I wish I had some exciting news to report, but I don’t. My life has been surprisingly hum-drum, and I don’t know what to make of that. I was so bored last night that I went to the gym and did some treadmilling.
I’m not sure which direction my life is headed in. I finished volume 1 of Naughty Isle, but then I designed a fun cover, and Sonya hated it.
However, Sonya has cover-art issues. She herself sort of demands unattainable perfection in a cover, and earlier today, her current cover artist pretty much fired her. I feel sad about it. So of course Sonya hates the cover I designed! I’m not visually talented, not whatsoever. I just like to do my covers by finding an image (either free from Pixabay or for around $15 per image at Shutterstock) and then going to town by adding text over it. I enjoy it! And there’s no money in self-publishing (from what I know) no matter how gothic your cover is. But now… I dunno, Sonya sort of hurt my feelings, so it’s back to the drawing board. I’ve made some changes since I talked to her, but she still won’t like this. She never likes my covers!!
What do you all think? You may as well be painfully honest, because morale is dead for my cover art abilities. But anyway, those images are (c) Pixabay @ Clker-Free-Vector-Images (the border) and CM_Foto (the picture).
Alicia must learn to mend her naughty ways… or forever pay the price. Do you all like how I anagrammed my name to Elm B. Magikl? Anagramming is super fun. If any of you want me to anagram your name, please let me know!
In exciting exercising news, I’ve still been using my home gym roughly every two out of three days, and then my muscles want to rest. I alternate between upper body and lower body (inclusive of abdominals), and then I have a third day of rest thrown in there somewhere. My muscles have been sore a lot lately, but not enough to really bug me. I do feel rather stiff, though, and I suspect I should do more stretching.
I haven’t been going to the gym, though, until last night, because I wanted to get used to doing the strength training. (I only do treadmilling at the gym.) I’m used to doing my muscle exercises now, but alas, I’m out of shape on the treadmill. I think I can fix that problem if I go back a few times. I might need some new tunes on my little music player, too. Today’s a non-exercise day for my home gym, but I’ll try to use the treadmill tonight. Last night I gave up after five (out of ten desired) minutes. Ugh. Hey, I burned fifty calories.
I’m devastated that my friend, Ash, is gone for good, apparently. My dad says she’s dealing with some confusion. I’d have to agree. She believed that her guides wanted her to take on only $50,000 clients (people who’d pay that for a year of constant psychic guidance, from what I understand), but what I think happened was that she landed such a client, and then the client changed his/her mind because… that’s a lot of coin.
My dad said to me, “Now, don’t you go paying her $50,000 for psychic guidance.”
And I was like, “What kind of idiotic remark is that?! Do I look like I’ve ever even seen that kind of money? Shut it, old man. Geez.” I was offended. (Could you tell?)
Anyway, she seems to think that I was using her for her psychic counsel, but again, just to reiterate, I always paid her. A lot of times I’d approach her about something, and she’d assume I wanted psychic advice, but I just needed a friend to set me straight. That doesn’t require the intuitive arts. But she’d get confused about whether I wanted X or Y, psychic insight or affirmations/friendship. But despite all of that, I still want to state that I always paid her for the psychic stuff. I felt she deserved to be paid. So this strange accusation of hers before she split that I was using her for free psychic readings is offensive and inaccurate.
(She posted something like, “If one more friend inboxes me expecting free psychic readings, then I’ll block you.” And I’d just inboxed her about my usual insecurities. After I put a shocked face on that post, she blocked me.)
(Yeah, you had to see that coming.)
So she might be confused, but I don’t feel that I’ve done anything wrong. However, I can understand that she might think otherwise. Maybe we should’ve talked about it.
The problem might be that I unfollowed her for a month before she blocked me. That might have hurt her feelings. It wasn’t intentional on my end, but I had to unfollow her. She kept using this new app to put her own face on the faces of movie characters from movie scenes and such (with both photos and videos), and that was triggering my schizophrenia really bad. Just trust me on this: when you’re schizophrenic, it’s not good to have people switching out their faces for other people’s faces. It’s incredibly confusing and dissociative, sort of. (I’m struggling to explain the anxiety is causes me. It’s not like I have hallucinations, unless you want to count routine energetic pollution, but still. It was upsetting.) It’s not natural.
I never told her why I quit following her because I didn’t want her to feel bad or worry about it. She sort of has the belief that mental illnesses should be healed on the soul level (read: medications are bad). But it’s highly conceivable that she might’ve taken it personally, and I mean, who wouldn’t? Ugh. I blame myself for that.
I’ve been having wondrous dreams about different places. I had this one dream about an experience I had in college that was less than stellar. I showed up late for a handbell performance that I didn’t know about, and there was a huge hole in the handbell table where I was supposed to be. It was pretty disastrous. (I’d been in the dorms when someone showed up and asked why I wasn’t ringing. I was like, “Oh, no.”)
