Two Down One To Go

So now I've finished rewriting the Hershey Memoir, meaning that I've only go one more to finish. I don't know if I like how I finished it, though. I never used to doubt my writing skills, before. I've never had anyone tell me I'm a bad writer, though. I usually have people say "You're really good!" Well, what makes me a good writer? Are you only saying it to be nice? If I'm such a good writer, why do I only have four blog followers?
Lately, I've been getting ideas for my blog, great ones, only to lose them before I can get to a computer. They usually involve food or culture and I usually get them when I'm half asleep. Other times I'll get an idea, and then realize it's too personally motivated to put on my blog. Or that if I write it, I'll piss someone off.
I do not like getting involved in drama, even though I am oft times embroiled in it. I try to avoid it, but I can't help it a lot of the time. I regret to say that I am ruled by my emotions. My emotions , my compulsions get me in a lot of trouble. I have to learn how to keep my thoughts to myself, and not dig my own grave with my verbal diarrhea. I would post some of my thoughts in my blog if I could, but the tricky thing about the internet is that anyone can see what you post anytime. Once it's there, it's like a tattoo.
So I keep the private, explosive thoughts in a diary. As for the blog ideas which are viable, I'll have to write those down to, so I can remember them. I'll have to remind myself to do that. Forgetfulness is a vicious cycle.
So I'm almost done rewriting my little memoirs. With any luck, I'll be finished in about six months.

One down, two to go.

I finished rewriting at least one of the memoirs, My First Trip to The Great Escape. This was no great feat, considering that it is the shortest of the three memoirs, having only six parts. I will certainly finish the Hershey Memoir next, for it has seven parts. The most recently written one will take the longest, for it has a whopping eleven parts.

My life has been a little difficult lately, for personal reasons. I've been dealing with a lot of my issues. This won't affect my writing too much, because I don't write a lot to begin with. It is a stroke of luck that I managed to finished editing two entries today, for most days I can't even bother to even start a brand new entry. I've been plagued by anxiety and general malaise, despite the pleasant weather. I do not know when things will start to look up, or if they will at all.

Have I gone too far?

I'm starting to wonder if I've gone too far with my memoir rewrites. At the beginning I vowed I would only fix a couple sentences and mend grammatical errors. But now I find myself rewriting entire paragraphs! Yes, I do have paragraphs. The formatting of this blog doesn't allow the indentations to appear. So I just break up my story into spaced chunks.

So I'm rewriting entire chunks now! Soon it'll get to the point where I'll delete an entire entry and just start from scratch!

I'm just trying to improve my writing. Is that such a bad thing? Am I taking this too seriously? I mean, they do sound better after I'm through with them. They make more sense after I revise them, they truly do. I still don't have an outside opinion though. Damn.

Disgust and Dismay

A few minutes ago, I logged into my blog with the intention of continuing my memoir rewrite. To my surprise, I noticed I had a new follower. A new follower! A strange coincidence, after writing an entry lamenting my lack of followers, right?
My surprise and delight was shattered when I realized that my new follower was none other than my ex-boyfriend, Bryan. This discovery filled me with a mixture of disgust and dismay, as the title suggests. He followed both my blogs, including my inactive blog from a high school health class.
How did he find me you ask? Well, several months ago, I left a mildly snarky comment on a blog entry he'd written regarding health care. Why, I don't know; I'm very impulsive sometimes. He responded with sincerity, clearly missing the snarkiness in my tone. Did he know who I was? Most likely, seeing as the title of my abandoned Health Class Blog has my last name in it. After all, how many people have my surname?

Why would he want to follow the ex-girlfriend who broke his heart and (literally) broke his balls? Is he still obsessed with me, as he was in the months after I dumped him? Does he follow me to keep tabs on me, wondering if my life if better or worse than his?
I check up on my exes via the internet whenever I'm bored. My motive is generally one of curiosity, I want to see they're doing with their lives, if they ever still think about me. Lots of people do the same thing, especially women. Women relish the idea of their exes still thinking about them, it strokes our egos.
For me, it strokes my ego and disgusts me to find an ex still thinking of me. On one hand, I feel a certain pride knowing that I made such an impact on their lives.

