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A Story of Sex, Mania, and Excess.

written by: playthevillain

June 29, 2007
So, after reading the book, Detour, I feel the extreme need to write. I've decided that I'm going to just keep track of all my moods and thoughts and what have you while I am on my glorious vacation and take you on the wondrous journey that is my trip.
I woke up at 4:30 this morning (after going to sleep at 3am), with an extreme feeling of anxiety. I felt like all the women whose men cheated on them with me were going to find me and kill me, or beat the shit out of me, and as powerful as I think that I am, and as crazy as I think I am, I felt like I would never be able to defend myself against the rage of a pregnant woman, or someone who is deeply in love with their boyfriend. After this, I was filled with rage at the very thought that someone cheating on their girlfriend is my fault. I am single; I don't have any responsibilities to anyone but myself. It's not like I'm trying to tear any relationships apart, I just want to fuck and I can't help but indulge in the extreme attention that attached men who have grown weary of their women give me. I can't help but want to feel better than someone, for that brief euphoric moment, whether it's in his jeep, or my floor, or a stranger's bed, or a hotel where I know everyone knows why I'm there, or wherever.
Now, it's not that I think that there is nothing wrong with these behaviors, and I understand that there has to be something wrong with my brain in order for me to feel like my actions are justified. However, I just don't understand how it's always my fault, and it never seems to be the man's fault. I never take action until they do, and I know I've been beating on this dead horse for some time now, but I feel like no one really understands what I mean, and I can't help but try to elaborate.
Anyway, after getting about an hour and a half of sleep, I wait for my dad to come downstairs and "wake me up." I wait for an hour and fifteen minutes and my father is stunned to see me awake, dressed, and ready with my bags at the door, just waiting for him to come downstairs to greet me.
At this point, I can't help but think back to when I was living with my grandparents, and I would wait for him every other Saturday. I'd sit on the stairs that took you down to the door, watching, waiting to hear the knock for my daddy. He always came, he never disappointed me by not showing up and I can't help but think about how grateful that I am for having a father that loves me so much that he would drive an hour to come get me, and to face an ex-wife and ex-in-laws. I always thought of my dad as brave.
We loaded my stuff on the golf-cart and made our way down the road to the boat where my cousin was waiting eagerly for our departure. He looked like a little boy on Christmas, waiting for the time where he could open the gifts that he had been asking for.
We got onto the boat, set everything up, got organized and left the dock.
"Where is Whitestake Point?"
"But this is Galesville."
"But that is the true name of this port, and it's important to me that people remember its true name. People have a habit of forgetting where they come from."
"I can appreciate that."
I'm five again, and my father is god. He can do no wrong, and I don't know what I'd do without him. I tell him that I have now accumulated four cameras and how I love each of them, and tell him a story that I find extremely amusing, but I can tell that he is listening, but not understanding the humor I find in it. I'm five again.
I go lay down on the boat's bed and I think about how early it still is and what I'm going to do with 48 hours time on a boat. I pick up Detour and begin to read.
Now, Detour is a memoir that a woman diagnosed with bipolar disorder wrote. She was put on lithium and decided at the age of 23 that she was going to find others with the disorder and interview them, in hopes of finding some people that were like her; people that she could honestly relate to.
This book was recommended to me when I was 16, and I was first referred to Dr. Herman, my psychiatrist. He told me that it was a very good read, and that I could relate well to it. Well, I forgot the name, and the author. I remembered only the cover. Bright orange letters and a strip of Kodak TX film with images of the author. I searched for this book for quite sometime, but after no luck of finding it because of my horrible memory, I just gave up. Yesterday, I went to Borders to pick up some books for me to read on this trip and, as luck would have it, found Detour.
After a brief nap, I woke up, and finished the book completely. I went to the fridge, grabbed a red bull, doused myself in sunscreen, and sat out by the stern of the boat. I suddenly, after a terrible second panic attack about vicious pregnant women, felt at peace. I can't explain the feeling, and I don't think that many people know what it feels like, but there is just something about being on a boat that my father built with his bare hands and being on the water, somewhere that I have felt at peace my entire life. I laughed to myself and thought, "I am a water sign, through and through."
When I came to Queen Anne, I felt like all of my friends had a "thing" that made their personality and that I was lacking in that respect. I felt like my "thing" was that I went to public school, and that I was insane.
For example, Gena was always the artsy, city girl. Sharon was the environmentalist. Ashley was the country girl. And I, well, I was nothing.
I realized today that I do have a "thing" and it's the water. I love it. I can't imagine my life without being around water in some way. I mean, I grew up on a peninsula for Christ sake! In fact, I realized that I have a love for all things aquatic and/or sailor related.
I thought back to the cruise I went on at age twelve and how I begged my mother to buy me a sailor outfit from the American Girl catalogue for the occasion. I wore it almost everyday in hopes that I would be mistaken for a crew member.
I thought about that show on the Discovery Channel, The Deadliest Catch, and how every time I watch it I think, "how cool would it be to do that?"
I climbed up to my dad and cousin, where they teased me about my 9 piercings that I have accumulated in this past year.
"Did you put on sunblock?"
"Yes Daddy."
"Are you hungry?"
"Not really, no."
"Do you need anything? Are you warm enough?"
"I'm fine Daddy."
I can't help but feel extremely loved when I'm with him. Even when he's teasing me about my numerous withdraws from school, piercings, the fact that I almost didn't graduate on time, how I don't know anything about boats, I can feel this intense love coming from him and I know that I can always trust him, no matter what. I love my father.
I know that this is an awful thing to say, but I don't think that he has the same love for my sister. He loves her, but he doesn't love her as much as he loves me, if that makes sense. He loves her because she's his daughter, something that he created, but he loves me because I'm fun to be around, and I was the first and I am a lot like him.