Later, I apologized very sincerely to Dr. Satan, the head of the music department (and the handbell choir), but he told me off. I walked home to my dad’s house and slept there and had a strange otherworldly experience that I won’t get into here, but it saved me.
Anyway, freshman year was really, really hard. I even talked to the other main music teacher and told him how bad I felt. He was like, “Not good enough. Think about it.”
So I thought about it. And after freshman year ended, that summer I asked my mom why my world seemed so quiet.
“Oh,” she replied. “In third grade, your teachers told us you have hearing loss. But they said nothing could be done about it. Oh well.” She shrugged and kept stirring her spaghetti. “It’s probably why you had to take speech class straight through elementary school. And oh, you used to speak your own language as a tot. It was adorable.”
I just stared at her. “Hearing aids have been around since the mid-eighties,” I said. “And you never TOLD me?! Oh my God! You’re an unfit mother!”
Well, she felt guilty. I was able to start sophomore year with my first pair of hearing aids, which she bought me.
At the hearing aid place, they put them in my ears and turned them on.
“Ohh,” I said. “I hear something windy. I don’t think they’re working right.”
“No, they’re working,” the man said. “You’re hearing the overhead air conditioner unit.” He pointed upward to the styrofoam ceiling tiles.
“Oh, nice,” I said. “I can hear the windy!” I beamed, pleased with my new hearing.
My mom burst into tears. You can’t make this stuff up. [Eyeroll.]
I think I was sort of slow emotionally back then, but it eventually dawned on me that I’d missed the handbell performance because of Dr. Satan’s self-absorbed communications style. He never gave me a printout of performance dates, nor an email. Instead, everything he did was by word of mouth, and he spoke too softly–he wanted people to lean in and pay attention when he spoke, which fed his ego; but on my end, I actually couldn’t hear him.
As much as I hated myself, the fact that I’d missed the handbell performance wasn’t my fault. In fact, it was the event that finally made me realize that there was something wrong with my hearing. See, in high school, teachers speak up because they care. In college, it’s all about the teacher’s ego. After one year of college, I realized that I had hearing loss. That was all it took.
So in my dream of a few nights ago, some higher power was saying, “Write Dr. Satan and the other teacher letters and tell them as much, Meg.”
I probably won’t do that. I couldn’t care less about Dr. Satan or the other music teacher who didn’t support me.
I got my revenge in a matter of speaking. A few years later, he threatened my piano books, and I just told him off. I was searching the campus for my books with my friend Layla, who saw him and suggested I ask him if he’d seen my books. I really didn’t want to talk to him, but there he was, listening in, and Layla was completely obtuse to most things. So I rolled my eyes, approached him, and asked if he’d seen my books.
“No, I haven’t. But if I do see them, I’ll do something to them that’s fitting to your tone.”
In his defense, he had no clue that he was threatening a family heirloon of Grieg’s Lyric Pieces that my parents had brought home from Germany before having kids.
Yeah, so the next thing I knew, I was yelling and screaming at him with a long list of mostly psychiatric diagnoses (histrionic personality disorder, narcissistic personality disorder, chronic bedwetting, the need to overcompensate for small body parts, etc.), and Layla was horrified. She raced down the stairs we’d just come up. Meanwhile a crowd of dissatisfied music majors formed, and they wholly approved of my tantrum. I found out later when I was thanked by multiple people.
(Seriously, I’d be walking around campus and someone would grab my sleeve and pull me out of hearing. “Thanks for what you did. You’re my new idol. But don’t tell anyone we talked. This conversation never happened.” And then the person would disappear. This happened a few times.)
But anyway, Layla returned with our piano teacher in tow. My piano teacher sized up the situation, grabbed me by the wrist, and yanked me down the stairs. I looked up and saw him watching me, so with my free hand, I flipped him off while smiling merrily.
I had to change majors.
But, no joke. That’s one of my favorite college memories, and he totally had it coming. He tried to get me expelled after that, but my campus counselor had heard horror stories about him from me for three years, so she managed to make it so that I just could no longer major in music, which was good, because Dr. Satan never would’ve granted me the degree, anyway. (He made it more complicated than just taking the classes. Parents complained, and he’s no longer the head of the department, not by a longshot.)
“But what should I major in?” I asked my campus counselor.
We reviewed how I’d succinctly diagnosed Dr. Satan, and we decided that I should major in psychology.
Anyway, yeah, so the dream. I won’t write to them and say it wasn’t my fault. I got revenge, and it felt great. I probably dreamed that for some sort of symbolic reason.
Well, this has been a fun trip down memory lane. I hope everyone out there reading this is having a good day. If not, drop me an email!