I'm so bored.

Rules:
If you get more than 30, get some counseling.
If you get more than 20, you’re paranoid.
If you get 11-20, you are normal.
If you get 10 or less, you’re fearless.
People who don’t have any are full of BS.


I fear ...

[] black people (WTF? *facepalm*)
[] the dark (I'm not scared of the dark...just what might be hiding in the dark!)
[] staying single forever
[/] being a parent (I'm worried I might suck at parenting)
[/] being myself in front of others (Most of them)
[] open spaces
[] closed spaces (...how closed?)
[x] heights
[] dogs
[] birds
[] fish
[x] spiders (It's all those damned legs)
[] flowers or other plants
Total so far= 3

[] being touched (How, and by whom?)
[] fire
[x] deep deep water (Hells yes that's where mutant spider sharks lurk!)
[] snakes
[] silk (People fear silk?)
[] the ocean
[x] failure
[] success
[] thunder/lightning
[] frogs/toads
[] my boyfriends/girlfriends dad
[] my boyfriends/girlfriends mom (It would be a yes if it were "My husband's aunt", heh heh)
[] rats (Rats are awesome pets)
[] jumping from high places (I wouldn't say scared, I'm more worried of hurting my feet)
[] snow
Total so far: 5

[] rain
[] wind
[] crossing hanging bridges (Haven't really experienced that so I'm not sure)
[] death
[] heaven
[] being robbed
[/] falling (From how high?)
[] clowns
[] dolls
[/] large crowds of people (Angry people in large groups are dangerous!)
[] men
[] women
[] having great responsibilities
[] doctors
[] tornadoes
Total so far: 6

[] hurricanes
[] incurable diseases
[x] sharks (I know, poor sharks, they get such a bad rep)
[] Friday the 13th
[] scary movies
[] poverty
[] Halloween
[] school
[] trains
[] odd numbers
[] even numbers
[] being alone
[] becoming blind
[] becoming deaf (These would both suck, but I don't worry about it on a daily basis or anything)
[] growing up
Total so far: 7

[x] creepy noises in the night (WTF who isn't? Unless you're Satan or something. Then maybe you fear angelic fanfare in the night!)
[] accomplishing my dreams/goals
[] needles
[] blood
Total so far: 8

TOTAL : 8

I'm fearless? Yeah. Right. You a doctor or something? Huh? HUH?

Oh. Capcom. I didn't see you there. How's it going? Won't you take a seat? Can I get you anything? Water? Tea? Pepsi?

You see, Capcom...there's something that's been on my mind as of late, and I'd like to take this opportunity to get it off my chest. A little over a month ago, I was perusing Joystiq and found out about the release of a fifth Ace Attorney game, Gyakuten Kenji, in Japan. Even though there would be no courtroom scenarios or anyone screaming "OBJECTION!" at anyone like I've enjoyed from the previous Gyakuten Saiben games (yes, I own all four), I still managed to make a near-deafening "SQUEE!" when I found out about the new game and its protagonist, Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth, Phoenix Wright's childhood friend and courtroom rival throughout the first three games. I was even more excited (which I had thought impossible) when I discovered that the game finally had a date set for it's American release.

But Capcom, this is where the trouble truly starts. You see, the release of Perfect Prosecutor (or, as it will be called here in the States, Ace Attorney Investigations) is set for February 16th, 2010.

I was feeling a bit grumpy the other day while looking over my folder of current works in progress. I've been doodling nonstop ever since my mom's funeral, remembering when she bought me my first dA subscription for Christmas years ago and said I really had potential (this was incredibly high praise coming from her; at the time, she had thought being an artist was just a fantasy all the Zimmerman children entertained, and I just about cried when she told me she thought I was talented). But lately nothing I've done seemed to come out right. It always seems like I start to love a piece, finish it, and then promptly begin finding a million things wrong with it. I sit there wondering why I even bother, especially when I never seem to improve.

Well, I was in for quite a bit of a surprise when I happened to look through the older drawings that I had banished to the scraps folder. I had completely forgotten the first picture I had ever drawn of Bailey, a character I had created for a fiction class during my freshman year of college. (It was a little difficult to go back to that story; I made her father die of cancer, and at the time I felt grateful that I would never have to deal with something like that. I had spoken a little too soon). I had been quite proud of the picture at the time, but looking at it now made me want to hide under a blanket in shame at my own lack of artistic talent.

Of course, perspective was definitely put in it's place when I compared it to the picture of her that I drew last night.




I still feel like I have a long way to go, but in seeing the sheer amount of previously-ignored (and denied) progress made in three years, I'm definitely going to practice more! I'm excited to see how things look in another three years!

