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Wednesday, Dec. 29, 2004 / 8:11 p.m. ~Heavy on the Prattle - No, This Will Make No Sense to You, and That's the Point~ Just a few random thoughts here. I was going to write something else, I had a whole theme in mind, a catchy title too, but now it escapes me, the whole idea. As I write that, I move away from what I was thinking, as I opened this page, just to show how my mind works when I'm beyond exhaustion, and now I'm thinking again of obsessions and compulsive behavior, and how odd it is when OCD people accuse other folks of being obsessive or compulsive, and label them dangerous, when really isn't that a big ass pot calling a kettle black? Some OCD person thinks I'm obsessive and I'm dangerous, all the while reading my diary obsessively, most likely to see what obsessive thoughts I'll document next. Do you like that I label you 'some OCD person'? Trust me, I am so fucking exhausted there is no word for this, it's like fexhausted, or fuxhuasted, or maybe exhucksted, or fucksted. Hard to describe, but add to that no food in two days, save two 'cereal bars', and a sudden influx of some of the best egg salad I've ever eaten, and give me a few minutes, reclining even, and I shall be out. So let's put all obsessions aside, shall we? My obsessions are perfectly healthy, natural, why, normal even. But examining me, analyzing me, in order to provide information to someone else? Now that's just fucked up. Oh no, hope I've not stepped on any toes here. Is this too enigmatic? Do I in fact 'prattle on'? And often? Okay, this is more along the lines of what I meant to write... I went someplace new and unfamiliar, new to me, unfamiliar to me, and it was wide open and clean and dark. And doesn't that sound weird? But it was a parkway I've never driven, at work, after working overtime, after maybe a grand total of 3.5 hours sleep, which seems like a lot to some people, like those who get 1 hour of sleep, or those who do not sleep at all, but to me? I'm really tired, mmmkay? So I drove out this parkway, and it was dark, really not enough civilization, not enough lights, and what is that place, where the hell was I? Just an excursion to a Home Depot I knew was semi-nearby. And it was super clean and bright inside, frighteningly so. I had to squint to see, but maybe that was because I wasn't wearing my glasses, and I had them on all day to enter documents into that damned database, hundreds and hundreds and hundreds, more than ever, really, more than I ever have before. But I did it, found the HVAC tape I need, and I do hope it's the right kind, and dadgummit (is that one word?), I intend to be my own damned handyman, fuck apartment maintenance, they are so incompetent, but yes. And self-checkouts are the greatest invention of this century. I think. Or maybe the last few years? I love doing my own scanning and bagging, and that illustrates that I did in fact enjoy working retail, and I have been a cashier, on several occasions, and I like to cut out the middle man and be my own cashier. Fucking fun. Two stores, in a row, I checked me out. One cash, one debit. I rule at the self-checking. And home, and now I'm feeling really weird, and I know it's that I'm tired, I know this, I do, don't get me wrong, me, stop, with the getting wrong, know what this is, but it feels like everything has toppled over, or perhaps I've fallen through to the other side, and this is the other side, the parallel universe of which I've spoken so often. Is this possible? I crave constants, something soothing amidst uncontrollable chaos, something which remains forever the same, as furniture which never moves, no, don't rearrange furniture. Or "I Love Lucy" on TVLand, or Dan Rather on CBS Evening News (oh, man, that is gonna suck SO bad when he leaves). I need comfort, and when I come home after going to some bizarre 'box store' nirvana on some lonely new parkway in the middle of... where was I? Why was it so dark?... well, and it doesn't feel like home, things feel topsy, and turvy too, and then I think of all I've felt the past two months, and all I went through to right myself, and the slings and arrows that constantly come my way, along with everyone else's (tsunami to ruin your life, anyone?), well, well again, I want a pot pie, or a bag of chips, or a Lucy marathon, or "Star Trek", the original, thank you, or my mommy. I mean to say, I am so goddamned out of fucking sorts if I don't eat more food and go to bed soon I will be in danger of a collapse. Oh, it's all good, as the kids like to say, everything is fine. Yesterday? Tears? What? Who wrote that? Damned cats. It's my turn to exercise control, emotional control, and staunch at that, for I can do it too. I can feel, overwhelmingly, every emotion, or I can be calm at sea, or I can move betwixt them both, nimbly, ah, yet gingerly. And it's all veiled, know that. It's prattle because it's meant to be. I cannot use this outlet to inform any obsessive compulsive drama seekers of my feelings about any particular situation. I am merely describing a sensation of feeling out of place in that place which is the ultimate haven, the one place that is solace, comfort in the storm, the calm, the eye, the lair, no, the cozy comfy home spot. Basically, since the thing last week with the apt mgmt, it's still a mess, and I'm too out of it to put it right, and no, I don't know where I'll move, or if, or when, or where I'll work, or how long my car will last, or if I can love and be loved, but I do have a dinner engagement in a week or so, and I will hang new calendars, and I will feed the cats twice a day, and Norman and I played in the kitchen, and it's funny when she gets no traction, and really? I love my books, I'd never give them up. I want a house, my own house, and it should have a built-in library. Or maybe someone could partner up with me, and we could create our own living space, and he could build the bookshelves, and we could have a library, and we could sit in it and read, and drink tea, and place our fingers on the good parts, and stop to read them aloud: "Hey, listen to this..." Is this another mid-life crisis? How many more will there be? Will I feel better after many hours sleep? And what in god's name, really, what was that? What what?, as I like to say. I mean, it's unbelievable, in so very many ways, every last minute, and I spent the whole day, whilst performing my perfunctory and monotonous and repetitively stressful tasks, thinking about it, all of it, every word of it, playing it over, thinking of what I forgot to say. And "Friends"? This show makes me laugh out loud. Why did I stop watching? Will it be on forever, in perpetuity, as they say? Who are this 'they'? Who is? That's enough, don't you think? Cost of the War in Iraq
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