Breaking radio silence and selling Manga.

Just what the title says. I need space and I need money for all sorts of survival related things. I can ship things but I will add on for shipping.

The list will be updated as necessary.


Alice 19th Volume 3 - $8
Alice 19th Volume 4 - $8
Alice 19th Volume 5 - $8
Alice 19th Volume 6 - $8
Alice 19th Volume 7 - $8

DNAngel Volume 1 - $8

Fruits Basket Volume 1 - $8
Fruits Basket Volume 2 - $8
Fruits Basket Volume 3 - $8
Fruits Basket Volume 4 - $8
Fruits Basket Volume 5 - $8

Imadoki Volume 1 - $8
Imadoki Volume 2 - $8

Kill Me Kiss Me Volume 1 - $8
Kill Me Kiss Me Volume 2 - $8
Kill Me Kiss Me Volume 3 - $8
Kill Me Kiss Me Volume 4 - $8

Busy busy brain.

I don't even know how to begin sorting through the mess in my head. It makes me ill. I'm exhausted physically, mentally, and emotionally. The nightmares have been getting worse each day.

I can't keep battling this alone, but I'm scared to even talk to Tom anymore. Tami's super busy and getting a hold of her is like trying to catch a minnow with my bare hands. Pam's just as hard to catch. Brock's been there but also has his own problems to sort out, and likewise with Chad... For obvious reasons.

I'm scared that Tom is going to turn out like it did for Gibson. The parallel is getting stronger and stronger, and I'm likewise freaking out more and more.

I'm torn between being the doormat just to keep him in my life and standing my ground even if it means losing him.

I just don't know.

I can't make any sense of it and just want to drink myself into a stupor...

Fuck I hate this shit For once can't I have a normal summer?!

A house/woman divided...

I almost drove off of the road tonight. By choice.

It's been a long time since I've had such a violent urge to hurt myself. I drove and drove to try and calm myself and sort my thoughts, but in the end I decided it too unsafe to continue driving and came home. Even though that meant that I had to endure my mother still being awake.

I'm not being rude to want to come home and write to try and stop the slipping sediment of my sanity before it cruises through the rest of my bottled emotions, memories, etc. I realize how precarious it all is right now, but there's no way to let her or anyone know for fear of tipping the balance in an unfavorable direction.

While driving, there came a point where I imagined myself flipping through the air (and then immediately wondered how hard it would be to flip a Volvo wagon like that) after crashing the car. In my vivid imagination, I hung upside down and covered in blood. There was no pain but I knew that I would die.

I wondered what my last thoughts would be of. Who or what would flit through my mind before I died.

I thought of the nature of my death, and selfishly pondered the reactions of my friends and family.

How devastated would they be?

Would any of them feel guilty?

How long would it take them to forget?

Despite the knowledge that I, in fact, could be in a worse situation in my life, I currently find myself losing the will to fight for happiness.

Maybe it is the emotional loss of two of my closest friends within hours. At least, that could be part of it.

This ache that has been weighing me down all day could very well be the pain of being abandoned.

And as we all know, I have oodles of abandonment issues.

After less than a week of being reunited with and then separated from my best friend, I come home with the throbbing urge to fill the gap she left. The only way I can see to do that is to surround myself with the friends I do have within a tangible distance. I text people when I get in, and make plans to go downtown with Tom and Jami.

Informing my mother that I planned on going out despite just stepping off an airplane ruffled a few feathers, to say the least. However, I wanted to smile, laugh, and be with my friends. Of course, I wanted to see one a little more than the other.

Needless to say I still haven't been able to put a lid on that particular bottle. It's like a suitcase that just won't zip up. When trying to sit on it and forcibly yank the zipper closed doesn't work, either one of two things may happen... The zipper and/or the suitcase breaks from the strain, spilling its contents everywhere, or one must concede to leave out an issue or two in order to zip away the larger, more emotionally volatile things.

Unfortunately, I tried to cram it all away and I do believe it exploded violently last night when he bailed on me.

