Posted in Writer's Block

An Excuse

This isn’t an update. This is an excuse.

A long one.

Yeah, you see what I did there? ha!

So I’m done being pitiful (refer to my previous post for an explanation about that) and now I’m being a dick.

So you probably noticed (I mean if you are one of the 5 people who constantly read my Secondary Sundays) that I’ve not updated in a while. And yes, I know I said that was due to plot reasons. And the first time it was.

Now I have two shitty excuses for my lack of updating:

  • My computer fucking died again.

Should I get a new one? Probably, but I’m not swimming in cash around here and I have to save money first, so D:

And yes, I had the arcs mapped out in a notebook and some snippets of stories in a google drive. Buuuuuuuuut I’m an annoying person and (I don’t know if anyone feels like this about their writing) I don’t like losing things! Even if I end up changing everything from the preliminary drafts, if I don’t use that preliminary draft I feel like something is missing. I don’t know, but it feels like it could’ve somehow been better? Like whatever I wrote first is infinitely better than anything I came up with afterward.

So yeah, I suck.

  • March has been kicking my metaphorical ass.

Yes, yes I know: But Laly you haven’t updated since at least mid February! You promised to be better and have another story by now! 

Well, I suck.

And March has been kicking my ass since mid February. Since February, 16th to be precise.

My brain is just a mess and I’m very jittery all the time, to the point that I annoy myself.

I am working on all three projects right now and I’ll update as soon as possible. With the Paranormal stories I don’t mind posting them all together, since they are basically chapters of a story, but Secondary Sundays, because of plot, must be updated once a week. I might break that rule and post two SS together this weekend, or not. I will see later.

And those were my two excuses! Sorry about being shit and all the delays. I can’t promise I’ll become Ms. Responsibility from now on, but I can assure you that I feel immensely guilty about it all 😀


Posted in Personal Blogging

An Update

Hello strangers from the internet.

This is not an excuse. This is an update.

A very small update.

So, March has been absolutely kicking my ass in a way I did not see coming. Mostly I know it’s all in my head. But the problem of having something in your head is that it distorts your view of the world and it feels like it’s real. Even more so if there’s vague but undeniable evidence of it being sort of real.

Yeah, I know what Dr. Strand would say, Apophenia “the tendency to perceive a connection or meaningful pattern between unrelated or random things (such as objects of ideas)”(According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary). Oh, Dr. Strand is a character from the podcast The Black Tapes.

So, yeah… I’ve been feeling a bit down lately. I think most of it has to do with being back home and away from my friends.

Friends. What a funny word for someone who didn’t believe such a thing was even possible for the longest time.

I do believe I have friends now but… well, this is where the fucked up things in my brain try to mess everything up.

The thing is that I remember.

I remember what it was like to have long stretches of silence, only broken by unkind words. I remember what it felt like to be sitting in a room full of people, thinking, believing, that at least one of them was my friend, but no one talked to me. And I remember what it felt like when the person who shut me out, who ignored me and even talked about me behind my back, came back for me.

I remember what it was like, sitting there in the dark knowing that hers was the only hand I would ever get to hold. And I knew that she had power over me, that her hand was never freely given. I knew that her friendship had conditions (my silence and complacency chief among them).

And I remember liking it, and then not.

I remember harsh words, truths that had never being spoken. I remember the tears and the promise to never let this happen again.

Never again.

I remember how it felt to hold myself in a space so small it was a wonder that people could see me. But people who don’t like you can always see you. And they see right through you, right through lies and defenses, and they can hurt you.

I remember being hurt.

And I remember friendship like an alliance, a bond to keep each other afloat.

Nothing was ever sincere. We didn’t exist to share and be kind, but to form a shield against the world. But this friendship also had conditions (silence and pretenses).

We were okay.

To this day when we meet, we agree that we are okay.

But we were all made of different jagged pieces, and  I know that in another universe, without a broken heart I could’ve grown to love them… and maybe they could’ve loved me.

Friendship is not about who laughs with you, it’s about who laughs and then shares the world with you.

My world is terrifyingly small, plagued by shadows, and ghosts, and fears that not even I can understand.

I am terrifyingly small.

But I did make friends later on. I did share my world. And I gave myself away in between panicked breaths and broken pieces.