My relationship with Bryan lasted one month and three weeks. I was twelve at the time, and he was fourteen. It was for my part, unpleasant, mainly because I was not emotionally ready to have a boyfriend. I panicked, and fled. He reacted by following me around, attempting to win me back. Then, when he realized he wouldn't ever get me back, a rivalry began. Who was the better thespian? Who was the better singer? Who was cooler? With the rivalry came an abundance of bitterness.
We both hated each other, and both tried to constantly outdo the other. The whole thing created plenty of amusement for our peers, and plenty of frustration and humiliation for me. I regretted ever meeting him, and I still feel that way.

When I moved to VT, I thought I had escaped the drama. But thanks to the internet, the drama sought me out and found me, causing more trouble. He's messaged me on Myspace, followed me on my blog. I'll never be able to evade my juvenile mistake of dating him. The internet makes it easy to find anyone you want. All these social networking sites, like Facebook and Twitter only make it easier. It's a problem that we are only just beginning to grasp.

This unspoken rivalry, as old as it is, will probably never go away. The urge to one-up a nemesis never does. I can hold a grudge for a damn long time, too. I was a kid when this started, just a kid who made a stupid decision that should have meant nothing at all. But instead it turned into an epic clusterfuck, one I can never escape. Normal people don't hold death grudges with former childhood sweethearts, you know?

So I blocked him from my blog (let's hear it for alliteration!). I only wish that I'd written this blog before hand, so he could see this and answer for himself. I want to know his intentions, and then I want him to go the fuck away.

Memoir rewrites!

I started to write a blog about some of my obsessive compulsive rituals involving food, but had an attack of writer's block. The thought of writing more memoirs kept taunting, teasing and tempting me. I couldn't settle upon another idea for a memoir, nor did I want to make this blog redundant, so I resisted the urge. But the urge grew stronger, and my obsession with self-indulgence and rich details began to consume me. So I decided to re-read my already published memoirs. Doing so left me dissatisfied and frustrated, for nothing about my published works sounded right. The language sounded stilted and awkward, and I found a few grammatical mistakes peppered here and there. My writing didn't make any sense, and didn't sound as intelligent as I had previously thought.

So I decided to fix it. I've started rewriting them, though not completely. Nothing drastic, just a few touch-ups here and there. Rewrite a few sentences, add some semicolons (the semicolon obsession persists!) and fix mistakes. I'll add more information in some places, to flesh out my already florid and corpulent details. I have a few doubts about this clean-up though, a feeling that I'm simplifying my work and making it as dull as Stephenie Meyer's prose. A writer is often her worst critic though, so I need a second opinion to tell me if these changes are for better or worse. Unfortunately, it looks like my followers don't seem very interested. I think perhaps they don't really care about the memoirs (which is why I've decided to avoid them from now on). I must admit that the memoirs are more for me, than the reader, and I use this blog as an outlet for my memories and opinions. I didn't start writing to garner attention (though that is an incentive, sometimes); I started writing for my pleasure, a reason I think a lot of people start writing for. Very few people write for unselfish reasons I think.

I've begun to doubt my talent. I suppose a lot of writers doubt themselves, like Stephen King. He was never going to publish Carrie, but his wife took the manuscript out of the trash and convinced him to go through with it. Sometimes, all a writer needs is a sensible person to slap them in the face and say "you don't suck!". I haven't had anyone do that for this blog though. This little corner of the internet goes widely ignored, no matter how often I pimp it out to friends and loved ones.

But I'm going to keep on trucking. I enjoy writing, whether or not anyone notices that I'm doing it (though it would be nice if someone did). I'm going to obsessively rewrite my self-indulgent, florid memoirs and maybe even write some new ones. At some point, I'll write some regular blogs, when the mood takes me and my mind allows me such a boon. Who knows what I'm going to do next with this blog, or if anyone is going to ever see it? Maybe it won't be such a big deal if I stop thinking about it.

What to write next?

Now that I've finished my third self-indulgent memoir, I am at a loss of what to write next. Should I discuss politics or literature? Should I write an articulate rant? I considered writing another memoir; perhaps about something that has nothing to do with amusement parks. I have also considered editing all my memoirs, for I feel that they do not have enough semicolons. I do not know why I treat these memoirs with such reverence. Perhaps it is the amount of detail and work I put into these, taking days or even weeks to write even a single entry, editing and re-editing them. I certainly don't put as much effort into my other entries.
If I wrote another one, what would it even be about? One idea I had was that I would write about a trip my father and I took to The Shelburne Museum. I've also thought about writing about another amusement park trip, but I was afraid I would make myself redundant.