Let it be known, that my issue with last night had nothing to do with the fact that he wanted to hang out with his roommate and not me. My nit pick is with the fact that he made PLANS to go downtown with me, got my hopes up like Gibson always used to do, and then wait until I pissed off my mom, got excited about seeing him, and was walking out the door before decided to change his mind and go to do something else.

The reality of one of my closest friends here leaving me high and dry just like Gibson occurring just after I once again lost my best friend to her far away dream job knocked the sanity right out of me. I still don't know how to handle it.

(Side note: Tami I hold no hard feelings! It just sucks. A lot. And there's no getting used to doing it either.)

I don't regret telling him off. Mainly because there have been many times where I should have stood up for myself where he's concerned, and I didn't because I love him, foolishly apparently.

"I'll never love you like I love her."

A phrase that manages to chip away at my self confidence every time it echos in my heart. Like some sort of festering splinter.

I love a man who has already rejected me, and I still hold out hope for us. I have also been attempting to find some sort of catalyst to the process of getting over him. So far, all attempts have failed. My heart aches and yet I still feel like it is my fault.

I didn't even get a week.

Guilt. Shame. Inadequacy. Helplessness.

Deja Gibson.

Only the pain is amplified because I really believed that the happiness would last. That it was finally requited. That for once, the someone I wanted to love me actually loved me.

I thought he loved me.

Fuck it. He said that he loved me. Multiple times. I remember as clear as day. I also remember just how my heart jumped and soared. I felt that I could do anything!

And of course, like a thirsty man in a desert, I greedily gulped down the emotion like it were pure glacial water.

I might as well have drank the waters of Love Canal.

The funny thing is that despite the obstacles that I knew I would have to fight tooth and nail to get past, I still went for it. Hope is a deadly thing.

And right now I'm scared and still confused over the debris in my head. That, by far, is the most frustrating aspect of all this.

I want to punch a wall. I want to hurt myself till I bleed. I want this emotional bullshit to temporarily leave through physical pain.

I am overwhelmed and terrified.

Give me the strength of restraint for as long as necessary. I fear that my resolve is far too weak...

And please don't let me have driven away a friend that I love, even if he did do something shitty and worthy of reprimand.

Musings of beauty

What does it mean to be beautiful?

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

We're taught this growing up to cushion insults and help ward against damaged self-esteems. However, I highly doubt that a Neo-Nazi would find Halley Berry, a woman to be considered beautiful by many, to be anything but repulsive. For the purpose of this topic, let's not call that racism (even though the probability of it being racism is rather high). Let's call it preference.

From what I've seen, these preferences dictate a person's idea of beautiful.

This is not to say that one can't reach outside his or her preferences to find beauty in the world, people, etc. Just that it's less likely.

For example, I was having dinner with a male friend of mine the other night, and the topic of attractiveness in the opposite sex happened to come up.

He told me that he generally finds himself attracted to women with more meat on their bones. With muscle. Women who look -healthy- is how he phrased it. That body type really doesn't play a big part in his definition of beauty, but he -prefers- those types of women. In fact, he has admitted that the woman he is currently dating does not fit into his usual preferences.

Another male friend of mine goes off on tirades about how skinny girls (naturally or otherwise) all look like bulimics to him, and that he doesn't want to date a girl he'd have to treat like a delicate piece of china. He won't even consider them to date or fulfill other needs.

Then on the flip side, again, one of my male friends, prefers the really skinny, really small girls. He, as far as I know, does not date outside this preference. He will, however, accept affections behind closed doors and out of the public's eye from those outside of that preference.

For now, I am going to entirely skip my tirade on skinny bitches and society. Needless to say, due to personal experiences, I am bitter and angry. And biased. In some words, I'm jealous that they can fit into society's criteria for beautiful, hot, and sexy. I believe that their lives are so much easier.

Back to my point. The first guy I mentioned, the one I had dinner with recently, he's the whole package in my opinion. Amazing personality, smart, dorky, caring, nice, funny, and not to mention he has a hunky body. He's top quality bring home to the 'rents material.

This man, who I have always believed to be out of my league, regardless of certain events, decides to mention that I am attractive.

I smile and thank him dutifully. Sure okay. He thinks I'm cute, pretty, or beautiful, terms of attraction which I believe only friends utter.