But I can still remember all that came before. I remember the tears and the pain, mistrust and being shut out. I remember thinking “Oh, this is how dogs feel, I guess.”

I remember she loved dogs.

And now I’m here, where present and past are being mixed together by a stupid brain.

I know it’s not the same but I still feel like somehow, I’m still the dog. Like you can talk to me, and call for me, and shut me out, and only pay attention to me when you please, and I’ll still be here.

I will always be here, because in this universe, in this broken version of myself I do love my friends.

And it’s not their fault, it’s mine. It’s my fucked up brain.

And I know (and hope) no one I know will ever read this, and that’s why I’m writing it here. I just wanted an excuse to be pathetic and pitiful, just this one time. Because when I talk things through, or say them aloud, they lose their power over me. Or, maybe I realize how silly I was being.

So, I guess this is my short essay of a life update: March is kicking my metaphorical ass, my friend (Jenna) is still mad at me, but I guess that is fine. I have to apply to a scholarship to be able to go away. My cousin is better than she was before. I have not self-harmed even though I wanted to. And I’m still looking for a job.




Posted in Secondary Sundays

SS: Them

It has taken me a while to gather all the information needed to make this happen.

People in this kind of position have sealed records, and barely any paper trail.

Which is why it took so long for me to put everything together for you.

Unlike the people who wrote for you before, and that indiscretion last week, I am not doing this for them. I am doing this for you.

I am doing this because I think you need it. I’ve known people who would’ve needed this. And I guess that I feel like we already know each other. Or at least you know about me. You know about love and what it does, but you don’t know that much about what guilt and impulsiveness do to a person.

That is where I come in, I guess.

I am not here to talk about myself and everything that’s happened since the last time I was inside the borders. I am here to tell you a very short story, the only kind to be enjoyed.

This story begins, as most stories do, with a character that does not yet suspect they are a character. It is easy to dismiss oneself as a character when one does not know about the genre they are living in.

Our great society thrives in your ignorance. No. Your compliance. It thrives on your comfort and lack of questioning.

The point is, no one thinks of themselves as a character until plot comes knocking on your door. By the point it does, though, you have long since ceased being complacent.

Our character lived in a small area near the woods, not too far but not too close to where you used to live. You might remember this part of town referred to as ‘The Pit’. Partly because of its circular shape, and the fact that it was surrounded by thick woods, which made it feel isolated. And partly because it was in one of the poorer parts of town, which made it prone to delinquency, and other illegal dalliances.

They lived in a small house near the mouth of the pit. They had three older brothers and two little sisters. They regret to realize that they do not remember their names anymore. They do remember their home. It’s yawing doors and windows, and the well preserved sickly yellow of the walls.

The thing about the house was that it had always wanted to be more than it was, to hold more, to be better. Houses, however, don’t always get what they want. This house in particular never held more that eight bodies inside. In fact, as time went by, it progressively held less and less.

The first thing it lost was a child. It lost one of its inhabitants to the bitter end of a knife. It was not uncommon out there. People was lost and killed in The Pit all the time. There was nothing siblings and parents could do to hold onto people that wanted to be taken, to be lost.

That was a bitter lesson, something that our character couldn’t, and didn’t, want to understand, but had to.

That was their first step into losing complacency.

Usually when people are lost, others don’t know about it. No one hears about other people going missing. Not even from their own families. People cannot possibly remember ever having someone who was lost.

Of course that it is sad, but it is part of reality.

People go missing, and people forget. That is that.

But our character couldn’t forget. They didn’t know that they desperately needed to but their minds could not allow them to. It’s about the mind, you see, the way it works in a different way for some people.

The first -and hopefully only- time you go through reconditioning at age six, The Machine makes sure to change everything that makes you who you are. The Machine makes forgetting easier and you mind more malleable. For most people, it works. But some people work differently.

Our character is one of those people. People who after their first reconditioning can still remember, and question things. Of course that they were different for other reasons as well, but you cannot remember this. You cannot remember them and who they were for you.

That is okay. That is in fact, part of your nature.

Our character had learnt so many years ago that life is unfair. That it takes and it gives and it trades.

Or not. That was the machine.