Normally, my mind is swimming in ideas about what to write, ideas I quickly forget due to the fact that I've got the attention span of a squirrel. But lately, I've been having some 'writer's block'. I don't know what ideas to use (if I can even conjure any to begin with) and when I do actually start to compose something, I begin to doubt its quality. Am I using too many details or not enough? Is my grammar correct; where do I put a semicolon? Did I use that semicolon in my last sentence correctly?
It seems of late, that my anxiety has gotten worse and worse. Every aspect of my life is fraught with intense feelings of anxiety and nervousness. My mind overcrowded with screaming obsessive thoughts. Then, the depression and the despair sweeps through. Nothing seems right, and everything my friends do or say annoys me.
I've had a lot of unwanted drama in my life lately, most of it of my own making. Things I should have left unsaid, now out in the open. Misunderstood words coming back to bite me in the ass. It feels like my life is falling apart, and at this point, I'm willing to let it. What else can I do? There does not seem to be much I can do to stop fate, so I am going to have to take things as they come, and learn to accept the inevitable.

Fox and Squirrel Pt. 11

This is the final chapter of my longest, most self-indulgent memoir. And this time, I mean it. I don't know what I'm going to blog about after this. I might start another memoir, or I might actually blog about something other than myself. Who knows? Also, I'm tired of writing this, so it might be a little bit sloppy.
Part 11: Time To Go Home
As you already know, we had chosen The Flying Trapeze to be our final ride. Since it was the end of the day, there was virtually no line. So we got on the ride much quicker than usual.
We selected our swings, and fastened all the safety restraints. While we waited for the ride to start, we swung ourselves back and forth, just like one would on a regular playground swing. I think a lot of people do this whenever they go one one of these rides.
The ride began, lifting us into the air, then us spinning around. It was pretty fast, though not as fast as the swings at Hershey Park (which are prettier as well, thanks to the art, which features Victorian women right out of Godey's Ladies Book). The view was pretty amazing though, one could see the setting sun, and The Boomerang Coaster. I could hear the kids behind us, talking about The Boomerang. Then one of them idly mentioned, that whenever they ride the swings, that they're afraid that the chains of their swing are going to snap off and send them flying to their deaths. I laughed, I have that exact same fear myself. I'm terrified that one day, I'll be riding one of these things, and the chains are just going to snap, sending me flying out to my certain doom. This is of course, very unlikely, since the chains are generally very strong, and one would have to be immensely heavy in order to make them break. You'd have to be, like 500 pounds in order for this to occur. But it's unlikely a 500 pound person would even be on one of these swings, because the seats would be unable to contain their ass, after all. Also, I think most rides have weight limits.

When the ride was over, it was time to go home. The park was closing, and crowds of people were navigating their way to the park's exit. We joined this great herd, which moved slowly, as if everyone was reluctant to leave or just too exhausted to move quickly. The latter is more logical. By park's closing, most people just want to get home, or to their hotel rooms and collapse. Amusement parks take a lot out of you.
Usually, whenever I leave an amusement park, I take a moment to muse upon its fading magic. During the day, an amusement park is loaded with magic. Its loud noises, its bright colors, the way they draw you in and enchant you. At night, when all the lights turn on and the place sparkles, there's a different kind of magic, but a magic all the same. But then, when the park closes, the fey glamor of the place wears off. The rides are still and silent, the concession stands no longer give off luscious smells. The place is going to sleep, and when it's sleeping, it can't work its magic on anyone.
But as we left, I was not musing upon these thoughts. I was just too tired, too sore and too uncomfortable to think. I just wanted to get out of this crowd, get to the car and go home. I wonder how Acacia felt. I think she was just as tired as I was, and probably not looking forward to driving all the way home.

We entered the little International Village, where, as you already know, the parks entrance and exit are located. We'd had our picture taken there that afternoon when we walked into the park, and meant to pick up the photos (supposedly they were free if we presented the ticket that the photographer given us). We never even got close to the photo kiosk though, because it was so crowded. It was as if every single park guest had rushed to that kiosk at once, and so we decided to head on home.
We exited through the gift shop, stopping to admire a few things, but since we had no money to spare, we moved on pretty quickly. After all, we really wanted to go home.