We finally docked thirteen hours after we departed from Whitestake Point this morning. For me, it was a day of short naps, peanut butter crackers, and watching the lightning storm as we got closer and closer to the North Carolina Marina. For my dad and cousin, it was a day of burning eyes and skin, of stinging rain, and a fear of being struck by lightening. I've never been scared of lightening so I couldn't relate and I just giggled as I could see their eyes grow after we approached the storm.
I'm not exactly sure where we are, but I do know that we have made it to North Carolina, and that we will be getting to Hatteras tomorrow afternoon sometime, but for now, we're out in the middle of no where at a tiny marina where Papa John's doesn't deliver. I'm not hungry, so I don't really care and I'm having a great time hearing my dad talk to them. His mumbled words make me smile.
"Guess it's roast beef sandwiches, sorry."
"I'm not really hungry, I'll be fine."
"Well, there's rum too."
I stare at him blankly.
"Oh, you can't have that yet. Well, you can drink a beer to help you sleep."
"A beer? Hah! Anyway, that's what I have Xanax for."
"I shouldn't let you drink anyway."
Things are still lovely. There is no shower, but I'm not too disappointed by that because I know that I can have one as soon as I get to Hatteras. There is a shower on the boat, but my dad did this weird sort of chuckle when I asked if it worked, which means that it doesn't, it never has, and it never will. He calls me silly for asking.

July 2, 2007

"How many beers did Rebecca have last night? She's been sleeping all day."
"She only had, like, four or five."
"She can handle five beers? I'm proud."
That's just like my father, to be proud of my ability to hold liquor.
In the past few days all I have done is sleep, drink, go fishing, and read. Since Friday I have finished one and a half books. However, I'm growing quite weary of lying down and doing nothing because I have recently come to the realization that I have no job to come home to. As of the time that I return, I will officially become a bum. My parents refuse to give me any money whatsoever unless I have a job of some sort. During this vacation, I don't have to think about it, but the second that I come back into Maryland I will be jobless, and in my mother's eyes, pathetic.

July 4, 2007

I realized that I have been drinking every night since I've been on this trip. Only on one of which I was totally inebriated. I can't help but think that even with the medicines I won't be able to control my need for things in excess, my need to indulge. I think that it comes down to my need to feel loved. I smoke because I know a lot of smokers, and I want to spend as much time as I can with them. I drink because I know a lot of drinkers and I want to spend as much time as I can with them. It's the same with eating, fucking, and so on. My step-brother realized this last night and tried to pimp me out to our vacation neighbors. We're so classy.
Even my sister has discovered that her big sister has no impulse control. She told her guy friends that I was "easy."
"I'm pretty sure she's slept with like half the guys she works with."
"Can I get an application?"
That's the last thing that I need, horny sixteen-year-old boys coming around all the time, trying to hump me. I've slept with six people in six months, and somehow that makes me a total slut. And in case you're wondering, I only worked with two of them. There is an overwhelming feeling of sadness that comes over me when I realize that my sister stopped thinking that I could do no wrong, and started thinking of me as this druggie slut who can't seem to keep her legs closed.
Yesterday, I tried to cleanse myself of all of the negative feelings I have about myself by laying out on the beach. Then I realized that not only do I hate the beach, but it's just another ploy to make me feel wanted, loved. I lay out in a skimpy bikini, which women who are size twelve probably shouldn't wear, with all of my makeup on, applying my sunscreen oh-so-sensually. Then, I went for a run on the beach to make sure that everyone saw my bouncing breasts (along with my giggling thighs and ass), and swam in the ocean so that I could come out of the water Denise Richards in Wild Things style. I still didn't get any male attention, and needless to say, I still haven't had sex. However, today in the shower, I imagined myself bored, being pounded from behind.
The question here is why did I feel like I needed to be bored instead of extremely turned on? Why did I press my face up against the tile wall of the shower so that my face and back were as uncomfortable as possible? I think that what it all comes down to is this: sex is just a means to an end for me. I feel like I need some kind of human contact and, when it comes to men, only sex will do. I rarely enjoy it anymore and I realized that I hardly ever keep my eyes open for long periods of time so that I can't see the men that I'm with. I don't really want to because they mean nothing to me. They are just a tool to get off, something that I can't even do anymore.
After my swim, I dried off, came inside, and killed time until the sun went down. It was then that I decided to help my brothers build a bonfire on the beach, and invite the surfer-looking boys over to join us. Two of them did, the blonde being the far more attractive of the two. The ugly one left about an hour after we all sat down, and the blonde stayed. I don't remember his name, but I remember feeling quite annoyed when he didn't try to sleep with me. This is something that happens to me a lot.
I don't care if they're attached or whatever, if they are slightly attractive (if I'm feeling extra-slutty, then they just can't be deformed, and it's my only qualification) and they do not try to sleep with me, or don't give me any attention whatsoever then I get extremely agitated, and irritated. I immediately feel a great sense of defeat and I drown myself in self-loathing. I feel like if someone doesn't see me, and try to get in my pants then I must be hideous, and not worth anyone's love. It's a terribly irrational thought, but I think it nonetheless.


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