The machine took and gave and traded. It traded body parts for people and things that it had taken before. The Machine never asks what you want because it thinks it knows you better than anyone. Almost every time, The Machine is right.

Trades are as easy as they are painful, and our character made them all once they realized there was a place where people would go.

The old house. Remember that? Over on the other side of the town? It was beyond tall gates and thick shrubs. It was a place that, anywhere else within the borders of this little country, would have carried the scent of sweet, smoked flesh.

They heard it said around town, that people would go there. That people wouldn’t return, unless someone was ready to make a trade.

So they did.

Years after the house had lost a son, it lost a mother. And our character went there.

They made a stop on the way to school. They were so nervous that they dropped their bag. Someone stopped to ask if they were okay. They smiled and said they were fine (they were not) and life carried on.

They went to the big house that afternoon.

They traded nimble fingers and memories for their mother.

The trade was simple. They only had to enter a big room with mirrored walls and sterile looking people. They faintly remembered entering a room similar to this in their childhood. The contraption and procedure were still familiar enough that they welcomed pain and discomfort as if they were long lost friends.

The people in that room cut into their head and pushed and pulled and took and gave, until our character was nothing.

And that is how they lost their hands. And that is how they gained a mother.

It was not the same mother (it could never be), the same way they were not the same character (they could never be).

They made this trade several times over the next years. It’s addicting, you see. You give something to the Machine and in change it keeps who you love safe.

The Machine can never give you safety, it can only take it away from you. Once you become aware, once reconditioning stops working, that’s it.

You will never be safe in your home. You will never be home.

But our character didn’t care about safety anymore. Had they ever cared? They wore soft shirts and flowing skirts at home, but never to school. And after a while, they stopped even wearing them at home. Why would they? They weren’t a person anymore, they were nothing. They even stopped asking to be called Rosie instead of José and stuck to clothes more suited to the bulk of their bodies. They no longer tried to hide that their body was not equipped with soft arches and curves.

And then the Machine came for them.

It did not plead for it was not necessary. They were coming for someone who had long since lost parts of their body and being, and when they asked if they had anything else to give they already knew the answer.

Because what else can you do? When the Machine asks for your compliance you have to give it. Especially when it’s the one thing you can still give. Because when the Machine comes for you it’s because it needs you, because it thrives on it, because otherwise you’re useless.

Nothing useless ever survives.

And so they went.

No one will ever tell you just how much that decision hurts. How it pulls and scrapes something out of you as you walk away from the only home you will ever know. I guess it’s because Screws are better off not discussing pain with people who know nothing but the unkindness of the Machine.

At least if you pretend you’re part of the Machine you can stop feeling the void in your chest where something used to rest.

At least when Dan walks into their home (out in Pullman Street where plants grow in muted colors and people without an ID can’t go in) they can, for a second, pretend they are not Rosie Marquez. They can avoid thinking of pale yellow walls and a house filled with the smell of ever baking bread. They can pretend not to be home.

They are not a teenage girl in a boy’s body living on the most dangerous part of a town that will never understand her. They are not Rosie losing friend, after friend, after friend, as reconditioning and The Machine take them away.

Or at least, they could pretend and be Dan until their eyes fell on a familiar name and a familiar face. They saw the stamp and ID number of a town off by the woods, with little creaking houses that have yawning doors and windows, and all at once, she was back there, sitting outside school on a random morning, about to make her first trade.

And you linger over her as you see her. You pause and she wonders, for a flickering second if you see her. You do not.

But she asked for you, before her body could remember that she was no longer Rosie but Dan, a Screw. They forgot and asked, and The Machine agreed, because The Machine doesn’t care as long as you do your work. For the Machine, you have no needs and wants, because you ceased to be human years ago. Even before you were bought.

They observe you long enough to learn your routines. They figure out what you do and don’t. It is plain for them to see why the Machine chose you. Why you need to be watched and kept in line.

They keep tabs on you, often handing you something you forgot to buy at the store, telling you you dropped it. Sometimes they see you on the street and greet you. They’re not scared to do so, they know you won’t remember. There is a certain amount of power that comes from knowing no one else remembers, and no one else can see. As Screws, sometimes we abuse that power. 

They were planning on carrying with that. They planned to push you back into normal patterns and helping you become complacent again. But you were more problematic than they anticipated. You made questions that had no answers and noticed things you had no business noticing.

