12:37 PM - Wednesday, Jul. 14, 2004
I'm not crazy. I'm just a little impaired.
Blah... I feel so sick to my stomach today. At least I have a can of grape pop to tide me over until later. I have had a very stressful week so far, and I'm not even sure why. I'm even bloated because my body is retaining water due to this stress and the icky humid weather we're suffering from here. On the plus side, my blood pressure was 118/64 this morning (and that's when it's elevated). It's pretty high for me, though. Normally my blood pressure is 102/56.
I'm at work right now, taking a break. I was online looking up bits and pieces of information about morbid stuff going on in Saudi Arabia and Iraq, but for some reason I kept having to turn off my computer in order to get the internet to work correctly. My paranoid mind would say that it's a conspiracy against me by the *ahem* Administrator, but then the rational side of my brain says it's just coincidence.
Speaking of paranoia... my grandma Joyce told me the other day about how her mother suffered from paranoia and then lost her mind when she hit 80 something years old. That did not settle well with me because if she showed the same symptoms at my age as I do right now... does that mean I'm going to lose my mind when I hit 80? Alzheimer's and Dimentia run on both sides of my mother's family, making my mom a prime target for one of the two mental diseases. I don't know how high my risk factor is since my dad's side of the family doesn't carry these two mental diseases, and they don't suffer from depression as severely as my mom's side does. But if I'm showing severe amounts of depression and anxiety, as well as paranoia and I can't remember what else... does that mean when I'm older, I need to be careful because more than likely my mind will go?? Which, maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing considering the fact that I don't really care too much for my life. Plus, I more than likely won't have a daughter or son to burden my diseased self with. I'll be the wacky old Aunt Jessica that my nieces and nephews stuff away into some nursing home somewhere until my money runs out or something. See. This is why I need to find a government job. That way I'm given full benefits until I'm dead.
I tried to quit my job on Monday. I even packed up all my personal belongings from the stereo to the pictures to the CDs and took them home in a box. Of course, I'm short on the cash flow right now considering the fact that I just spent a couple of grand on some furniture, and haven't really cut back on the way I spend my mula personally. I've borrowed money from my dad just to have something to eat. It's not a good time to jump ship for me financially, is what I'm trying to say here. I'll be okay though. I still have a little over 4k in the bank. I'm just below my 5k mark, and that stresses me out like you wouldn't believe. I feel like the world is ending and that the sky is falling. And while I'm no relation to Henny Penny (neither do I look nor act like a chicken), I'm wigging out. I'm tempted to chop up all my credit cards just to make sure I don't spend a dime for the next two months.
I've received a very personal e-mail from my friend Chris. We used to hang out a lot together in college, but life forced us to go our separate ways once we both graduated. He's living up near Kansas City now, and I miss hanging out with him. I just want him to know that life has a funny way of working things out the way they are meant to be. Had we become more than good friends back in the day, who knows what kind of life we'd be living right now. Would it be an improvement over this one? That's hard to tell. The outcome could have gone either way: good or bad. But what bothers me is that he assumed he was one of the men I was going off on in here. That's not the case at all. He's a good enough friend that had I any problems with him (then or now), I would straight out tell him. I need to remember to check my e-mail and reply to his.
Anyhow, I wonder why I'm so fascinated, but thankfully terribly disgusted, with all of the beheadings going on over in Saudi Arabia and Iraq. Ever since I watched the beheading of Nicholas Berg, I've been checking the news at random to see whom the next victim is. It's almost as deploring as my fascination with serial killers is. I just can't imagine what is going on in the minds of an individual or group of individuals when they find it necessary or get off from torturing another human life.
I remember growing up and watching my cousin Jeremy chop a live frog to bits, and the image has stayed branded in my mind forever. I don't see it as if it just happened yesterday, but I can still conjure up the images and sounds of that moment. It's just like the moment when I entered into the hospital room of my Grandma Julia when she was sick with cancer and about to pass away. The smell of death was in the air, as if the scent of death were an odor all its own. Perhaps it was just the smell of sickness and oldness always associated with nursing homes and hospitals... or homes that become the last resting place for those about to pass on. You get used to the smell, but it always smacks you in the face when you first take a whiff. It takes a really strong person to be able to handle that every single day, plus go home and have the scent lingering on your clothes to remind you of the place you just left. I wonder what smells the serial killers and beheaders remember. I wonder if every victim had his or her own scent, and if that odor trapped itself into the clothes of those who have taken away his or her life. I wonder if the killers remember those moments as clearly as I remember the frog's and Grandma's death.
I wonder if that's a really odd thing to wonder about.
Sometimes I stare at the veins in my left wrist noticeable underneath my skin. There are three distinct veins that stick out almost a sky blue color but a little darker. Sometimes I run the index finger of my right hand slowly along those veins, the very same veins that could wrap around the world three times if someone were to stretch them out completely. Three whole times! All that length trapped inside my body sending blood to all the necessary parts in order to keep me alive.
They are the same veins that I've allowed countless strangers to poke needles into for years in order to withdraw blood. Some of my blood is pumping through other countless strangers who needed donations in order to survive. I'm O+, the most common blood type in the world. I'm a universal donor.
Some of my blood is stained onto clothing or band-aids, lost in a sea of trash that's been buried underground and covered with mounds of dirt. Some of my blood is stained into concrete and asphalt, only visible through the science of Forensics.
I am amazed by blood, almost fascinated with it. Don't get me wrong. I'm not like a vampire. I don't like the taste of blood, nor do I hunt down human prey in the middle of the night. I'm just amazed by how strong yet vulnerable the sticky liquid is. Especially my blood.
I think I'm morbid. I think at times I'm terribly insane because I'm fascinated with pain and death. When I hurt emotionally, I always want to hurt myself physically. When others hurt me, I want them to hurt (although that's just me wishing them pain in an immature manner). I don't know. I just can't seem to escape this deep desire to force myself to bleed all over the place. Maybe I'm seeking attention? Maybe I need to be on a higher dose of Prozac? Maybe this is normal and since I'm not acting on these desires, I'm normal? Maybe I am insane? Maybe I should just let myself go since I'm already one of the crazy old ladies kids make fun of... who end up with blue or purple hair and talk about off the wall things? I may only be 26 years old, but I think I've died and lived a dozen or more lives already to be existing in this state of mind.
I think I'm just extremely odd, perhaps a bit too creative mentally, and way too easily indulged into the obscure.
