…of old-school Latin pop music from P’s palette. First it was my guilty pleasure, Gloria Trevi (see previous post), and now I bring to you a pop, power-ballad by Amanda Miguel who sings like a howling cat (if cats could howl).

“El Me Mintio/He Lied to Me”. This, along with Trevi’s “Dr. Psiquiatra” will be my unofficial “Borderline Girl Song(s)” for the week. hahah! Don’t you just love that 80s big hair!?

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So, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve been texting back and forth with this fella that’s in his late thirties to early forties–probably forty-two at most. I met him a few years back through my BPD-Friend-I-Keep-At-A-Close-Distance. I’m going to call her Ryden since we both love the pop surrealist painter Mark Ryden.

Anway, I met him because of her and he became a mutual friend. He is clearly into me but I always ignored and doubted the fact, especially since he was married. He divorced his wife not long ago though. And about two, maybe three weeks ago the texts started rolling in. They eventually became sexual. He’s a nice fella, I think. I’m always doubting people though. He’s a drummer too. He’s shy and I kind of like that. I also like that he speaks Spanish like I do. I guess what I mean is I like that we’re both immigrants, only he came here way before I did. He has a good taste in music, but that means nothing really. There are a lot of things I like about him, I suppose.

Then I start to think I got ahead of myself. You’re being impulsive P! Getting with this dude may open a can of worms!

I mean, I don’t think I would normally go for him, though I’m not sure. He knew how to get to me–through humor. He turned me on by being funny about it! Dammit, I can’t help that I like clowns (not the scary ones). There’s just one thing: He’s a heavy drinker. I definitely don’t like that.

****

I know I’m vulnerable right now. I also know that I don’t ever want to be involved with an alcoholic again, even if it’s just a non-committed thing. (God, I hate saying that.) He’s heavy too, overweight. I don’t mind much about a fella’s weight or how a fella looks, but it does count for something–mainly lifestyle–and besides, I do have my limits or standards I suppose… and it’s best the guy not be heavy because I’m… I’m… I’m tiny! It’s just seems a bit weird when…you know…but then again, I’m weird. And… I mean, it’s not like I’m planning to date this person. I’m not.

But…

The texting has gotten more consistent and intense. I’m waking up to texts like “morning gorgeous” or “morning love” or “how are you love?” or “q haces amor? como estas?” and I kinda like it but I hate that I like it. I prefer older men anyway, but I don’t care to be doted on or do I? Not now. No. No. I’m afraid I’ll grow tired of the attention or I’ll get fearful of attachment and run–or roll since I can’t run.

I’d rather be the asshole in any relationship-type situation because I often think I’m no good. Wait, why am I even starting to call this a relationship-type situation?

I just don’t know what I’m doing.

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Yesterday, I met my brother’s girlfriend’s family. We watched fireworks for Fourth Of July. I couldn’t help but to think of Monkey Man L and that year we watched fireworks with A.F. in Victoria. It hit me hard when I got dropped off back at home. He’s really no longer here is he?

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And I haven’t seen the nerdy mechanical engineer, aka bearded boy at the gym since that Saturday. I haven’t begun therapy either after lasts weeks ordeal with the MetroLift. This week it was my fault though, I thought she’d said Wednesday at 2:30 then I realized Wednesday was a holiday. I slept most of the day today avoiding everything, so I didn’t call the office to see what the date really was or check up on the mix-up. Yesterday,  my dad was taking me to my appointment (which I realized I didn’t have anyway) and started nagging when I said I’d left the phone. We had just pulled out of the driveway when I said that and he went on about how, “You should plan things!” and “You SHOULD be organized!”

I’d planned yesterday’s events since last week! I tried, but it didn’t work out and I didn’t triple check. Sorry. At the risk of sounding like an ungrateful child–I tried but it got to me–I just told him not to take me anywhere and to just let me get off the car because I wasn’t going to have it that day.

I long for independence.

Longing is a good sign of wanting to live eh? Yeah, it sort of is.

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I’ve been meditating out of the water as well as in it. That has been my prayer.

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My jaw pain from the metal plate that’s sticking out–oh right, I haven’t told that story yet–has been hurting again. I keep feeling like grabbing a chainsaw and hacking my entire jaw out.

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Mansie came by on Monday so we could write a proposal and I could get that job back as a contracted worker, but…

I don’t know what I’m doing.

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Oh Dusty, my dear Dusty. My dear, angry Dusty, this is P in hell.

Dear Dusty, I blew you away like dust didn’t I?

Of the few fellas in my life, you’re the one I blew away. But I may not be seeing all the grey and, well, I blew Monkey Man away too. God knows I blew him in more than one way…

But this is about you dear Dusty. You know, I think of you often dear, angry Dusty. I think of your strange, strange quiet ways. I think of the ways I blew you… away. I know you do too. Or at least I sort of hope you do. mmmmhhhhm. No hard, hard, hard feelings right?

Oh in so many places, in so many ways. You remember don’t you? That bathroom stall I nearly conceded to? I’d never been there. I liked it, that Continental Club–very rockabilly, very you. Oh, but I was too worried we’d get caught. Either way, either way, either way, I think I killed you. And I had no right to blow you… away.