You could not understand that you needed to be complacent.

And so they started to lie. They made up your routines and called in favors to help keep you in check. They knew it was useless, they knew you were not the friend they remember (you could never be) but they desperately needed to save you.

If they saved you then they would finally be useful, then they’d saving at least something. As Screws, we never help anyone.

But then the lies were not enough.

And they had to be Rosie and remember you. She had to remember the feeling of soft shirts and wide skirts against hairy legs. She remembered sharing ear buds with you, and listening to hoarse signing through her hammering heart. She remembers how it felt to laugh with you, and cry with you, and fight and kiss and regret with you.

And she remembered how much you loved stories. She remembered how you carried them along with you in books and clothes. And she wanted to give that back to you, to reach you.

And as she reached you, she tried to warn you.

But you never listened. You became paranoid. You became reclusive.

And they had to face that they had gone too far. And retreat.

But by then it was already too late and The Machine had noticed you and wondered. And so as a Screw, they did the one thing that Screws know how to do. They deflected the attention, planted small bits and pieces of evidence that would all point toward their own incompetence. And they made sure to show that you were complacent, that you were useful. 

They put themselves in jeopardy for you. They were not being complacent but could they still be useful?

Well, I guess that’s what the Machine is trying to find out.

I just hope that she is.

Posted in Secondary Sundays

Secondary Sundays a PSA


Today there’ll be no Secondary Sunday, but for plot reasons.

I know we’re used to not having updates because I’m an idiot and forget to post things /write things. But this time it’s not about that.

During the next couple of updates we will be reaching the end of the story arc. Because of plot and what’s been happening in the story, there will have to be pauses and silences. I swear it will make sense at the end.

Thank you for your patience 🙂



Posted in Paranormal Tuesdays

PT: Dennison Brothers & Co.

Well guess who forgot to post on Tuesday because they thought the T stood for Thursday! This gal!

Yeah, I suck.

And then I thought I’d already posted which was bull.

Anyway, here’s the story for oops, last Tuesday.


There are many things people should know about paranormal investigations, but they don’t. There are a million and one things people should know, but they do not.

For the Dennison brothers, paranormal investigation not only runs in their veins, it’s their whole life.

They have a long history of people being haunted, and hunting. They are not renowned like others but they get by. After all, ghost hunting is not about who knows you but who’s willing to allow completely strangers into their home.

In a way, ghost hunting is a lot like being a door to door seller. Not everyone is interested in what you’ve got to sell, not everyone needs it, but you keep doing it in the hopes that someone will. And because it pays. Barely.

Steven, Allan and Monique do it because it’s encoded in their DNA to do this kind of work. Because they don’t know a life that can be led in another way. Because this job gives me a thrill.

They do it because they love it.

“You sure you got everything there, Mo?” Allan asks for what feels like the twelfth time in the last five minutes.

“Absolutely positive, boss,” Monique drones. “I’d check with Chris over there if I were you.”

The words feel mocking even through Monique’s no nonsense tone, and they make Chris’ ears burn.

“I-I’m sure I got it all,” Chris stammers, blurring the last three words into an unintelligible mumble. His hands slip on the ropes he’s using to secure the tarp over the back of Steven’s truck.

Chris winces as his cousin makes a noise of annoyed fondness. Steven slaps a hand to Chris’ shoulder as he announces in his loud, deep voice, “I think we’re all set over here, little bro. It’s you and Mo who’re holding us back.”

Monique glares at her two brothers. She flicks her long ponytail over her shoulder and walks to the front of the car without another word.

“Don’t rile her up Steven,” Allan admonishes him.

“Wasn’t.” Steven smirks. “Was just defending Chris’ honor. Couldn’t have ‘cous here thinkin’ everyone’s against him, right?”

Allan makes a sound of disgust in the back of his throat, and goes to join the youngest of the Dennison.

“You don’t have to keep doin’ that.” Steven frowns.

“Doing what?” Chris is aware of how petulant he sounds. But it’s not his fault that out of everyone in the newest batch of Dennisons he was the only one to be born with ‘the gift’.

“Taking shit from them. You do that and Monique’ll wear you like a scarf come next week.”

“I can take her,”

Steven snorts. “Nah, kid, you can’t.”

