I Set Things on Fire

I’m sitting next to my boyfriend, and I’m bored, so I walk up to the kitchen and grab a paper towel and set it on fire. It’s pretty, I like the flames flicking the paper as it folds to ash, and I like the danger of potentially burning the house down.

“Okay okay,” says my boyfriend. “We can play Scrabble.”

Boredom is a problem for me. I like a lot of things- reading, Netflix, arguing with people- but sometimes depression makes me lose interest in everything. When this happens I invent new hobbies. Baking was the most recent one, and I now know a great recipe for mini apple tartlets (included below). I’ve also learned to draw umbrellas (poorly), blog (even more poorly) and embroider (ie, tangle embroidery floss and then give up).

Adrenaline makes life interesting. This is probably not the safest way for me to live, as it leads to situations such as me sitting on the roof of a moving car while dangling my legs through a skylight. When I’m the one driving, I go 40 over the speed limit and don’t wear my seatbelt. I also cut my own hair, which is arguably the most dangerous thing I do. To quote a great musical no one’s heard of, “Life begins when you know how it ends”*. I already know what’s going to kill me- depression- so why not get my adrenaline rush in the meantime?

Wow that was dark. Thanks, Sad Fiona. Happy Fiona, do you have any comments?

Parkour Meme

Because I am a total cliche, in addition to blogging I write poetry, and I’m going to share one with you! Yes, you! Because you’re lucky enough to be blessed by me. Although in reality, this is a sad poem (cliche, remember?) so I won’t be offended if you skip it. In fact, I won’t even know if you skip it, because this is a blog and I can’t actually see you. That’s how the internet works.

 

If I Die By Cyanide

 

If I die by cyanide

Bury me under six feet deep

Lay me in forbidden churchyard

I’ve seen no crime- though rumors creep

 

Tell my mother I’m a hero

Saved a child caught at sea

Snatched three kittens from a fire

But was crushed by falling beams

 

To my father, I was climbing

Daring up a rocky face

Spelunking through some jewelled cavern

Only lost in venture’s grace

 

Proclaim false myths of martyrdom

Rave legends as my sisters cry

Say I was hanged like Robin Hood

Or crowned with thorns, then crucified

 

Don’t tell them it was cyanide

At the funeral, stand through rain

Nod to mourners; when they ask you

Speak of laughter, not my pain

 

Pretend I’m braver than I was

At my coffin, lie, because

I loathe the weak-willed suicide

Though I’ll die by cyanide

 

Does anyone else struggle with boredom? If you do, I recommend candles. They’re fairly safe to burn, and they smell good, which is a plus. You can burn candles instead of showering.

Here’s my apple tartlet recipe:

 

  1. Look online for an apple tartlet recipe.
  2. Make that.

 

*I can’t tell you the name of the musical, because I never use real names in my blog without permission, and since the musical isn’t sentient it can’t give consent.

 

I Offend People (Everyone)

My sophomore history teacher told me I couldn’t be a politician because I’d get stabbed. A year later my best friend stuck me with her pocket knife. The point here is that I am well aware, as is anyone who’s talked to me, that I offend people.

Here are some of the offensive things I’ve said:

  • Women don’t need to vote because their husbands can do it for them
  • Stop cutting for attention
  • Religion is a scourge upon the Earth
  • Dental health is a scam created by the government (to my orthodontist)
  • Yes, it makes your ass look big

This blog mostly offends my mother, which is entirely understandable, since I regularly insult her world view. We had a conversation about this once. She said,

“Fiona, I wouldn’t let someone come into our house and be mean to you about your sexuality, so please don’t make fun of the things I consider sacred.”

“No, but you do make me go to a church that could excommunicate me, which is worse.”

She didn’t like that answer. Now she lets me know beforehand when I’m not allowed to blog about something. She also writes her own blog to make fun of me. It’s pretty good, just not as good as mine, and I highly recommend it:

https://bigbahamamama.wordpress.com/2017/03/13/modern-sex-talk/

The most offensive thing I’ve ever done was write this essay in 10th grade English. I had to support or reject Transcendentalism, the most deeply flawed philosophy I’m aware of next to Veganism (okay that was a joke, vegans, chill) but I was only given Transcendentalist sources to provide evidence from. According to Transcendentalism, lack of access to information is morally incorrect, so I wrote the whole essay on why I couldn’t write the essay. My teacher initially gave me a 10% in every category, including spelling, and was not happy when I pointed out that she couldn’t actually take points away in some categories because my speling is ducking prefetc. After a lot of angry threats on both sides we had another teacher grade the essay. I got a D. Worth it.

This blog post is part disclaimer, part apology. I know I hurt feelings, and I really am sorry about that- not sarcastically sorry, but genuinely apologetic. I love my mom. I love Mormons. I even love my sophomore English teacher (sort of). I realize that I’m brash, brazen, and wrong about a lot of things.