We made the long trek back to the car, our bodies sore, our legs unwilling. Up the ramp, over the bridge and into the vast parking lot. I wished we hadn't parked so far back. My bra was chafing my skin and my feet were hurting.
When finally we made it to the car, Acacia and I stripped off any garments we found uncomfortable. I whipped off my bra, for the under wire was poking and irritating my skin, the straps cutting into my shoulders. Acacia rid herself of those damp shorts, which she had been wearing all day without any complaint (though she had declared earlier that she would not wear them for the ride home). We threw our stuff into the back seat and got in the car. I peeled off my shoes and socks, and let my feet breathe.
The ride home was subdued. Every part of my body hurt, and I fell asleep quickly. I only woke up when we stopped at the Stewart's gas station. I had to pee, plus it was my job to pay for gas, seeing as Acacia was clad only in a t-shirt and bright orange underwear, and would not put those shorts on again for anything. So, I pulled on my sneakers without putting my sweaty socks back on or even bothering to lace them, and got out of the car with the rest of our cash.

I felt awkward, stumbling into Stewart's without a bra on. I'm very subconscious about my breasts (you would be too if you were my cup size) you see, and felt uncomfortable going into the station with them in their unbridled state. So I crossed my arms over my chest, as if trying to keep them from wandering away, and shuffled over to the bathroom.
It was occupied. Of course it was occupied. It's a well known fact, that whenever you're at a gas station and in a hurry, the bathroom will be occupied, or the line will be ridiculously long. Whenever you're in a hurry, there will always be some obnoxious obstacle.
Eventually, the man in the bathroom finally vacated (and naturally, it seemed like he took an eternity. It's as if they do it on purpose you know, because they know someone is waiting, and want to be a total dick about it.) and I had my turn. Then I went to the counter and bought our gas. It was my first time buying gas, and I had no idea how to do it. We didn't have enough money for the amount Acacia wanted, so I had to ask for as much gas as our money would buy. I don't even remember how much money it was nor do I remember which one of us pumped the gas. I think it must have been me, because in her pants-less state, Acacia could not get out of the car. I had to have her guidance of course, seeing as I don't know how to pump gas, much less even drive a car. The whole experience at the gas station was very surreal.

The rest of the ride home was very much a blur. I dozed on and off, my body screaming in pain from the day's excursions. At some point, we passed the state borders. We were back in Vermont.
But we weren't home yet. We still had aways to go, for we were on the west side of VT, and home was on the easternmost edge of the state. Luckily, we were in the narrowest part of the VT. But the ride still seemed to last forever, and not in the exciting way our ride to the Great Escape had been. After all, we were very tired. Also, I felt strangely melancholy, as I often do after a fun trip. There's all the emotional build-up and excitement. Then during the event itself, there's a kind of emotional climax. It's like being high on my own feelings. When it's all over, and I come down from this high, I find myself drained and depressed.
That's what I was feeling at the moment. Usually it goes away after a couple of days filled with feelings of uneasiness. But for some reason, after this trip, I sunk into another depression, which would land me in group therapy.

When we were approaching Chester, Acacia asked if I wanted to stay another night at her house, seeing as she would be too tired to drive into Bellow's Falls. As much as I adore Acacia, I didn't feel like staying another night in an unfamiliar place, and begged her to take me to my own home. I wanted to see my mother, and to sleep in my own bed. Kindly, she agreed, on the condition that I hand her a Rice Krispy treat to give her enough energy to get us both home. I obliged and we continued on to Bellow's Falls.
We pulled up in front of my house. I knew it was late, but I didn't know what time it was, only that it was dark. It may have been anywhere between 10 PM and Midnight. I gathered my things, my overnight bag, my backpack, the tote full of food and the cooler. So much stuff to drag inside! Then Acacia and I said our farewells, and I staggered into the house.

The end of our adventure is rather anticlimactic, I'm afraid. As soon as I got in the house, I dropped all the bags on the nearest chair, and changed into a pair of pajamas. I told my mother all about my day, describing rides, telling her how expensive it everything was.
I was exhausted, my body ached and my throat was hoarse from screaming on the roller coasters. Emotionally, I felt a little drained, the excitement of the day being over and all
And as I went to bed that night, physically and emotionally worn out, I knew one thing for certain.
I was going to write about this day in my blog.

Well, that's it. The damn memoir is finally finished. Maybe now I can write about something meaningful. Or, I can just write another self-indulgent memoir.