How Machiavellian of Her October 14, 2003 - 11:55 p.m.

Breakfast with my brother, his wife, and his brother went smoothly. Mindless small talk and a little bit of movie talk thrown in at the end. He did mention wanting to get a dresser that's at our house, as well as a few other things. He hasn't lived there in well over ten years now, what right does he have saying he's going to take some of our furniture? This was something that even came from my grandmother. Not his, mine. I was already annoyed when my grandpa broke down and sold all of her kickass oriental style furniture and wall hangings, so I didn't get anything... now my brother is trying to take this dresser?

Although, in his defense, it has been sitting in the basement. I've got a lot of my books and old art stuff sitting in it, but otherwise it's not really being used. But that's because my lame mom hasn't cleared a spot for it. I'm dying to use it. I need to use it. I have a tiny little dresser as it is right now. But does he know any of this? Does he even think to ask? Of course not. For all he knows, we got rid of it. Okay, so with my mom's nature, that isn't likely... but you never know. Or we could be actually using it. For the purpose of clothes. If I couldn't use it, my mom certainly could. It's just stupid. He has no right to say 'I'm going to pick up that dresser' when it's not even his.

But I didn't say anything. Oh no, not me. I never say anything. And later, he'll get the dresser and I'll fume, and still not say anything. Because that's just the way I am. I may be blunt and honest with people about most things, but I rarely speak up for myself.

I should paint it... all kinds of colours and silly designs, before he has a chance to get it. Then, when he sees it, he'll just stare at it... then say nevermind. I've wanted to paint it for years, maybe now this will be the excuse I can use in doing so. I just have to talk my mom into letting me do it. She keeps going on about how my grandma painted it. But I'm like, 'Mom, it's green. By now, Grandma would have painted it five times over again.' And she would have. She was always repainting or reupholstering the house, walls, furniture. Anything. I am very much like her that way; she liked shaking things up visually. Always the same atmosphere, is boring. I just do it subtly, because I've never been given the encouragement to expand. I usually just think about what I could do to something, or rearrange furniture. From the time I was ten years old, I would randomly rearrange rooms in our house, all by myself. And we had some heavy ass furniture too. Not even by a ten year old's standards, but by the standards of burly men hired to move furniture.

Maybe if I were given that freedom, that outlet, while I was younger, I wouldn't feel so shitty and lost now.

Eh. I'm just babbling.

Before he left for Maryland, he gave us a duffle bag full of hair care stuff. I got two monster sized bottles of both shampoo and conditioner from the Redken So Long line. I wouldn't have minded some All Soft too, but I understand that it's newer and harder for him to get. I'm more than grateful for what he has given us. Not only this time, but over the years. Now that he's moved, he's changing jobs so we may no longer get the nice hair stuff. Especially if he goes a whole new direction, career-wise. Considering the near tubs of the So Long that he just gave me, and the backstock of random things he's sent before... I don't think we'll have to worry about shampoo for awhile.

Otherwise, I spent the past few days reading a book. Sleeping. Having weird thoughts. Watching some tv. Not really exciting stuff.

I had another dream this weekend where someone was at my house, looking into my window. Right at me. They saw me and made it well known.

Standard fare for nightmare world in my mind. Reoccurring and everything. In regards to theme, not actual people or places or anything.

Although, this dream wasn't as terrifying as others. Probably because the 'someone' at the window was Martha Stewart of all people.

Despite knowing who it was, I continued to hide. Which was odd, because she would look me right in the eye and critique me on my hiding skills. Saying things about light giving me away. But I still didn't move. I wouldn't even turn my head, because I was afraid the glare on my glasses would be too noticeable. But I don't see how that logic worked at all, seeing as she had already spotted me.

What I've learned from this dream is:

If Martha Stewart ever comes to your house and knocks on your door and window, claiming to be your grandmother after you don't answer, don't believe her.

I think it's pretty likely that she's lying.

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