My original post spanned over several pages in TextEdit. After staring blankly at my computer screen for several hours, I realized that it was simply too intimate, and too soon. What should have been a few paragraphs about a family tragedy looked more like the early works of a short story, and I began to feel that the prose my thoughts and feelings had turned into were just too... Detached? I don't know. But it just felt like, in order to cope, I had taken a tragic experience and attempted to pass it off as just another piece of writing, and I know that the road to acceptance isn't through attempting to convince myself that my life is a piece of fiction.

I haven't exactly had the clearest head for the past several days. My mind has been a blur of anger, joy, relief, sadness, and shame; sometimes one after the other, sometimes all at once. I just don't think I'm ready to dump that on the internet. So, the highly abridged version:

On July 8th, at 6:06 in the evening, my mom passed away. She wasn't alone; Dad and I were with her. She just stopped breathing, and a few moments later, her heart stopped as well.

That's all I can say right now. My heart is full of so many unsaid thoughts, but I just can't bring myself to let them go yet. I'm sure I will eventually; but not today.

It's been a little over a week since I dropped all of my plans and projects, haphazardly packed a duffel bag full of whatever rumpled, filthy clothing was nearest to me, and headed off to my hometown of Sandpoint, Idaho.

Crossing the Long Bridge and merging awkwardly into traffic, I'm reminded of just how much I have grown to hate this town over the last few years. Not even all the happy childhood memories in the world could make me consider loving it here. The mingled scent of car exhaust, sweaty bodies doused in suntan lotion, a hint of dead fish, and commerce invade my nostrils and I hold my breath as I pass through town and head out towards Kootenai. As I leave the main portion of town behind, the streets and landmarks become more and more unchanging, the scenery more consistent with the memories I still harbor.

But I am not here for nostalgia's sake. I'm here because my mother has finally succumbed to the doctor's predictions; she's dying, although admittedly a year and a half later than expected.

When I see her, she's seated in a wheelchair before the large picture window overlooking what used to be fields of wheat; it has since been cultivated into custom beach-front summer homes for the moderately well-to-do. “Hello, Mama” I venture. She doesn't look at me. I take her hand and wait. At long length, she opens her mouth and all that comes out is gibberish, her breath tinged with the scent of slightly rotten fruit left too long in the sun.

Her false coral eye has sunken somewhat into the left socket on her narrow face, but she swivels her good one in my general direction and again mumbles a few m's and h's. I still don't understand, and before I know it, I'm already spilling tears. She squeezes my hand, and with a laboured movement that seems to take forever, she lifts it to her lips and kisses it. I suppose that's what she'd meant to say.

I spend the day with her to give Dad and the boys an opportunity to rip up the rotting back deck. With some help, I wheel her hospital bed outside onto the back cement patio my father poured after I'd left for college, and move her under the shade. “Isn't it a beautiful day, Mama?” I ask. She only moans, and I try not to cry as I drag my crochet needles out of my purse and begin to work. Mom eventually falls asleep, her oxygen hookup hissing softly as her mouth hangs open, reminding me of a zombie. I curse myself for my recent survival-horror fixation and turn my attention back to my simple stitches. Three useless washcloths help me pass the time. Mom continues to sleep, her breathes coming out in all-too-familiar moans of pain. By the time I reach seven washcloths, my nerves have me leaning towards the urge to stab myself in the neck with one of those crochet hooks.

The most frustrating bit is wanting to make her as comfortable as possible, and not knowing how. Listening to her mumble and moan and not knowing what she wants or needs. Feeding her a yogurt morphine cocktail, or water, or Diet Coke through a syringe and fighting off horrible flashbacks of Bean, the newborn mouse who lived in my bedside dresser, whose death resulted in accidental drowning from my own careless feeding barely two weeks prior.

The third morning passes uneventfully, and in her restlessness I hear an incredibly clear sentence. “Where are my boys?” she asks, a tear rolling from her blue coral eye. I stall for a moment, surprised, since I hadn't know the tear duct in that eye still functioned, and I am suddenly filled with incredible anger towards the two biological sons she had been referring to, who should be here at her side when she so obviously needs them. The day passes and she does not speak again.

She has taken on an empty stare when I look at her, and her gaze always passes straight through me. When I move my head, her eyes don't follow. After several hours of this, I need to leave. I march a few times back and forth through the house to calm myself. “Hi Mama” I say as I return to the bedroom. To my surprise, she looks up at me and one side of her mouth attempts to smile. “Hi Sweetheart” she whispers, barely audible, before her gaze clouds again. I cry.

Once every few days a random nurse comes to check on her, each commenting that they would be surprised to see her last through another week. So far she's lasted through two.

I don't really know where we go from here.