Dear angry Dusty, my dear dear angry Dusty. Did you break that window because of me? Or was it her? Right, it was because you couldn’t get your fix wasn’t it? You were back from the mental hospital then, but not because of me. You needed help. But I did too, I just couldn’t see it then. I was in as much denial as you, or maybe I just made myself not care ’cause caring means caring TOO MUCH for me. Oh you see, either way, either way, I would’ve killed you before you’d have the chance to kill me.

Oh Dusty, Dusty, angry Dusty, this isn’t Jezebel, it’s Paz out of hell. Remember that night when we took that bad ecstasy? What horrible thing was it cut with? That’s what happens when you buy cheap X Dusty, if it was MDMA (probably bathroom cleaner). I thought I would die that night, but turns out I just blew you away.

And all you kept saying was, “Are you rollin’ yet?” But no, I wasn’t rollin’ yet. I was having a bad trip when my heart skipped. I thought I was having a heart attack Dusty! I could’ve died dear Dusty and you were so slow, “rolling” and dazed and confused; it took you a whole minute to realize I wasn’t feeling well! Were we both in hell?

“Yes, I think I’m dying! I think I took too much for my size Dusty, or this is cut with bad shit!”

So you finally got me some water and then we both drowned in each other… deeper and deeper, father and farther down… and then, with a bit more alcohol, we completely sank.

Oh, but worse than the ecstasy was that Ashley. Her? Oh dear Dusty, really? She was a pretty black girl, I’ll give her that much. But she messed herself up. I mean come on Dusty, it must’ve been because she got you into that terrible “white” as you called it.

You were so entertaining, even when you didn’t say a word for hours. You’re the first fella that made me feel sexy, beautiful even. But that may not be entirely true. It doesn’t matter now. We’ll go with that because you, you said my surgical scars were sexy. What a thought! Who would say that? Only you dear angry Dusty.

And you came back to me, either way. But then I killed you. I simply blew you… away. And you simply loved the way I’d simply blow you… away. My poems that blew you away, my words that blew you away, my pretty thick latin lips that blew you away.

Oh Dusty, Dusty. My dear angry Dusty, you were always so quiet, so stark, so angry, so sensitive. I had no right to kill you. Sir Jaques Cousteau Escargot, my geeky beau, may have torn my heart in two but I had no right to kill you. I had no right to kill you dear Dusty. And when you asked me to be your girlfriend and I said “no, I just wanna blow you…away,” but not in those words, I hope you know, I simply meant to blow you… away. I never meant to kill you.

Please don’t ever let your happiness go dear angry Dusty. I miss your smile. Don’t let your happiness go. I just couldn’t be wrapped up with another user, self-abuser, self-destructive weapon like me. I simply wanted to blow you… away.

Hello? Dusty? Dusty?

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So um, I don’t know what came over me. Or rather I do, but I don’t want to say. The night that I drank and cut, the night we celebrated my mom’s birthday, I made some rash moves, obviously. Well, one of them was that I contacted Dusty on Facebook. We hadn’t talked in over a year. I was afraid he might be dead like Monkey Man L. But nope, he’s still alive. Problem is, I’m trying not to be impulsive and I’m on a path to better myself, whatever that entails. I just don’t know if Dusty is done with a lot of that mess. And I sure as hell don’t want to get back into that mess.

Doesn’t that suck?

(Yep this is the one I was embarrassed about publishing. It’s a bit self-indulgent, revealing and quirky.)

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DISCLAIMER: I’m using the “borderline girl” phrase as sort of a mocking/sarcastic term. There’s no such thing as a stereotypical “borderline girl”. You can have a condition, but you are NOT the condition and these songs aren’t necessarily written by or about borderline “girls”; they merely reflect certain parts of my life as I see fit. This is what they mean to me, someone who has been diagnosed as having BPD and is only beginning to work with herself and her deadly emotions.

In my excitement I forgot that an executive order doesn’t necessarily guarantee proper implementation, or have immediate effect. Woops. haha. I guess there’s more fighting to be done. Well, there’s always fighting to to be done. And that’s just a reminder to myself to re-educate myself before I go writing overly excited WordPress posts.

I feel like I’m loosing my mind, agggggh, more so than ever.

****

Here’s a statement one of my dear friends posted:

This has the potential to be amazing news IF it gets effectively implemented on the ground. So the next 60 days shall be telling. Otherwise I am just reminded of past failed promises like Prosecutorial Discretion & the Morton Memo while the Dylans and the Andys and the Ramons and the Yanellis are deported every single day, and there is no room left in my heart for it to be disappointed yet again.

~ from my friend KB, one of the core members/founders of the National Immigrant Youth Alliance (NIYA). (A complete statement can be seen on their website if you click the link)

*sigh*

I miss being involved. I miss my friend KB, though I did see her at Mansie’s birthday the week before last… I don’t remember now. But my head isn’t cut out for handling that kind of intense work these days.

I guess this is why I’m “borderline”. I’m easily excited and I’m easily torn. FUCK. Why do I have such an impulsive nature?

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In other news, Luna’s paw is still very cute. These photos are fresh from this morning (my shutter is still a little messed up, but I got one or two focused the way I wanted):