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Thursday, Oct. 16, 2003 / 1:28 p.m. ~Money For Perks, and Happily Isolated~ 9:12 a.m., cubicle time. Lots of sun coming in through the glass emergency exit doors, women making a big commotion over rotating files in our file cabinets, Kukla being very bossy, Penelope doing whatever she says, H., the Supervisor, er, supervising, Q nearby because it was supposed to be her project. I would like to insert a giant WHATEVER right about here, to everything in fact. Do what you have to do. I'm happy to write all over the place. I keep a record of daily events, very factual, little emotion, in my engagement calendar, the kind with about an inch or less to write per day. What I ate, what the weather was like, major events at work, or at home, what I watched on TV, what happened online, anything noteworthy, and sometimes I cross the lines, go out of my one inch or less border, take up two days, have to squeeze in the rest at the top or the bottom. This I call my 'journal', and I've been keeping it (a continuation in a calendar for each year) for years and years, possibly 20 years or more. Used to be on wall calendars, Kliban cats mostly, and I have them all saved in a box. The notebook is something I chose at Wal Mart, after looking at all the notebooks they had in stock. It's tall and spiral and blue and has one of my 'Bush Lies, Who Dies?�' stickers on it now. Written therein is pure emotion, angst, anger, lust, boredom, very private, just for me. This diary at Diaryland is a mixture, and I consider deleting the old entries, as there are well over a thousand now, and it's extremely rare that anyone other than I heads back and reads them. I'm often embarrassed that I've posted it all here, but mostly I don't care much. People who read it now are all strangers, and my interactions with them have been bittersweet. Basically, they've been awkward and uncomfortable, never meeting in person, only exchanging the odd email letter, sometimes in a fervor, sometimes not terribly often, sometimes intimate, mostly not at all, and nothing's come of any of it, nothing lasting. It's ultimately very unpleasant at best. Latest is no different. People don't 'get' me, and they come up with their own interpretations instead, because of not being able to understand, and the misinterpretation causes its own problems, spawns anger and resentment, and inclusion of, or lack of smiley emoticons can make all the difference, or seem sarcastic as hell. Ultimately? None of it is worth it. I'll just keep writing, I don't think I'm here to meet people, not anymore if ever. That said, I have another, the LiveJournal, and that was pure whim, someplace other than here, where 'here' would be a separate place, and 'there' would be new and totally anonymous. Now it's very private and free, and as it turns out I vacillate between comfort there and comfort here. Here is so public, so open to the misinterpretation, the misunderstandings, the disgruntled email communications, the petty squabbling, and there is just pure 'blog', nothing more. Something fun and experimental, and very free. It's been close to a year there, and last night I finally paid for an LJ membership, six months to try it out, see what the perks are exactly, and I'm kind of excited about that. I've added people there, removed some, and I'm still exploring. It's as huge as Diaryland, if not more so, vast and teeming with words. I'm a journal explorer ready for action. So, right, fun, fun, fun. No obligations, no strings, just writing. Quite navel gaze-y and narcissistic and exhibitionistic and ultimately necessary. The bus people cashed my check, I called the bank and found out. Hah, 'the bus people'. They're not very efficient, but as long as they cashed it I know I'm on the bus, it's definite. This morning was chilly, and I'm a bit concerned it will be chillier in Washington, maybe even cold, but we shall see. I remember last year thinking it would be too rainy or too cold, and then of course I really wanted to see The Stones, and did that instead, and have no regrets, but I heard nothing but how great the march was, how perfect the weather was after all, and how I really, really should have gone, so again, we'll see. 9:40 a.m., cubicle time, listening to Deep Forest on the Walkman, turning fan on and off due to extreme lack of air flow, and now the smell of hot food, breakfast sausage or fried chicken, hard to tell, and I said loudly, "Who's eating now?! Jesus, this is work, not a restaurant!", but no one said a thing. I wish they'd ban food from the cubes, entirely. We're here to work, or in my case read Entertainment Weekly and write. But it is a Call Center back here in this department and I'd prefer some quiet and no food, thank you. I feel happily isolated. Mmmmmm� Cost of the War in Iraq
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