom window. I mean, to fit through there, you'd have to be a child or emaciated. 

And on the freezer was my dad's old hair tonic and rusty lighter. I knew something was definitely wrong, but I asked my mother if she had gone downstairs before me. 

Panic. 

I had a full-blown panic attack after I told her what I saw. I don't know why I somehow think I'm practically the man the house and I should know exactly what to do in these situations. Or that anyone would take me seriously. 

"Dad, what do I do? What do I do?"

I acted like like a little bitch, cried, and told her I was scared. She calmed me down and promised to buy better locks.

What could they have taken? Nothing. We don't have a TV downstairs. Kitchen appliances? No money. No jewelry.

There was a pile of presents under the tree; I had spent a small fortune on that shit. But Christmas morning was fine. They were happy. I got a bag of markers and liquid hand soap. At least someone bothered.

The next night, some guards kept watch in the front of the house till morning. Because, sure, a person who breaks in, takes nothing, and makes no effort to conceal to this, is dying to get back inside the next day. I guess they did this so I we could get some sleep. 

---

I'm talking to a girl who can take us to the mountains because it's snowing up there. Mom is fixating on coats. Just all outfits, no logistics. 

I do not like planning trips. 

I don't understand why I'm the only person in this family who knows how to Google things. This is my role, I guess. I get everyone inspired gifts and make airtight itineraries.

This is how my three-tiered trauma cake manifests — extreme nervousness, which is pretty fucking basic. I am nervous about everything. Something awful is going to happen. 

Mom asked, "Has anything truly horrible ever happened to us while traveling?" 

I said, "No, but how is that an indication of what could happen?" 

Then she quoted one of her friends, which she tends to do.

I spent the entire day comparing several travel insurance policies. Yes, I'm going to break my fucking bones. Yes, my flight is going to be fucking delayed — no, cancelled. Yes, I'd like to have my fucking remains transported back to my home country. 

And every once in a while, I'd go into her room and tell her about something I'd read. 

Uh-huh, uh-huh. 

I must be a nightmare to live with.

014

 

I'm currently in the process of making an inventory of everything I own. A modest bit of curation. At least that's how I'm romanticizing it. I'm very close to finding out the value of my room, how much I'd be losing if this all burned to the fucking ground. 

I've always been fascinated by the accumulation of objects, and it makes me sad to admit that most of what I've accumulated is mass-produced garbage. It makes me feel very far from the kind of woman I want to be because I'm surrounded by imitations, essentially what everyone else has. 

"Paperbacks and postcards, Jenny." 

"It's all you need, isn't it?" 

But I've become somewhat practical. I can't be lining up rocks and seashells on my window sills. I can't tolerate an ugly antique bust staring at me in the middle of the night. I don't go off to exotic places where strangers can give me unique trinkets to remember them by. 

I'm not what I own, sure, but I'm starting to think that building a beautiful nest is the most I can do in life. 

---

There are so many things that I want to get into, but hobbies are expensive, I'm running out of space, and I'd honestly rather waste my time scoffing at children on the internet. 

I'm listening to Titanic Rising for the millionth time, and I just remembered that I used to write poems. I also used to kiss on the mouth. 

I lost a day reading about paper and fountain pens, but then I told myself that I'd never buy a notebook ever again after splurging on a fancy-ass tablet. My handwriting on it is pretty "lifelike," and I can upload journal pages to the cloud, but of course, it's not quite the same. There's no drama. There's no ceremony. 

Mom got rid of our deteriorating papers when she cleaned out the stairs cupboard. Skimming my old notebooks was unsettling, like I was going through someone else's shit. 

I let her throw it all away because the thoughts of a 20-year-old aren't valuable. They might have been at some point, but not anymore. 

013

I went a little insane and blew last month's paycheck on Christmas presents. We never really did presents, and I guess we're trying harder to be a normal family now that Dad's gone, which is a fucking shame. It turns out that I am an excellent gift-giver, and no one really knows what I want. That means no one really knows who I am; yay. 

I spent the most on myself, which now makes me feel like a wasteful asshole. I got a Foreo Luna 3 Plus because it was on sale. It's superfluous, to say the least, to any skincare routine. I also got a Punitapi Chan? I showed my mother this thing, and it's possible that she thinks that I'm regressing or losing my mind.

012

I drank a whole bottle of wine while watching The Eternal Daughter and Feng Shui with my brother. We watch boring artsy movies and garbage horror. I'm not drunk, and I thought I would be. It's kind of a bummer. I'm not even tipsy, just a little sleepy. I would masturbate now, but I'm on my period. I'm surprised because I also had a period last month. Two months in a row? It's almost like I'm a normal girl. I will have a cigarette in a bit, then I'll wash my pussy and go to sleep. I'm sad. I'm really fucking sad. 

011

It's my birthday week, so it's a lot easier to justify taking a few days off work. This is something I do regularly, jamming my work week into three days so that I feel panicked and resentful. This week, I'm not even going to punish myself for fucking watching some movies that I've been meaning to watch and gorging like the fat, disgusting pig that I am. It's okay. This is a milestone birthday. I'm fucking 30. I'm 30? I'm 30. Jesus. 

Today, I woke up to a birthday text from my mom. She called me "precious baby girl," which I'm kind of into because I like coddling. It also makes me feel like a dog, which is funny. I bought myself one of those retro handheld emulators and another, more complicated miniature kit as presents. 

I can't wait to play those shitty games I used to play as a kid. I guess I like nostalgia as much as the next person. I've spent the past few days downloading ROMs. 

I've been spending a lot of time with my brother because he's on a self-improvement kick. I think one of his goals is to not shut us out, and he's doing a good job. We're trudging through Deep Space Nine, breezing through Voyager, and playing a lot of video games. I noticed that my hands feel pre-arthritic. I don't even know if that's a thing, but my hands just feel stiff, there's a dull ache in my knuckles, and my grip is bullshit. I'm 30. Of course, I'm not that upset because I don't feel much of anything.

The boys still haven't made up. This has been going on for a while, and it's hard to keep them separate. My brother suggested that we hire a dog whisperer.