|
Thursday, Apr. 29, 2004 / 5:41 p.m. ~Some Catching Up Is In Order~ 'Sticks and stones', and all that, yada and yada too, I know, I know, but when I think of writing in this diary I think of this: don't you get bored writing the same things over and over? i hate my job, i ate some food that gave me a belly, i hate people, i'm gonna quit my job, i'm going to stop writing. dang. shake it up woman. get a new hobby or take a vacation. theres a world out there.your rotting and you don't even know it. Once upon a time, in this very land of diaries, I left a not-so-nice comment, not as grammatically incorrect or nasty as that one (no, that one was left for me, as we'll all recall), in someone's guestbook, and it really affected her, and she stopped writing, at least as of the last time I checked. I felt horrible about it. I won't go into the circumstances, but I believed in what I wrote, I felt she had done something very wrong, and I felt I was merely 'calling her on it', pointing it out, illustrating an injustice. She was sensitive, and she was hurt, and she felt violated in her own diary, and, again, as far as I know, she never came back. I don't mean to be the same way, but the truth is, and I've alluded to this before, I write at LiveJournal as well, and over there I have a controlled 'audience'. I have a 'friends only' journal, one that is only visible to those I've chosen as 'friends', like the Diaryland 'buddy list'. It's a rather ingenious system, and one I wish our esteemed Andrew employed here (what's up with Diaryland lately anyway?, it's like no one is running this place, there haven't been new features or upgrades in months, and I pay for TWO diaries here, it's stupid). So it is, when I want to write, I think of the strangers there, the few who interact with me, and how pleasant it is, and how we do interact, and how here it's like a wasteland of anonymity and lurkers, and the occasional vocal lurker, like the one who wrote the above. And since she logged in from BellSouth.net to write that, I think I must know her, it must be Caroline, or jadedjones, or amolasses, or whomever, from here, or from LJ, and the not knowing for sure, but knowing it's someone who's read this, who feels she knows me and is sick of me and who I am, well, obviously, I'm still bothered. Some things just stick. The thing with 'the boy'/'the asshole' is still stuck too. I think about it/him a lot, and what happened, and how he made me feel, and what's happened to me since, the different phases I've gone through, and how I've cut myself off from all contact with him now, as he did to me too, no longer read his journal either, but this doesn't mean I don't stop and remind myself that in two days it will be one month since he killed me with his words. I died. There was a scene in some movie I saw recently, it was the movie about the man and woman who met to have sex, only sex, they didn't even talk, I think it was called "Intimacy", a scene in which the woman is sitting with a friend, or associate, another woman who tells her she has died, more than once I believe, and asks her if she's ever died as well. I could relate then, although I had to stop and think on it. Moving right along... I wanted to write yesterday, had it all planned out, but I didn't log on at home, not at all, second night this week. I've replaced the familiarity of sitting here at this PC with sitting on the sofa with the remote control, and the television on not far in front of me. It's easier, it's more relaxed, I can get up and move about the cabin, er, apartment, I can go to the bathroom on commercials, or sit and watch them, and marvel at what passes for acceptable advertising on television these days, even marvel at what admen, and adwomen come up with. I picture them, all Darren Stevens/Larry Tate-y, in their boardrooms, with charts and such, pitching, and some bigwig with the cheese nodding or frowning accordingly. Maybe saying, after a pregnant pause... "I... LOVE IT!", and them all turning to eye one another, shocked that he loved that one and not the other one. What I'd wanted to write was this: Yesterday at work a coworker asked me how I was, and she waited for the answer (highly unusual). I said, "Tired, I'm just so tired", as I was just heading into the heavy bleeding portion of the menstrual cycle portion of the program, and she said, "Too much partying last night?", and I said, "No, I just feel like I just left here [work], I feel like I'm always here, like I never leave, and I'm just so tired" - notice the proper and appropriate use of brackets inside a quote. I just learned this in one of my computer learning classes last week. Brackets are used to emphasize or clarify information inside a direct quote, and we're assuming those are direct quotes I've just written. So, the conversation went on, proceeded, if you will, and I mentioned it was probably just hormones, which sent up the proverbial red flag to indicate I am indeed menstruating, and she, being 53 years old, ten years my senior, by the by, said, "Wait 'til you go through the change", and I said, "Oh no, is it worse, can it be any worse, what is it like, really, exactly, how bad is it?", and she stressed that hot flashes are horrible, and mood swings are just beginning for her, and I know all about the swings, I am a pendululm personified, thank you. And then we somehow got into the subject of men and how they have it so easy. And I said, "They've got surgery for the prostate thing, and Viagra, and other drugs now for the erectile dysfunction, what else is there? Nothing, they've got nothing, they don't even have to have babies, it's not fair, I'd be a man any day", and this was the end of it. But it was food for thought, you see. Now it's mood swings, later it will be more mood swings, and now it's cramping, the expanding and contracting of the damned useless uterus, the good for nothing uterus which merely takes up space inside me, and the hormones that invade with every egg released, the ones that make me want to hump nearly every man I see, and send me into the beds of all the wrong men, okay, so only one, but still, no, wait, that was alcohol that did that. Never mind. Still, I've just been so damned tired. I feel like I'm always tired. And I am not writing about my 'belly' right now, thank you very much, all you guestbook slanderers. Why not tell