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Friday, Feb. 28, 2003 / 6:47 p.m. ~Hopeful~ If all goes well, or as planned, or as I hope it will, my computer will be fixed on Sunday. Brandy says her friend, the IBM computer tech help desk guy, can do it. She says he says he can fix it. I am going to trust him, assuming he comes over and I see him typing DOS commands soon after. If he picks up the keyboard and starts typing away in DOS, I'll not only be impressed, but I will trust him further. And if he fixes it???? I don't know what I'll do. Maybe I'll give him my broken TV. It's not really broken, it just makes that high pitch whine, but maybe he can fix that too, and if so he can have it. This is all contingent on things going well, or as planned, or as I hope they will. This is also terrific incentive, the incentive I've needed to clean this place. I get used to the dust, the piles of dirty dishes, I take pride in my ability to creatively stack. But having someone over, someone who's never been here before, someone who has the potential to come in and be totally amazed by the shit in this apartment, which most people are when they come in (I'll never forget Brent saying, "You have a lot of stuff" - or did he say, "You have a LOT, of everything"??? Obviously, though I'll never forget the gist, I've forgotten the wording). I live like a hermit. A hermit with two cats. I gave up on a social life a long time ago. I've become misanthropic, worn, tired of living, convinced I'm old and washed up, that everything has happened already and this is the fast track to the slow path to the end. Seriously. Can we reduce it to rejection in love? Perhaps. But that's too easy. And that was a long time ago. I'm just tired of trying, so I've come to rely on no one but myself. I've come to enjoy myself, even to enjoy my slovenly ways, to relish them, to roll around in my slovenly ways, getting sloven all over me! And then sometimes, just for me, really, except maybe for the cats too, I clean the whole place, and then I just walk from room to room and look at it all. But I'm sick of going out, I'm sick of assholes and poseurs and pretentious dicks, fuckers, fuckwads, stupidheads, people in general, in traffic, in stores, in clubs, sick, sick, sick. Or I see someone appealing and I'm not appealing back and then I'm all petulant and depressed about it. Misanthropy and the life of seclusion, save for television, computer, stereo and books, has been my saving grace the past two or so years. And it hasn't even been that long. And it's not constant. Ask Mark. I go out, I've gone out with him. I've had to insist it's as friends, and when he wants to cross the line, I retreat. And I've gone out with Sandy, and Sandy could've made a move right away but didn't, and that means it's basically too late really. But maybe not. What is my point??? No one but maintenance men and I have been here, in months. So yeah, the fact that Brandy and her computer geek friend might be here in this very room in front of this very monitor on Sunday is kind of blowing me away right now. But, the other point is, YAY!, this is the incentive I've needed to do the little cleanup projects around here that I've been wanting/meaning to do. So yay! Already I'm planning, in my head of course, the plan, the bare minimum, but just the right things and perfect things and necessary things to do before they come over. And I tell myself that if it doesn't happen, if she forgets, or if she's hungover from Saturday night, which she said she might be, and they don't come over, that YAY!, I've done it, I've cleaned up and put the newspapers in the car for recycling and the catalogs too, and I've vacuumed and I've washed dishes and I've dusted the living room, dining room, and some of the books in here, the library/computer room. It will be for me, either way. If I do it to please them, or so they won't see the dust that is here now, that's for me, to make me look good, like I can take care of my surroundings. And if I do it and they never even show up, it was for me too, because how great will it be to have this place looking as good as it can? And, and, and, once it's clean, maybe I can invite Sandy here, cook him dinner or something. I kind of feel like I owe it to him. He's taken me to dinner, a couple of movies, and he gave me two copies of that book, and he paid for half of my antiwar t-shirt I bought, and he's just been really nice and generous. So yeah. And if I clean, and they come over, Brandy and her friend, and the friend actually fixes my computer, and I pour them some grape juice or wine or something, or water, and I give him my TV, or just a big hug, or who knows, then my computer will be fixed and I can download more MP3s, and I can listen to my Netscape Radio again, and maybe I can download a newer version of Netscape, so I can be like Darryl, because I do want to be just like him, sort of, and then I can click on all the links in his diary because I'll be able to, because I'll have the RAM, baby. Gotta love RAM. And then, then, then, maybe I can buy Brent's other computer, assuming he still has it to sell to me, and then I can transfer everything from the other new computer to the new new computer. I sound manic. I'm not bipolar, I swear. It's cyclical. It's just Friday and I don't have to go to work for two whole days and three nights and that's more exciting than I can say. Doesn't take much to get me excited. Speaking of which, re: the piercing subject from the previous entry, the clitoris itself would not be pierced. A small ring would be inserted through the clitoral 'hood', the little 'tent' that encloses it. And it would be small, and I've seen clitoral rings in photographs (Re/Search #12: Modern Primitives has some good photos - it's a great book anyway, check it out) and I think it looks really cool. Would it