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2001-06-29 / 9:20 p.m. ~I don't care if you read this~
Blood coursing too fast through my veins today. I could feel it, could see the cutaway closeup, the "CSI"-style zoom shot, the blood in the veins, speeded up, fast motion, too fast, too much energy. Still feeling that weird meningitis/cancer/AIDS/cold virus thing trying to take over. Karen asks if it's cold, pulls her sweater across her shoulders, and I say, "No! Whew, it's hot! Of course I just got out of a hot bath a little while ago, and you've been here for an hour, right? You should go take a hot bath, Karen, that's what you should do.", and she says, "Then I'd have to go home, and that would be good, but I can't.", and yes, I see the practicality of that. I realize I've been hot, for days, elevated body temp, as I like to say. Not a fever, elevated body temp. It's a reaction, it's my body's defenses, defending, heating the blood, boiling out the invading species, whatever it may be. It's not pretty, it doesn't feel so good, but it means I don't have AIDS. AIDS involves a lack of defenses. I'm okay, but I feel funny. Too much energy. Lisa is back from her vacation, and thank God for that, and we're talking, and I'm showing her my pictures from when I was a baby, from when we lived someplace else, the exotic locale from which Lisa has just returned. Hey, Lees, here they are, look! And we're talking movies, and later we're talking Julia Roberts and Benjamin Bratt breaking up (Benjamin, I'd be happy to console you, baby!!!), and we're composing a letter to the editor of the local free rag, on account of the editorial wherein the asshole/provincial jerk says we shouldn't care what the Europeans think of Bush and the USA because they eat snails and the women don't shave their armipits over there, and we've got this great letter planned, and I'm gonna edit it tomorrow and email it, and it's gonna be great, then I'm copying almost my whole Aries Astroanalysis book for T. because she's an Aries too and I'm not sitting at my desk, like all day, I can't sit still, I'm up, I'm down, I'm talking, I'm running over here, over there, Casual Day, in my Converse plaid flannel hightops, with the purple laces, I'm sprinting the fuck around the suite, I literally have too much energy, the blood moves too fast. And I'm thinking maybe it was the coffee, maybe it's the flavored oil soaking the beans, maybe they use espresso beans, then coat them with the flavored oil, maybe I shouldn't buy this coffee anymore, or maybe it's the croissants and bananas, that maybe all this eating, after all that shopping, is not what I need, maybe I should go back to not eating all day until lunch and see if that helps. I need to be logy. I need to be enervated. Why do I keep jumping up? Why is there so much to say? Why did Lisa ever go away? And I'm so glad she's back. No, I won't edit, and if it's twenty pages long (where are the page numbers????) I don't care. If you read the first paragraph and say, "I don't give a fuck if Joleen has blood moving faster through her veins, there is no fucking way I'm going to read all the way to the bottom of this shit.", guess what? I don't care. Go away. It's my diary. Really, cater to anyone you want, any of you, anyone with a "public" diary, anyone who writes a public diary wants people to read it, plain and simple, but at the same time, the selfish and insecurely narcissistic amongst us really don't care. We don't. I tried to watch a documentary on life in maximum security prisons, but I couldn't sit through it. I found myself sympathizing too much with the prisoners. It seemed biased, designed to make me do just that, sympathize. Forget it. Something is wrong with me. I am going to lie down and watch "Papillon". And I will fall asleep and wake up later, in the middle of the night, to something strange in its place, there, on the TV, and I will look at the clock and try to remember the last thing I can remember. I will say this about this, you know all this writing???, all it's making me want to do is write even more. Like I can't stop, like I say to myself, I don't have anything to say (clearly, if you've read this far, you'll agree), but I can't stop, it's like this internal dialogue, not even a monologue, because I can answer, I can ask, and I can answer, it's an ongoing thing, it never shuts off, and Dave Eggers wrote about it in his book too (see, I told you, we are SO much alike, Dave and me - if he only looked like Ben Bratt.......oh man, Benjamin is available now, isn't that too great?! Like I have a chance!), it's so hard to stop sometimes.........maybe if there were someone real to talk to, a Lisa for everyday purposes, a Lisa to talk to every day, when there's something to say. Maybe I do miss Crystal. (she is mentioned in my second or third entry - g'head, check it out!) Cost of the War in Iraq
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