me how you're sick of reading about my periods? Go ahead. Tell me I'm rotting because I menstruate. Tell me menstruation is rotten. Ack, it is. But, I'm feeling better. Yesterday I diligently plodded along with my work, at work, and though I had no energy save for preparing some couscous with tofu and sausage (so weird, I know, but it was good - Artichoke/Kalamata Olive Chicken Sausages, not just any sausages) and lying on the sofa to watch much news and two eps of "The Simpsons", and then a "Seinfeld" or two, and then "The Bachelor", and I sat and watched that "Extreme Makeover", mostly because I didn't have the energy to pick up the remote and change the channel. Ever have one of those days? Wherein you are too tired even to change the channel? And that show is extreme. I mean, it's like some sci-fi novel's idea of future entertainment, some 21st century television show wherein super ugly people get radical plastic surgery on their ugliness to turn them into pretty people with jacked up self-esteem. All paid for by the network. So people around the country, in this sci-fi novel, start getting more and more plastic surgery too, only not to be performed by the super expert surgeons they use for the show, but hacks, and they have all sorts of mad crazy results and some die and stuff. Yes, this is reality, it's no novel. A few more points, yes, I took notes during my life, and then I'll be through here, for now (this is what happens when I take a break, so much time to make up, for). I talked to my downstairs neighbor today, the one who is moving in tiny increments, though now it seems she is doing final cleaning, and why should the final cleaning take so very long?, was she so very messy? But yes, I did, and I told her she'd been a great neighbor all these years, and I truly hope someone quiet moves in next, like her, quiet like her, like she, I mean, and we walked to our cars and she looked at my feet, as people do, and I am going to stereotype here, so watch out, okay? Here it comes, you ready??????? Be prepared. Be ready. Like African American women do. They look at my shoes. Do all women do this? Because I don't know very many white women, I just don't. But this is SO common at work it's just boring now. "Girl! Look at your feet, they are SO SMALL!!! What size shoe do you wear??!?!?!??!?" All the fucking time. She did it too. "Your feet are so small! What size shoe do you wear?" Granted, Mark did it too, and he is decidely NOT an African American woman. Decidedly. He used to say I have cute baby feet, or some such. And I would get so mad. 6 1/2. That's not that small. I am short. My feet are proportionate. I made a note to mention the torture of the Iraqi prisoners, and it includes, parenthetically of course, that I wanted like mad to put a 'u' after that 'q'. War is hell, people, war is hell. Don't forget that we are in a war. We invaded a country, the people there are not happy. The people all over the world are not happy. We fucked up. Bad. It's bad. Our soldiers are doing bad things to their soldiers. Their soldiers aren't even soldiers, they're insurgents. Now who ever used that word before this year, I ask you? We are learning so much, but are we? Note to self, Dan Rather is on in fifteen, must tune in to check presidential approval rating, which seems to be a nightly feature. Wheeeeee... And think about this, if we could choose a town/city to invade, what prettier sounding one than Fallujah, right? The night of Bush's news conference, a talking head on one of those cable news stations pronounced it "Fah - lu - JAH". The guy I was with (oooh, bad memory there, shake it off, *shiver*) and I laughed and laughed, and then I asked, "Is it supposed to be pronounced like that?". Oops, puncutation is supposed to go inside quotation marks, I learned. But I wanted the question mark there, and it would look funny outside, yeah? One more point, and yes I have to write this shit down or I will forget. I am really forgetful. This is the point. I wrote it down. So I'd remember. I've been joking for months, maybe a year, who would know?, that I have early Alzheimer's, and this is a joke, a bad one, but I laugh, and people laugh, but I think it's true. I did stop putting my earrings in my ring box, that ended, that vicious cycle, but now it's every little thing. Forgetting to clock in at work after lunch. Reminding myself to do something, turning in a different direction, literally, like turning around, and immediately forgetting. My short term memory is for shit. Was it all the marijuana I smoked in my formative years? The drug use? Have I lost too many brain cells? How is it I do my job? And excel at it? Is this shortcoming in my imagination only? Am I really ageing, and rapidly at that? Yes, I think ageing can be spelled aging, or ageing. And does one thank someone for sending a thank you card? I am hot, and I want to go watch news. And, while I'm at it, whooo boy this is long!, dammit, I forgot. See??? Wait, just a sec... No, fuck me, I forgot. It was right there, I had it, I was going to write one more thing, yet one more, and I forgot. I'm losing my mind. 'The boy' rightfully shat upon me and told me I am a dried up old hag, because I am. Which reminds me, try some Craisins, they're Ocean Spray flavored dried cranberries, and they are FABULOUS! The orange flavored are particularly good, though that's the only flavor I've tried. No, I still haven't remembered the final point I wanted to make. Maybe I can just add this, if you have a LiveJournal and you want to read what I write there, which is no great joy, trust me, let me know and we can 'friend' each other. I did write all about taking Brent to dinner last Friday night, and our wonderful meal and walk afterwards, even considered copying and pasting it here, but then this entry would be like two miles long, so forget it. (oh, and the nice guestbook entries, and the notes, are always appreciated, it's just that I can't shake the negative crap, you know how that is) Cost of the War in Iraq
(JavaScript Error)
Recent Entries: It Was 40 Years Ago Today - 9:44 a.m. , Friday, Oct. 12, 2012 Dead Black Cat - 9:07 a.m. , Wednesday, Jan. 25, 2012 As Seen From Outer Space - 1:07 a.m. , Saturday, Dec. 05, 2009 I Survived to Tell the Tale - 7:29 a.m. , Friday, Sept. 18, 2009 Reading My Life - 12:55 p.m. , Saturday, Sept. 12, 2009 
  |