The term "hot" was dropped.

I was stunned.

This is a term that is never applied to me in frank, sober talk where there is no ulterior motive. When I say never, I mean it. Generally, I try not to take offense to the lack of such valued compliments heading my way, but every so often one happens to become a little sore.

Those that know me probably just scoffed at my understatement.

Regardless of what my friends may think, I know that I'm not a traditional thing of beauty, and that I'm even less of someone who would be considered 'hot'. Instead, I am frequently referred to as cute or pretty. Slightly more infrequently, beautiful. And even when these terms of attractiveness are doled out, there is usually booze involved.

Hot was never one of them.

I notice these things because I have more guy friends than girls, and while most girls seem to take all of these to mean the same thing, smart girls know better. By smart I mean well informed women.

I brought this up to my friend on the way from dinner, and in using a recent example in which 'cute' had been the preferred word to drop, we discussed the meaning of 'synonym' word choice in such situations. As several of my other male friends had previously pointed out, terms like cute, pretty, and sometimes beautiful are reserved for friends. Where as terms like hot, gorgeous, and sexy are decidedly not used to describe friends.

Of course there are exceptions to the patterns, and for a variety of reasons I am sure, some not as chivalrous as others. While the reasons most definitely matter, in the end the woman is only left with the term used to analyzed.

And believe you me, women tend to analyze and over-analyze these sorts of things. The women that notice, at least.

I notice, painfully.

Like I said, 'hot' was never a term used to describe me. I was extremely flattered as it came from someone I not only respected a great deal for his friendship, but also trusted to consistently deliver advice with honesty. For this reason, and many more, I find him beautiful.

In fact, I could rattle off long lists of what I find beautiful and attractive in all my friends, female or male. Yes, I am a cynic and a pessimist, but I love my friends and trust most of them with my life.

Admittedly, this tends to turn against me more often than not, but the 'nots' are worth every bit of pain, drama, and tears I may or may not endure to have them.

Lately, I have been trying to glean serenity and peace from the beauty around me. I think that I am attempting to compensate for feeling less than desirable at the general moment. I really wouldn't be surprised with the way things have been going.

Maybe I should go back to therapy. Who knows?

What I do know is that excluding the pollen in the air, the weather has been positively beautiful. I watched a squirrel build its nest last night for 15 minutes, but I also think that squirrels are insufferably adorable.

My roommate is beautiful for putting up with me all the time.

Family support is beautiful, as is the support of those family considers family.

Random acts of kindness and intended acts of kindness are beautiful.

Everybody is beautiful. Everything is beautiful.

It just depends on who you ask.

Banana nut bread and the effects of the pill.

I think I shall make banana nut bread tonight.

My hair is getting too long in my opinion. Long enough, in fact, that I have now resorted to pulling it back in small clips or pony tail things. It's quick, it's easy, and I don't have to fight with my blow dryer.

Also, something outside is causing my nose to revolt into a pile of runny yet stuffed up twinges. Cigarette smoke last night didn't really help, unfortunately.

Speaking of last night, it was rather decent. Nevermind the bleak start to the day, because in the end, I was able to let my hormones out of their cage for a while. Too long, however. This is one thing I have always disliked about the pill, it makes me ridiculously horny ninety percent of the time. Also, whenever I'm on it, not only do I usually get dumped, but then I'm left super horny -and- without a mutual source of entertainment.

I haven't gotten mine in a long time. It sucks, and it makes me feel like a tool. I guess I am if I keep letting guys use me like this and not demand something further.

I think I'm utterly terrified of losing what little I do have that I just let it happen even though it hurts. A resonating ache that multiplies as it collides deftly with my many other issues. This usually compounds the situation and leaves me rather sad and self-destructive.

However, I'd like to point out that I'm happy in those blissfully occupied moments where all I can think about is me, the guy, and how good it feels to have someone.

And then it stops. And I rarely want it to stop.

The reasons are unknown, but I have always understood them (thanks to my fucked up mind) to be because of a lack of physical attraction that even a drunk man can't stomach pushing on further. Or just that the guy is a selfish asshole who is scared to do anything like that unless he's drunk, and even then never once thinks of how I might feel left hanging EVERY time.