“Whatever,” Chris mumbles, knowing better than to engage the eldest of the Dennison brothers in an argument.

They drive away from the small nameless town they’d stopped at to rest and eat, in silence. Steven is the kind of driver who accepts no interruptions or distractions in his driving. He never listens to radio and he hardly ever accepts someone’s opinion.

Chris is not bothered by his cousins way. In fact, he much prefers him to the rest of the Dennison kids. Being a Hansen himself he does not posses the obsession and predisposition shared by the rest of his dad’s family.

Chris often wishes both his fathers had not been so interested in the whimsical and paranormal, then maybe he would’ve been able to do as the rest of his cousins did: get away from this paraphernalia.

But no, he was saddled with his task. He has to drive around the country in two extremely obvious cars trying to find proof of the paranormal.

There had been talks about trapping and maybe expelling spirits at the beginning of the journey, a couple of months ago. But that thought had been laid to rest when Allan had managed to anger a very docile and peaceful spirit in Spokane.

That was another thing Chris had learnt about his cousins. They were clueless about the things they were attempting to do. Often guiding their practices by movies and secondhand stories that were merely the product of sketchy memories and exaggerations.

They had all the equipment that forums and TV shows said they’d need, but lacked any tact and the instincts needed to perform well in the business.

“Where do you reckon we should go?” Steven asks. A phrase that has turned into their catchphrase.

Chris shrugs but still points somewhere to their left where the road twists and winds and bends out of shape. Steve frowns. “You sure ‘bout that?”

Chris gives him a flat stare and leans his body against the rattling door. Maybe if he puts all his weight into it, it will open and spare him the misery of grimacing at people as the Dennison announce, too loudly, that they are “the great Dennison. Next in a line of prominent ghost hunters here to meet all your needs! Oh, and this is our cousin Chris, he’s just tagging along.”

A wiser person would’ve pleaded with his parents not to be allowed to be taken to this journey. But if he were that, Allan and Monique would’ve not been able to claim the experience would help him build character.

As they drive toward where Chris’ lungs are telling him there’s something waiting for them, he considers changing the route, leading them away from another poor spirit. He doesn’t, of course, he still needs to build that character.

“Turn the AC off,” he asks.

Steven laughs, loud and obnoxious. “It’s off, kid.”

Chris turns to him with a frown just in time to see long blue hair and a mischievous smile through the windshield.

“Oh,” he says, dumbly.

“Oh?’ Whoever is sitting on the back repeats with a giggle. “I think we can do better than that. It’s a long drive into town pretty boy.”

“Umh.” He hesitates. “Okay?”

Steven laughs at him, assuming it’s teenage stupidity. He sets his eyes back on the broad, but his shoulders look stiff.

“Maybe we should listen to the radio,” The specter says, jiggling what sounds like a million copper bracelets or tiny bells.

Chris makes a noncommittal noise.

“It’s a long drive.” Chris hears iterated twice. Steven doesn’t look affected by the fact that has just said something innocuous, so unlike himself. The spirit seems to be smiling in the reflection.

“It is?” Chris can’t help but turn the phrase into a question, both at the spirit and his cousin.

“Yeah, ‘bout six or seven hours to the next town.” Again, the words come from two sources.

“Ah, right.”

“Unless you’re going further away,” This time only the spirit talks, their voice is thick like honey on a humid day. “Then it’s ten hours. And that’s giving this piece of crap the benefit of doubt because no don’t think you’ll make it further away.”

Chris hums.

“You don’t look like the kind of boy that goes around harassing the dead,” The ghost points out.

Chris shrugs.

The spirit falls quiet for a while. Long enough for Chris to feel comfortable looking away. He catches sight of a sign, something that regular people don’t see, probably because it has two little girls playing catch around it.

“A lot of people die on these kinds of roads,” He offers, apropos to nothing.

Steven doesn’t even turn to look at him. He supposed his cousin has heard stranger things.

“They do.” The spirit nods.

“Did you see somthin’?” Steven asks, eyes never leaving the road.

“No,” he lies, even as his eyes are pulled in different directions. There are children and women and men running and dancing well into the night.

“Smart or stupid?” The spirit asks.

“Definitely stupid,” He feels tempted to say, but he keeps his lips pressed tight.

