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Sunday, Aug. 25, 2002 / 4:49 p.m. ~Darkness, Darkness, Be My Pillow~ I think I went to bed at 5:00 this morning. I sat here, right here, almost the entire day yesterday. And when I walked away I was lost. This is where everything is, everything that takes me away from me. This is some giant land of possibility. The rest is tedium, drudgery. I read some of my diary from a year ago, and it was boring. It was childish, it was poorly written. I tend to want to delete all my old entries, to start at the beginning and delete until I get to here, to now. Why do I let them sit, taking up bandwidth? Why should Andrew have to get a new server when there is so much garbage taking up space here? Not just mine. I also went through the Activist diary ring, starting at the beginning, looking at all those diaries, most are dead, abandoned, or password protected, and I deleted, deleted, over and over again. So much garbage. It felt good to whittle, to shave, to reduce. But now? I slept long and light. I woke over and over again. I dreamed. I set my alarm, I woke every half hour starting at 12:30, but I slept past that, I couldn't get up. I rationalized, I calculated, I figured how much I needed, what I had to do once up. My life is so exciting. I won't write here what I was feeling late last night. In those 'darkest hours just before the dawn'. I won't let you know. It's not your business, and I don't know who reads this anymore. I look at stats and I don't know any of you. All a bunch of strangers dropping in on my life, reading a bit, judging, clicking away instead of walking. Like having someone drop by my home, look around with noses held high, leaving without a word. Makes me feel dirty in a way. I dreamed I wanted to masturbate in my bed before my mother joined me. She slept with me, I suppose, and she was out, and I was wondering where she was, it was late, but I wanted to go ahead and have an orgasm before she came back and got on her side of the bed to sleep. Not exactly a pleasant dream. Especially seeing as how my mother has been dead for almost 24 years... I listened to Moby's "Rare: The Collected B Sides" as I washed my dishes, the entire album was how long it took. I scrubbed my coffee mugs with Comet, and worried the whole time that it was the wrong thing to do, that I'll somehow ingest the dreaded cleanser even though I washed throroughly with dish detergent after. Stains. Everything old and stained and dirty and ruined, and the sink clogged still, everything coming back up, and I shone a flashlight down the drain to see what's there.... I saw a leaf. From flowers I got for my birthday, from Veronica at work, white roses, and I washed the water from the vase down the drain, months ago, but there was a leaf, I could see it. And more I don't want to think about. Yes, I need to call for maintenance, yes, I need strangers to come in my home and fiddle about whilst I am at my cubicle at work. I may need new plumbing things. Things. A new garbage disposal, and more. I need burly men who stink of sweat and have dirt on their shoes to traipse in here and do what they need to do, and I will call for this, make the call soon. Everything feels rather dark and dismal. If I can write about washing dishes like it's the same as sleeping under a bridge on a piece of cardboard, flipping rats away from my face, there is clearly some synapse misfiring here. And I've been thinking, yes, Jon, you were right, I knew you were right. I am the most unhappy person you'll ever meet. You knew this, and you finally admitted you kissed me to make me feel better, but you knew I couldn't make you happy, so you ended it before it could begin. I have a time limit. I must shower, I must be presentable, I must go out in the less than 90 degree heat, but hotter in my car heat, and meet Branford for the "Spiderman" film at the FOX. And I'll be fine by then. No one will be able to see exactly how I'm feeling, no one will know there's a dark cloud obscuring everything right now, and that's as I would have it. I need to get ready to go soon. Maybe it will even be fun. Is this possible? Cost of the War in Iraq
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