Turning 21

If I'm honest with myself, and I try hard not to be, I'm terrified of turning 21. I know how rediculous that sounds, but I fear it all the same. I'm counting down the days and with each passing one I feel it growing closer.

In a society that touts being young as being "in" and old as "out" I suppose I'm really terrified of being old. I know that 21 is not old, but it is one year closer to being old. Or at least older.

For all of my life I've had a peter pan outlook. I don't want to grow up. My mother figured I grow out of it, but even now I find myself muttering "I won't grow up. I won't get old." I suppose I want to be 14 forever.

Silly huh?


B.C.A - Week One

Hi everyone!

My name is Lindsey and this is my first bad cleaners annoymous meeting. I've been looking into B.C.A for a while, but I never really had the guts to show up.

What? Oh, right. How long I've been a bad cleaner...

Well, I guess it started when I was very young. My mom was a super cleaner. If you moved a glass, just three inches to the right, she could tell. She could see a speck of dust from a mile away. She was like super woman with a vaccuum cleaner.

I remeber one time when, because I thought it would look pretty, I drew in crayon all over the hallway wall. She had me sitting there, with a wash cloth and a bucket of soapy water, scrubbing the wall for what felt like hours. That was supposed to be a part of learning how to clean, but really it just made me hat the idea of doing it.

I have to say that since then, the wall cleaning, I've been totally against cleaning. I tried to avoid it at all cost. I hate hate hate cleaning. That is to say...

My house is a mess. I still live with my mom, but she's given up on her psycho cleaning ways. I'm sure she did it with the thought that it would push me into having to clean for myself... she's right. The thing is that I have no idea where to start! I feel like cynthia stout who would not take the garbage out.

Right. I know. Have to start small. Move one room at a time. The bathroom? Yeah, that's probaby a good place to start.

Right. Ok. Well then, I'll do the bathroom.

Thanks everyone for listening. I think I'm done now.

Small conquests

I have a habit of trying to tackle several jobs all at the same time. What I'm starting to realize now it that I should really be focused on small conquests. I need to learn to tackle my small items, build up to my large ones, take my time. So, starting tomorrow I'm going to tackle things one at a time instead of all at once. It may serve me better than how I'm trying to do it now.


I have never had a close relationship with my father...or any kind of relationship at all, depending on who you ask. He doesn't drift in and out of my life every few months like most dead-bead dads. Mine takes this a step further. I see him once or twice a year. If that.

If I am honest, with myself and with you, my father has been the one person who I should have pushed out of my life completely. He's immature, childish, a drunkard and should have never been allowed to father the amount of children that he has. He's not responsible for himself or any of his children, including me. I don't even think he knows how to be a responsible adult.

When I was growing up it was my mother that showed up to all of my special events and occasions. He wasn't at any graduations, dance recitals, karate tournaments, gymnastic meets, swimteam meets. He was never there. He, however, was always invited.

I remember lying for my father at every turn. At dance recitals I would tell the other girls that he was at work, so couldn't take the day off to come see me, and I would have to beg and plead my mother to buy a tape of the recital so that my fellow dancers believed my story. At school, when he didn't show up to things like father daughter dances, the kids teased me and I retaliated with a lie that my father had been hit by a bus when I was small and, as a result, had died. I was putting lie on top of lie because I didn't want to be the little girl without a daddy.

I would call him to ask him to come visit me and he would promise to be there soon. He would never show. When he did show up, which was a rare occasion and he was always at least 3/4 drunk by then, he would push a wad of money into my hand. That was his way of saying he loved me. He would laugh drunkenly about what the relationship between he and my mother had been like before I was born, would sit on the hallway landing and croon up towards my mothers bedroom, would grab me and hold me as we watched the sun rise from the front porch. Then he would be gone. I wouldn't see him again for months.

I love my father. I hate my father. I am desperate for his attention. I want him to want to spend time with me. I want him to want to have to love me.

My father is a superhero. But the only time I really spend with him is when I'm the damsel in distress... Of course, even that doesn't last long.


So, the car broke. My mother was out going to a meeting and, according to her, it started to shake, grind, and wouldn't go in reverse. She, of course, called roadside service and parked in a church lot until they got there. A piece had broken and fallen off under the car.

It figures that the piece that broke was the size and shape of a rubber bottom of a crutch.

This is just a small piece in the long line of shit that has been happening and it is getting amazingly ridiculous. I'm sick of life getting brighter and more manageable then turning right back to shit on us. It seems like nothing will ever be as stable as it used to be and i miss the stability.

You know what? I need a fucking cupcake.


So, I woke up this morning to the blaring of my alarm clock...normally the sign of a bad day, but this morning doesn't feel so bad. The sun is shining. The birds are chirping. My boyfriend is already making me laugh. Today is going to be a good day. I can feel it.

So, good morning to you all. Have a wonderful day! I know I will!