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Saturday, Nov. 22, 2003 / 7:17 p.m. ~Hating People and Wanting To Be Quiet~ I hate evasiveness. I hate when people don't answer the question asked. I really do, but you just can't push it. Some people are just like that. Dicks. I wish I could actually walk into my 'walk in' closet. I get the urge to tackle it, as the project it is, at all the wrong times. The wrong moments. On my way out, on my way to work, on my way to bed. My desire for perfection keeps me from doing most things. If I can't do it as it should be done I will not do it at all, whatever 'it' is, unless I'm in the mood to do 'it' half assed, and then I'm embarassed or ashamed. But I stand tall. Norma got a refresher pair of hot jeans. She's in the 'hot jeans exchange program'. Cats love hot jeans fresh from the dryer. Denim rules. Textures rule. I'm so tempted to ask again, "Yes, but what cut of pork did you not like?" And to analzye the disgust at its odor upon cooking. Most 'disgust' stems from some childhood or traumatic experience. Or parental influence, or peer influence. Hence, one's dislike or more extreme 'disgust' at something, like Kukla's utter hatred of all animals, comes from some horrible, and barely remembered childhood experience. A lot of children approach animals quite fearlessly when young, if not warned by a watchful parental unit, and they might be snapped at by said animal, or snarled at, or even bitten, and if the parental unit, who had previously been looking away, or in another room, or inside when child was outside, suddenly sees, and screams, or yells, or warns, or slaps, or smacks, or hits or socks, said child, or kills offensive animal, or anything at all similar, said child might be scarred for life. If person in question was awaiting delicious pork chop dinner when parents ended up in horrible argument, maybe father beat mother, or mother stormed out, or pork chops caught on fire in pan while child was left alone in kitchen, anything at all might have triggered memory of 'disgust' at the very armoma of pork cooking. It's not an unpleasant odor, like that of ammonia, or sulphur, or feces, or decay or rot. The smell of meat cooking, to most people on the planet, and the animals thereon as well, is quite enticing in fact. It seems to be an acquired disgust, not a natural reaction at all. I'm very curious, but the person in question is very evasive, in general, as a rule, as an adapted persona, perhaps online, perhaps in general, and you know I want to push it, to delve into it, but I think I just did that, all on my own. There's a reason for it. Just like there's a reason I'll eat almost anything that can be eaten. I was raised that way. I learned at a very early age that food was good, all food, and there were no barriers, there was no one telling me to watch out or be careful, no adult making squeamish faces at the appearance of sardines or snails or liver or anything that people eat. Now, in contrast, place me in a foreign context, send me to Africa, or Asia, and we'll talk. Sit me down to eat some eels or monkey brains, or god knows what, and it will be a different story, but pork? Come on. I have a headache, I'm losing blood, I've done two loads of laundry, I'm briefly online, I don't want this to be my evening. I didn't get out to shop or do anything away from here, but I did sit on the porch and read a few pages in a very old issue of Entertainment Weekly. I want to lie down. I want to watch movies, and there are several very good ones on television tonight. I might choose "Waydowntown" or "Spartacus", just because they're good and I know they're good, but it would be nice to see something I've never seen. I don't want to relate to anyone. When I think of the Bachelor dude or any of his women trying to meet him, I think how much I don't want to be 'with' anyone. I really don't think I do, maybe not ever again. Q remarked AGAIN yesterday that I should be able to do this or that because I have no one, and I therefore have an easy peasy life, no obligations, and I blew up! I exploded onto the ceiling. I gave her absolute hell. This is the second time, and she said she was sorry and wouldn't do it again and I said that's what you said last time, and I realize I try to like everyone, I give everyone so many chances, I hate people, I despise people, but I can't remember to keep it up, I let you get away with murder, and in some cases that's literal, now isn't it?, but why? Why do I have to look beyond the injustices of the past, live in the moment, when I need to remember what assholes people are? Q would just as soon shit all over me, like she does everyone else, as be nice to me. She is nothing but an act, but I am so close to her every day at work I get past it, I let it go. And why? I can't wait 'til she's gone for good. One more month of her. Don't ever push my buttons after I've told you they're there. Don't ever insult me or my lifestyle, or dare to insinuate that I have nothing to live for so I have all the time in the world. Don't tell me that combing your fucking 'grandbaby's' hair is what keeps you from having time to do any number of other things. When your son lives with you too? And the 'grandbaby' has a mother who lives not far away? Your decision to raise a five year old as your own child, when both parents are close by, is your own, and bizarre at that. Don't use your children as excuses, people. And then tell someone who has no children that she has no idea. Fuck people with children (oops, sorry, Whatawoman!, not you, okay?) for treating those of us with children as if we don't also have obligations and duties and chores, and a lack of time for what we may really want. I'm not going anywhere with this. She just really pissed me off, but clearly she slipped into it, and it wasn't an intentional button push. But still, it just popped in my head. I don't want to be here writing. I don't want to write, it's just talking with my fingers, and I want to be quiet. Cost of the War in Iraq
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