10:50 p.m.||||2001-12-04
I am, according to Mara's insultaramator, a "Heckafresh eunuch", and a "depressed bitch", as well as a "skinny head" and a "Heckafresh lemur". Hmmm.
And on the side of sometimes, via Bellis, 'sometimes' I whistle when I work. Often, I sing aloud while I'm doing dishes. Sometimes I can't understand what I'm doing here. Sometimes I look at my son and can't believe I crossed over - I never ever thought I would raise a child...I still can't believe it at times.
Sometimes I look at my ass and I think of all the times I've been told it is great, fine, foxy, etc, and I think of the child that passed through these loins and I look at my ass...and I'm exactly as in between fit and fitter as I've ever been. My ass is all right, I suppose. I realize how for granted I have taken certain things...the ass is one.
Sometimes I think if loneliness doesn't kill me, boredom will.
Sometimes I regret the day I decided to learn more about computers.
Almost everyday I regret having never finished college and becoming some kind of quantifiably genuine success. If you knew me you might understand why certain things are not possible. What's funny is that those who do know me wonder why I set my standards so low.
Sometimes I wish you understood how badly I need new and real friends. And why the amorphous web of writing entities entices yet disgusts me. This is not the place to solve my local issues. As local as the sore on my lip. Is it wrong to barrage someone in an e-mail with parts of myself that I can't even share with those in my 'real' life. Real life, what the fuck is that? I find real life inside of writing...I feel that the mind resides partially in the word.
I wonder if I am a taker. On Oprah, with Phil today, that panel of folks digging toward emotional truth dealt with what apparently Phil set up as polaric reality: you are a). a taker or b). a giver. Depends upon whom you ask, I suppose. First instinct: I am a big motherfucking taker, taker, taker. I been down so goddamned long...kidding - that's a song - but thinking today about what my life was like up til a year ago, yeah, I was down for a while. And there isn't a day without rage, lately. I doubt I'm as big a taker as I assume...I always assume the worst per regards mineself. I have been made to feel a burden, I have passive-aggressively allowed myself to be perceived that way. I'm an only child who redirects conversation toward myself. You might also perceive that as sharing...or you might not. I am a good listener. I am a chatty verbose person. I am also redundant. - Though, "chatty" and "verbose" are not the same thing. A drunk woman in a bar once complimented me on my fine vocabulary. And no, I was not conversing with myself, thanks for asking.
When I talk about my past with Dave, you know, the one which includes the nine and a half years I have on him, he is sometimes threatened by my seeming excess of experience, my need to talk about stuff that can't include him, and the fact that some of it looks appealing to a daring boy, although it was the bane of my existence at the time. Like he can't possibly measure up. I wish he could see how insane that is, because when we became serious, I felt as if I had been delivered from a grave sentence...and when I found out we were having this kid, I felt real joy for the first time regarding my reproductive capabilities. Sometimes, though, I feel so old...that there are sweet 18 year olds keeping journals who might agree with me on that makes me fucking sick. I hate closed doors. I hate not being privvy. I hate that I will die; I am so afraid to die, it has shaped my life.
I see the aging process and I am not so afraid of that in itself as I am the feeling that my soul is somehow corrupt, or too corrupt, to meet the demands of wisdom. Have I squandered some part of an innocence we all lose...managed to smash into dust, along with a few naive early myths that empowered me and kept me immortal when I was young and biting, something of the essential drive for living?
On another note, I realized today that I worry - worry - about journaling people I have never met, have possibly never read my journal, but nonetheless, are part of the schema of things I think and worry about in a given day. Now, I have made a couple friends, and as I learn more, of course I worry/think/ponder/consider them the most - it is maybe the most satisfying thing of my very own to happen in the past year, outside my son, of course. But as you well know, the world of diaryland is large, too huge to ever do justice to the many...and so there are some, who probably think I'm freaky, but who know I read because I'm there in the stats - evil stats! - and they're in my head long after I've left. I wish I could know every one. I wish I wasn't so worried all the time about people liking/understanding me. It's absurd. And it's frustrating.
I have begun to sort of adore him(I had to fix this link later...quite possibly the worst link ever created and the one I wanted most to work) and I think he could use some love. Please go and give forth.
And you already know I'm in love with these two so go there as well. I'm exhausted. Good night.