deaden the nerves? I don't think so. I'd go to a really reputable piercer, of course, someone who knows his/her shit, no doubt. I'd research first too. And I'm not sure I'll do it, it's just something I've been considering. I used to consider nipple piercings, but I sort of changed my mind somewhere along the way. And another thing about the previous entry, I shouldn't judge Brandy, and I don't think I am, but I think I came close. Yes, she is extremely self conscious when it comes to her physical being, but that's her preference to not have body hair, not an indication that she has not accepted herself as she is. She is bothered by her body hair, even on her arms, and that seems to me like she is not accepting of the fact that women have hair on their bodies just like men do, but on the other hand, like fetishes for hairy body parts, she could just have a fetish for hairless body parts. After I wrote it I thought that it's not about acceptance for some people, but it may just be about preference. I'm not sure, I'm still not sure it's not some aspect of self loathing, but I don't mean to judge her too harshly. I've found my way in life, I know my body, but she's young, and hair removal is really popular these days. Waxing, shaving, lasers, etc. I'm eating leftover Ma Po Tofu, and it's really not the best, but it's filling. I've decided this dish is my new 'bellwether' Chinese restaurant item. If a restaurant can cook this as it's supposed to be cooked, it's a good restaurant, but this doesn't quite pass muster. I have recipes for it, and one day, really, I think I'll give in and see if I can do better. Problem is I always say that as I'm eating it from whichever restaurant cooked it for me, but then I forget about it later because I've just had it. Then I get the craving and order it instead of just trying to cook it myself. One more point and I'm think I'm through, for now. I've got my college yearbook photo, actually two shots from the same sitting, and you may ask, "Which college? Didn't you attend a few?", and I might say, "No, only three, and one was an Art School, so leave me alone", and then you might say, "What did you major in?", or "What is your degree in?", and I would say, "You really shouldn't end your sentences like that", and you'd say, "Just answer the question", and then I'd say, "I never graduated, but I'm highly educated, and my photo is in a college yearbook somewhere, but I don't have it, just the photo", which would bring me 'round again to my point. I want to scan the photo, both of the photos. It's sort of a 'turn your head and cough' kind of photo montage, though yes, I'm a woman. One looking dead on, one looking slightly askance, or askew, or aside. I think I look really different. And I remember the day, I remember the shirt I wore under my sweater, it was my brother's from when he was like 10 years old. I'd taken it at some point, probably after he grew out of it, and here I was, 20 years old, wearing it under my crewneck wool sweater. I rode a ten speed to school every day. I lived with my boyfriend in an apartment in a HUGE old house downtown, in College Town. That was an interesting time, assuredly. I have stories. But, so, yeah, I look at these two pictures and I remember what I used to do with my hair, I washed it and when it was wet I tied it back in a ponytail, put coated rubberbands (i.e. hair ties) all the way down the ponytail, at intervals. Years later I still see biker dudes wearing their hair the same way, and I'd swear that I did it first. When my hair dried I removed the hair ties, usually after I slept on it like that, and it was fairly flat, but with waves in it. I did it to keep it out of my way, and to keep it from being too big, as it's always been thick. So, in the photos I see the shirt peeking out from my sweater, I see my hair looking like I'd washed it and tied it back the night before, but it's messy like I'd ridden to the shoot on my bike. I look sort of flushed, sort of tan, or maybe it's the light. And I can vaguely remember that day, the shoot itself, turning my head for the second shot. I took the photos to work today, hoping to use the scanner, but I forgot to try to get on the attached PC, the same PC we use to access the Interweb. So, I showed them to Brandy - she said, "You look the same as you do now, basically", and 'the new boy' - he held them in his hand for a while and said, "You look EXACTLY the same", and then I showed them to Quincey, because she always has to know what's going on, always wants to see, whatever it is, and she said the same thing. The new 'new girl' looked too, and as I said, "No, I'm wearing glasses right now, I don't look exactly the same", she said, "Take the compliments", so I did. I will scan them, maybe next week, and maybe I'll post one here. That's the plan anyway. You (whoever YOU are/is) can judge for yourself. I see every detail in me now, in my face, and even 'the new boy' said I have a few more gray hairs, but they're white, and they're scattered, but overall maybe I don't look old and washed up, and maybe there is no reason for me to feel like my life is over. And I'm inspired when I learn that Julianne Moore, at 42, is now engaged to the father of her children, and he is 32. Inspired. I'm constantly learning that really famous and popular people are my age. And it makes me feel like I'm a part of a big club and it's not so bad to be a member after all. Besides, Moby is pushing 40 now, and he's the one I want anyway. Hopefully, when I post that photo it will be from my fixed PC. Let's hope. ****P.S.***** Go read Moby's Journal now, it's really good, and especially read the entry from 2/26, entitled "Cleaner". I think I want him to come clean my apartment. And I think he'd enjoy it as much as I would. Cost of the War in Iraq
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