But here’s something else I know: I’m worth listening to. My life is different than yours, so my opinion is different. I know different things and I understand them in different ways. My truth is worth expressing, even if it makes some people mad.

You’re worth listening to as well. If I offend you, whether in person or in this blog, let me know.

Thanks for reading. Here’s a fun picture of a cat.

Cat

I was going to just end this post with the cat, because who doesn’t like cats?? but I thought I should probably explain some of my above statements. Because I want at least one blog post that doesn’t need to include a trigger warning. So, to clarify:

  • Women should absolutely have the right to vote, as well as the right to proper healthcare and a president who isn’t a rapist
  • I self-harm, and am seeing a therapist about it, which I firmly believe is the right course of action for most people. If you cut, or are in any other way in danger because of mental health, there’s a crisis textline ( it’s great because you don’t have to call people!). Text CONNECT to 741741
  • Many religions do a lot of good things, but I’m embittered about the Mormon stance on women and LGBTQ rights
  • Dental health is a scam. No excuses for this one. Braces are ridiculous
  • A big ass is not necessarily an unfortunate thing *hums Anaconda by Nicki Minaj*
  • I don’t actually like Nicki Minaj.

There. If you’re going to be offended, be angry at my taste in music.

I Have Fancy Depression

I stare at Paula. Paula stares at me. To the casual observer it might look like we’re checking each other out, but since Paula is a fifty-something psychiatrist (not my type) I’m pretty sure she’s just waiting for my reaction. This is because I haven’t said anything for a solid 47 seconds- a record feat, since I usually don’t shut up.

“So you’re saying that when I’m sad… I hallucinate.”

“Essentially, yes.”

I look at the fire-breathing unicorn sitting next to me. “Is this true?”

The unicorn shrugs.

“It’s called depression-induced psychosis. It means you blah blah blah blah blah.” Paula says blah blah blah a lot.

My depression is fancier than your depression. Instead of being normal sad, I’m crazy sad. I’m not delusional- I can tell what’s real- but I become terrified of monsters I know aren’t there.

I hate people who talk about their depression. Like, oh my god, get over yourself. At the same time, mental health is an epidemic that needs to be addressed, etc, but if you’re the kind of person who’s still reading this post then you probably know that already. Then again, you’re also probably the kind of person who thinks I shouldn’t tell people with depression to “get over themself”. This is a fair point and I don’t really have a good response. To be completely honest, I’m terrified of posting this because I don’t want anyone to think I’m seeking attention. Which I’m not, because I’m putting this on a blog, and no one reads blogs anymore.

I once had an ex girlfriend threaten to kill herself if we took a break. So I dumped her. This is one of those things that was logically healthy for both of us, but kind of disgusting for me to do, like eating eggplant. To be fair, I knew she wouldn’t actually commit suicide; dying takes courage and she had none. (Saying things like “dying takes courage” is another one of those disgusting things, and according to my therapist, it’s not even healthy. So like nutter butters instead of eggplant.)

After I was diagnosed with depression, the satirical and bitchy LGBTQ novelist who runs my life, Janine, and I had a firm discussion about stereotypes and how I don’t want to be one. This mostly consisted of me flipping off the sky and getting a lot of weird looks from the other students in my History class. Like most conversations I have with authority figures, it ended with me being bludgeoned on the head with a mace. Or at least, the metaphorical equivalent.

I wrote a poem about psychosis. It’s not funny, but it’s important to me, so if you read it I’ll give you a meme at the end.

 

Nyctophobic Lovesong

 

Good morning, Love!

Welcome to my world!

I’ll take you in and out and home and down;

you can watch my head spin round.

They’re laying brand new concrete on my lawn.

Well, Love, come- the morning’s bright and flashing gone.

 

Afternoon, my Love!

Put those poppies in a vase!

The day is feverish and pliant colors gleam,

so we’ll rip spiders at the freaking seam

and scatter their dark legs in wet cement.

Can you hear the grass, my Love? I hear it and lament.

 

Good evening, Love!

Are you afraid of sunsets too?

The twilight is serene, and so we’ll walk

and maybe sketch our limbs in sidewalk chalk.

Ooooo! My feet are squelching- now they’re stuck-

Come here, my Love, and help me up?

 

Good night love.

The moon is too dark to ascend.

Concrete hardens at my ankles, as I sort of  knew it would.

I can’t reach out to touch you- I’m not sure that I should.

Stars stretch out to fade in the darkness and the din;

I can open up my nostrils now, and breathe the cement in.

 

Good, good.

Good morning once again.

Do you like the cobwebbed ceilings of my brain?

The grass grows glinting and is trampled in an infinite refrain.

You hate the concrete pouring? Well, I smell it every day.

The sunlight hardens quickly now. Don’t look back, Love- run away.

 

Salty meme