The next couple of minutes are spent in absolute silence until The Phone rings.

Steven makes it a point to stop in the middle of the road to pick it up, since Chris is not allowed to even look at the thing. His cousin even goes as far as leaving the car to talk in private.

“Ohhh,” The spirit taunts.

Their myriad of metallic objects clang and shake as they move to the front of the car.

“What is a young boy like you doing in a place like this?” The specter, which now that they’re sitting right next to him, Chris can see looks like a young woman.

Chris ignores her, as he’s used to do. Instead he looks at the man sitting on the ground just a couple of feet away from them.. He has coppery hair and light eyes that can barely be appreciated in the twilight.

“Oh, I see.” The woman taunts him. “Little mouse is not allowed to talk to strangers. It’s okay though.” She laughs. The sound is like the accidental pulling of an out of tune violin chord.

“Mo says we have to go back.” Steven leans half his body into the car, effectively going through the woman who has now started to mockingly pull faces as if in pain.

“Wha- why?”

“Somethin’ about the car not workin’.”

“Ah.” The woman laughs delightedly. “Ask him if it’s the exhaust. I know a couple of guys that like that hang out back there. They probably saw this as taken and had fun with your friends.”

“They’re not my friends,” He grumbles, because it is second nature to make the correction now.

They’re not friends but family, annoyingly unavoidable.

“What?” Steve asks at the same time Chris tells him, “She says it’s the exhaust. That some guys like to mess with it.”

Steven jumps away from the car and looks in all directions. Like his brothers, he is painfully unprepared to deal with, well, actual ghosts.

“Lots of people die on these roads,” Chris repeats with a shrug.

“The fuck. They’re here. One’s here.” The rushed words lack any kind of inflection to be considered a question.

“She was sitting right there.” He points to the seat.


“She left when you jumped.”


At least he doesn’t pretend to be fearless or unshakeable like the others.

The phone rings again. This time Steven takes the call right where he stands.

“…oh… Yeah, right… We’re going.”

“We go back?” Chris asks.

“No.” He frowns. “The car works just fine. Looks like your friend told ‘em to knock it off.”

“She’s not–” he sighs and trails off. “Whatever let’s just go.”

Steven looks like he wants to say something, but he ends up just shrugging and getting into the car to drive away.

They’re just leaving the stretch of road that seems to be perpetually inhabited by spirits when Chris feels the hair on the back of his neck rising, as something that felt like a fingernail traces a pattern into his skin.

“Be careful out there, little mouse.” The woman from before says. “You never know what you’ll find out there.”

Chris looks back over his shoulders, but there’s nothing there.

When he turns to look at his cousin he’s got his eyes firmly on the road.



Posted in Personal Blogging

Greetings from a Fuck Up (Me).

Hello, this is quite a different post than the one I’ve promised… But I doubt anyone’s really surprised about it.

So, I hurt someone, a friend. I’ve mentioned her before in here, Jenna.

I always hurt people, not because of a malicious intent but because of negligence or shitty ‘good intentions’. I’m writing this here because anywhere else I could’ve shared it, she would’ve seen it. And I don’t want to seem like I’m being pitiful to be forgiven. I accept that it was my own fault and that she retains the right to be on her own and forgive me in her own time and space.

I just feel better when I say things. And since no one I know reads these, I decided it was better to put it all in here, being pitiful, than let these thoughts to rot.

So here they are.

So what happened is this: I had told Jenna that I would see whether I could meet her for Valentine’s day to spend the day together since we’re both single. February the 14th is also one of my cousin’s birthday and we were planning on celebrating it.

My cousin couldn’t come in the end because of money issues (this is not really a good financial time for my family) and I couldn’t go to meet Jenna because of the same thing. Since I’m staying at my grandparents’ and have no reception/internet I was relying on someone’s portable WiFi to contact her… But the lines died in here for a whole day. Then I went to see if I had reception… And it turns out that I hadn’t paid my phone bill and the company suspended my service, so I couldn’t call her.

I couldn’t use someone else’s phone because everyone here has the same phone company and that was the service that had collapsed/died.

By the time the service came back it was well into the night. I had some messages from people that I replied, and like the absolute worst excuse of a human being/friend forgot to talk to Jenna to apologize.

