Monday, 05 January 2009

  • When did I stop using this purely for writing?

    Well now, you can rate your blog entries. How charming. Actually I suppose it would be terribly useful. -fiddles-

    Rated for C for "Caution", however C may also stand for Crazy, which is apt. So we're using it, as I have no idea what some people would be cautious of. And anyway, this is my blog.

    It annoys me that there is no hotline for where to go when you need help with something that may be considered in the realms of psychic training. No, you have to buy books and books don't really answer the questions I at least have. Or if you need the questions answered, you can buy books, cds and sign up for an online course, but that doesn't allow for question and answer sessions or even asking anything at all.

    Finally there are 'psychic hotlines' which really don't belong to psychics at all. They belong to people who think they are psychic and who think they can make money off of it. (See stage one.) I don't even begin to guess how you would broach anything beyond "Will I be able to win this guys heart?" or "Will my grandmother be all right?"

    Okay, maybe deeper questions, but I don't really know what they'd be. And how do you pick up on what the real answer is if you only have a voice to go on? Yeah, sure there's gut instinct, but there's only so much a voice can tell you- like learning anything, you need more.

    My water filter filled itself. Assuming that everyone was telling the truth and no one else in the house filled it, which was like two people. Naturally my grandfather over reacted and accused me of accusing them of lying, which is to be expected but still makes me feel sort of like a freak. However, I know my water filter was not all the way full before, because I poured a cup out and put it back in the fridge.

    No, of course not. She's just being a crazy psycho bitch who can't remember anything she does and blames it on us. Because deep down he knows he wants to just get rid of me. And yes, he did say that. Not the crazy-psycho-bitch part, but everything after that. I heard him through the wall, complaining to my grandma.

    And yet people insist that I'm just imagining that he doesn't want me there. How quaint. And shut up, I know I didn't use that word right.

    Actually, living here I would probably be more prone to thinking I was crazy- I mean, it's not the first thing that's done something like that, and the other times were more clearly not them. (Come to think of it, I'm not even sure why I bothered mentioning it to them.) Like my Chopin CD, which had been scratched up and broken, but which I recently found whole and unmarred. (Not that I'd missed it- I don't really listen to classical much anymore.) And my Japanese-English-English-Japanese mini-dictionary, which dissappeared from my bookshelf and only reappeared after I stated outloud that I wanted it back- in the front row corner of the bookshelf-chest-thing that I had already checked repeatedly.

    But there was the bathroom light, when I was eight and still living with my mom. It fell down while I was undressing for a bath (since we had a bath at that time, although we couldn't shower, unless we wanted to tip over the tub.) My mother and my almost/future stepdad both came rushing in as I was crouched behind the laundry basket we used strickly for towels, and my mom went almost immediately into a state of overdrive- panic and anger and blam all mixing up into some sticky solution, heated up until it popped into a popcorn like bloat.

    She accused me of throwing my clothes up to hit the lamp, I cried and said I hadn't, which I hadn't, because I wasn't quite that odd of a child. Or extravagent by any definition, I suppose, which is the sort of person who would do such a thing if such a thing was to be done at all, in my mind.

    But she did see the shattered glass as well, so I can't have been hallucinating.

    The only other time something closer to violence has happened was recently, when a glass jar was thrown at my feet. No one else was in the room and I was walking back towards my computer, quite far away from any glass jars in particular. (At least, to far away for it to have been a shift in gravity or a bump, both of which have happened.)

    The actually really scary thing is that I'm pretty certain it's not me. I mean, if it was, wouldn't I have some sort of effect when I actually concentrated on trying to move something? And even if that weren't the case, I don't think latent psychokineses would explain being touched. Physically. When no one else is in the room.

    Which has happened twice. The first time was a touch on my arm as I woke up, and both my hands were curled up within eachother near my chest, and the second was actually a touch on the lips, once again with both my hands next to my chest because that's sort of how I sleep.

    I actually don't know why I'm posting this, since about half the people who read it and probably more are going to think "What an idiot" when they read it and come up with a long list of reasons why exactly I'm an idiot for not knowing what's going on and I'm going to be able to explain away every reason and then they'll just say I'm making excuses. But go ahead and post them. I'll probably just ignore them anyway. I think I'm kind of just trying to get rid of some of the pressure building up in my skull and ribcage.

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