Teasing is one thing, being a selfish cuntwipe is another.

Maybe I'm just too giving, but should I expect something for me every once in a blue moon... At least?

Cause yeah, I'd like my chance at being happy again.

I fear I might be slowly destroying myself. I can hear the clocks ticking.

Shot glass and flowers

Am I settling for less than I deserve?

The flowers that I picked walking home from lunch today are already shriveled and browning. I realize that it's because I have put them in the shot glass with a bit of saline wash. I guess it's not so sterile anymore. Funny enough, only the purple flowers have withered, yet the yellow one remains resilient, or simply too stubborn to give into the demands of salinity and osmotic pressure.

I think my life could be represented by that shot glass.

I should probably take a photograph of it.

The shot glass could be the copious amounts of booze that I digest to feel happiness. Or even that I'm encouraging a friend of mine to drink more because I feel that they likes me better under the influence of alcohol.

Admittedly, I'm probably a lot easier to deal with under the juice. That and the beer goggles provide enough of mind addling to provide company for me.

In the end I dig myself into a hole, and it's perpetually like rubbing salt into the wide open wounds they always ignore.

Salt. Sodium chloride.

The saline wound wash that I use to clean and maintenance my piercings is easier to manipulate with a container and q-tips. A shot glass, as I have found, works perfectly.

I always like to imagine that the dried salt crystals left at the bottom of the glass are a snowflake. Halite is so beautiful.

Piercings remind me of my masochistic side. The side that turned a blind eye on the reasons behind the slow trickle of blood on my wrist. It's also the side that admires the bruises and bite marks in the mirror.

They hurt me more than I let on. They turn me on less than I let on.


I do believe in the duality of pleasure and pain, but I believe that it takes a very talented artist to create such a perfect union. It is not that they are naturally like oil and water, but more akin to the relationship of oxygen and fire. One feeds the other until the fire is consuming everything in its sight.

Passion rules and destroys all logic.

The delicate purple flowers sag under their own weight, appearing as little old ladies hunched over their walkers. Purple is my favorite color.

I wonder if these flowers represent something specific in my life or the general theme of it. While I hope for the former, I would bet on the latter.

Pessimism has stubbornly kept me from continually falling too far when I crash.

The buttercup could be this stubbornness. Rigidly staring ahead as the rest of the shot glass collapses and dies. It knows it's eventual fate, but yet it soldiers on.

It is blind to hope and happiness. I respect this flower. I imagine that if it had a face, it would resemble a weightlifter straining to do that extra rep. The runner pushing themselves towards that last mile.

The cyclist that exhausts his last reserves just to win.

This world thrives on competition. The evolution from the first bacteria to trilobites through to the Permian's last choking breath. Billions of years in the making and gone forever.

Yet this flower grits its teeth and fights on.

I wish I were more like the yellow flower.

Lately, I look away when I glance at myself in a mirror. It feels like embarrassment, but it could be shame too. I don't know if I deserve more.

Do I?

The shot glass is dirty with fingerprints and dried salt spots.

These flowers were dead before they bloomed. Dead when I picked them with a blissfully tired smile. Dead when I mistakenly placed them into the saline shot glass. Dead as they fight. Dead as they give into the inevitable.

Is it better to go out fighting or accepting?

I'd rather not go out alone.

The dead and dying have each other.

Who do I have?

A little bit of freewriting.

Dear What I Wish Could Be,

It would be much appreciated if you appeared in my dreams, at least.
I miss you, and the moments worth remembering.
The ones worth forgetting echo.


At least add the Yang to the Yin.
Torture must be balanced.

Your bruises once made me smile, knowing.
Now they simply taunt, as only you can.


Their soft green hue remind me of flowers to bloom.
All I remember is rain and cold.

Such is March. Madness.

Open your bottles and Breathe.
Stop running; the weather's beautiful.

Second to One, I remain loyal.
Brown eyed shipwreck.
Brown eyed love.

Green eyed broken.

Hope floats on a delicate breeze.
Let us meet again.

