is pretty good.  That Alicia Keys collaboration is epic.

Here's a puppy photo.  Tonka's eyes are glowing green,

which is totally creepy.

Now...should I be one of those bloggers that tells the internet about her issues as they unfold?  Or do I wait until they've settle and hope to learn something (which I can then write about)?

1.  I suppose the culture I come from isn't super-concerned with time.  We don't stress the minutes.  We drop by each other's homes casually, without prior announcement.  We don't always make the most concrete time tables.  Added to this are the semi-unique circumstances I grew up in.  My mom never pushed any sort of schedule.  She was not concerned with us getting to bed on time, and she abhorred any activities requiring an early-morning wake-up.  We had no set mealtimes, no predictable life patterns to follow.  The results were mixed.  I'm not afraid to stay up until 5am cleaning, or get so engrossed in a book I sleep in the next day.  I live very much in the present.  Unfortunately, the other side effect is that I suck at plan-making. 

2.  Someone I care very much about said some mean things to me yesterday.  Something along the lines of, "I knew you wouldn't get there on time because you suck and you're full of excuses."  I can (sort of) understand his frustration, but not entirely.  It wasn't his birthday I was late to.  It didn't even affect him.  I was late getting to the DMV today.  I have to go back this morning to finish up.  He just called me out for what he perceives to be irresponsibility on my part, instead of cutting me some slack for not wanting to get up at 7am on my only day off to go to the torture chamber that is the local DMV.

3.  Ever had someone be mean to you in such a way that you don't even want to fight back?  I got these hurtful texts and just cried.  They weren't what I need right now.  I feel like I'm juggling flaming chainsaws at the moment and it's pretty overwhelming.  I'm broke, I need to locate a truck part that comes in 6,000 different styles and somehow not order the wrong one, I have two presentations and a paper due for school soon.  I'm trying to find a studio, or at least a large closet I can live in for little money.  I'm working 40 hours a week and my dog's eye is emmitting a strange ooze.  So I was late to the DMV.  It's not like I missed your colonoscopy, dickhead.

4.  There's a fine line between being that upbeat-motivator friend and being a douchebag.

5.  Check yourself.

Dirty laundry:

Aired.

My mom had three long term partners in her adult life.

The first was my big sister's father, whom she married at the tender age of 20 and moved to the states with.  He was a violent alcoholic.  Beat her senseless.  Broke her nose--several times.  She finally escaped with my sister (a baby at the time).  The story of her escape is a family legend.  One night, as he was about to beat her, my mother grabbed a loaded shotgun (he kept them all over the house) and marched him out the front door.  He was completely nude at the time.  The divorce was quick and painful.  Knowing little English, my mom came out of the divorce proceedings with nothing, except a baby.

Her first husband never paid child support, despite the fact that he was a very well-off small business owner.  The last amount I heard was something like $50,000 in back child support.

My mom moved on.  Got a good job as a medical translator at a large hospital.  She was the person who explained to non-english speakers which of their organs were going to be tinkered with and for what reason.  She also taught birth control classes.  She joked about the time she sprayed contraceptive foam on the class (young Mexican women who already had a few children each) to get them to lighten up.

She met my dad.  I don't know how, and she never told me.  He was married at the time--I know this much--with two young daughters.  He left his wife and moved into an apartment with my mom.  They had me.  He started smoking crack.  He beat my mom all the time, and then he committed an especially heinous crime, the details of which I will not go into.  The trial took years.  In the end, his sentence was a joke.

My mom moved into her own apartment with me and my sister before the trial started.  I was very small, but I have fond memories of that apartment.  It was tiny.  My sister and I shared a room slightly larger than a closet.  I remember feeling safe, enclosed, just--protected in that room.  I remember how much I loved living with just my mom and sister.  I remember my mom painting us up with her heavy makeup, just to play around. 

Then my mom met my stepfather.  He was a couple years younger than her, a Salvadoran immigrant who spoke little English and couldn't read or write.  He had dark skin and strong arms.  I remember his arms vividly.  I remember what they looked like when I would watch him beat my mother.  I remember veins and muscles tensing.  I remember the impact of his hands when he would hit me.  I remember the sound of his hands striking my siblings.  Fourteen years later, when I am feeling anxious, I still get that cold, sinking feeling that preceded a beating. 

My mother had four children with this man.  Two boys and two girls.  I remember not understanding.  Each new birth making us more trapped with this dangerous man.  I remember resenting my mother throughout each pregnancy.  New babies meant we would never get away from him. 

When I was eight, my mother was diagnosed with systemic lupus.  The doctor sat my stepfather down and explained what a stress-fed illness was.  He said, "take care of your wife".

My stepfather took my mother to the pharmacy afterward, and drove off as she was inside getting her prescriptions filled.  We didn't see him again for years.

My mother's health deteriorated.  My sister went to a juvenile prison for almost four years.  I stayed at home while my mother worked long hours.  I did my best to take care of my four younger siblings.

I am 20 now.  I have already had a string of long, hyperdramatic relationships with very troubled men.  The profile is generally the same...I go for men who need a caretaker, healing of some sort.  I try to fix them.  I form a profound emotional dependence on whoever I get into a relationship with.  I get very needy.  I get very angry.  At times I feel like I am losing my mind. 

Weird thing, when you realize you're stuck in a dysfunctional behavior.  Often, you know it's not working for you, but you have no clue how to fix it.  The dysfunction becomes a sort of refuge.  "It may hurt in the long run, but right now I feel safe and cared for, and I'm not alone.  I'll take this."

I am addicted to men.  For me, they are a drug.  I get high on the attention, the human contact. 

I like men with strong arms.  I like the idea that strong arms can be gentle.  That they can caress me instead of hit me.

Physical affection from a partner makes me almost giddy.  I can't hug a friend without my whole body tensing up, but I don't think twice about embracing a boyfriend.

Men are my refuge;  not my family, my friends, my hobbies or talents.  Just men.  It's unhealthy.  It's crazy.  But I know legions of women just like me.  The cycle is obvious. 

I just don't know how to begin changing this.