And I thought that was strike one.

I completely admit my fault. Because I don’t mind when people don’t talk to me for days on end or something like this happens, I just assume everyone is like that. And I thought I could just apologize.

Yeah, I’m a dick.

So what comes next is that this had not been strike one at all.

I got accepted to the program I applied (as I mentioned I think on Monday?) And was super excited so I told my family (since I’m here and I see everyone every day) and shared it on one WhatsApp group… Jenna was not in it because it’s about a book some friends and I read and she hasn’t. After that I talked to my cousin (this was the day she tried to kill herself which wouldn’t happen for a couple of hours) and got distracted coordinating things that needed to be done in the house.

After this I got distracted with life and my cousin who had to travel with some friends during the weekend, so we needed to convince her mom she was okay to travel/would be fine with her fiends.

So I didn’t share the news with Jenna.

And she felt very, very hurt about it because I didn’t tell her something that made me very happy.

And again, this was my fault because no could have told her right away, before life went haywire but also because a part of me wanted to wait to tell her.

And here’s where things stop making sense unless you’re me and have a million and one issues with friendship/people.

I had noticed that Jenna always looked a bit uncomfortable when we talked about going away for the Masters program. It was a lot or that shed change the topic of conversation, it just seemed like she was a bit subdued. And since I have a million and one issues, I decided trying not to bring it up on conversation with her because I don’t like making people uncomfortable.

The thing is that she applied to London and two friends and I applied to Sussex. We were all excited to talk about things but I always felt guilty, like I was leaving her behind or I don’t really know. Turns out she didn’t really care and it was just my stupid brain seeing patterns where there were none.

She was more hurt about me keeping this from her than by me going off somewhere else.

And another friend (someone on the WhatsApp group) told her about it because she was happy for me and obviously thought I didn’t fail as a functioning human being and told Jenna the news…. That was on Wednesday. And I guess Jenna spent this entire time waiting for me to tell her.

And I didn’t.

So I don’t know how it looked for her.

So now when we were talking about it (through WhatsApp) and she told me she felt really hurt. I understood. But I also went and vomited a shitton of information on her, because yet again I fail as a human.

And I don’t know, maybe I thought I was being nice by sharing all the things I’d been keeping inside these couple of days (like the thing with my cousin, my failed job interviews, etc) when in fact I probably looked like, ‘see? I’m telling you things! I’m nice and share things!’

So yeah… Not helping my case.

In the end I told her she could take all the time she needed to forgive me (she said she accepted my apology but still felt hurt and needed time to heal).

My other friend talked to me and apologized for telling Jenna about my getting in. But she shouldn’t have to!

This whole thing wasn’t her fault.

It was mine.

I would never make someone apologize for something that is my fault. Something that I knowingly did.

I’m done avoiding and pretending I’m not hurting people. Because I did that in the past and I still regret it to this day.

I’m going to give Jenna all the time she needs to forgive me, no matter how long that is.

It hurts that I made her feel that way and that I know how stupid it was of me and how easily I could have avoided it.

But I guess it would not be me if I wasn’t making messes out everything.

So yeah. I needed to get this whole thing off my chest before I exploded and started whining to someone else in here.

Like I said, no one I know reads these and I truly enjoy screaming and crying to the void that is the internet.

Thanks for letting me vent.


Posted in Personal Blogging

Life Update

Hello, lovely people of the internet.

Isn’t it funny how I keep pretending there’s more than one person reading these?


Anyway, I’m here with a life update.

I will write a longer, more rambly (is that a word?) Post later on because you guys know I just looooove to blather on and on senselessly. But for now I just wanted to give a general update.

1) I got accepted into the Master Program I applied to in January!!!!!! Yesssss!!!!!

2) I’m still unemployed and looking for.a job.

3) I’ve been a dick to some people oops.

4) One of my cousins tried to kill themselves last week. They texted me my name and a heart as like a goodbye. I can’t receive hearts now because I get this sick feeling in my stomach.

5) They didn’t die.

6) I’m still staying at my grandparents’ place where I have neither reception nor internet… I don’t know when I’ll be going home.


As a said, a more detailed update will probably follow. But for now there’s just this.

Oh, and I will continue posting the stories in the schedule I set before.