Let us become What Will Always Be.

The Cynical Dreamer
  • Current Music

R.I.P. A. Silicon Dixoide and Seattle Welcome

So Pam and I arrive into Seattle and Tami takes us to get amazing clam chowder and drinks before we head to the hotel. We park directly under a light and next to a busy 2 lane road. Also, we're in front of a swanky expensive restaurant (or so Tami told us).

Chowder is amazing, and I don't eat clams. I figured if Tami can do it, I can.

Drinks are wonderful and we end up staying till last call.

We go out to the car and find this:

Back passenger window smashed in, glove box pilfered, iPods (Tami's iTouch and my new nano), chargers for iPod and my phone, and lastly and worst of all my carry on backpack and Tami's bag with her purse.

Clearly I still have my mom's camera that I borrowed. It's because I brought it into the bar with us thank god. However, my keys, schoolbooks, hoodies, and a few other things were in my backpack. Nothing worth selling.

This is the shot of the inside, with Tami in the background attempting to get the police to care. They didn't. I have no hope in seeing my stuff ever again.

More later, but just wanted to slightly bitch about Seattle's lovely welcome to us and the abduction of A. Silicon Dioxide. Assholes.
  • Current Mood
    bitchy bitchy

A. Silicon Dioxide...

Is the name of my new iPod nano. It is purple, shiny, and was purchased by my Valentine's Day earnings. Upon attempting to name it, I stared at the screen in mild frustration before going to meditate on the throne. In the end, a bright light popped into my head, and I decided that since it was purple, and amethyst was purple it should be named after that. Especially since said iPod was bought in February, and the birthstone of said month is... You guessed it! Amethyst!

Winnar winnar, chicken dinner!

Of course, I couldn't simply name it Amethyst, because that would be too simple and boring. A chemical formula couldn't do, as I have already done that with my own birthstone and my neck. Instead, I ventured to name it Silicon Dioxide, which is quartz. A. was simply stuck in front of it on a merry little Xan-whim.

And now my new baby has a name. RIP Antoinette Devereux (Version iPod), and long live the new addition to my family.

In addition to dropping $250 on a 16G and a hardcase, I ended up visiting a shop called Teavana ( ) and tasting the most delicious (and expensive) teas ever. They're all loose and amazing. I bought four ounces of an Oolong tea that they had had for sampling (those evil Teapeople) as well as a fun little loose leaf teapot.

Consequently, I have been sucking down tea like it's crack! It makes me chipper and need to pee like a pregnant woman.

This brings me to one of my many rants that only select people have heard (mainly the ones in my head and those patient enough to listen to me):

Sweet Tea.

While we're at it, why not add iced tea to that topic as well.

Now, I understand that I live in the South. Not the Deep South (yes, there is a difference) mind, but I live in the land of Sweet Taaay. To say this drink properly, you must not pronounce it as read. British people may wish to look away and forget this abomination of our 'English' language. At work, we make it in big giant urns (standard restaurant sized monsters I believe), and per each earn we mix in approximately 5 cups of sugar.

It will put you in a diabetic coma.

Personally, I find it disgusting, but somehow we still have people complaining that the tea isn't sweet enough for their tastes. Seriously?! I don't even take sugar in my hot tea, so my irritation may not only be taste oriented.

When I first started drinking tea, it was a generic green tea and it was hot. After I had eased myself into it, I branched out into different flavors and teas. Not once did I add sugar or dairy to any of my samplings, as I prefer to taste the tea itself instead of muddle it with other flavors.

Unfortunately, this is not the case when it comes to coffee (unless it's Turkish coffee), which I brutally rape with sugar, milk, chocolate, caramel, hazelnut, and ice. This both perplexes and amuses me.

Returning to the I live in the South line of thought. I understand that hot tea during many parts of the year in this region is not only silly, but uncomfortable to drink after coming in from the outdoors. Hence the popularity of iced tea, I assume.

It's disgusting sweet or unsweet.

But that's just my viewpoint. I hope to become a tea snob some day.

Till then, I will listen to Tiesto and bounce/dance.
  • Current Music
    Tiesto - Love Comes Again