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Monday, Oct. 13, 2003 / 7:06 p.m. ~The Interweb Is Weird~ Still no confirmation of my SEVENTY-FIVE DOLLAR check I sent for the bus. My $65 plus donation. Would it KILL them to reply? Look, I know I don't need to address this, but it's weird, so I will. Keeping a diary online is weird. Knowing anyone can wander in, and mostly that's who reads lately, the wanderers, is unsettling, but exciting. The whole Roy Horn thing was weird, the bombardment I got that one day, it seemed so purposeful (and last night there was a replay of a 1999 interview with those tiger guys on that CNN talk show - no, I won't mention the host's name, but you know him, suspenders, lots of wives, Jewish... - and it was eerily prescient to hear the one who was bitten talk about his love of the animals and the danger, etc., etc., and to see the two little white tiger cubs wander around the desk, and for the host not even to allude to the fact that these two guys MUST be gay, but in their case it's okay because it's only assumed, they're not open about it, and that's always weird, I think, but I am getting way off track here, time to close parentheses), and I've had my share of run-ins with weirdos, it's true. But the main thing is this, I don't really know any of you. It's hard to want to cater to you, or to give something to you when this is ultimately a very selfiish pursuit, egotistical even. And I don't get the guestbook comments a lot of people get, I don't get much of anything, except seeing your IPs in my stats, and guessing who each of you are, then reading your diaries. It's an odd relationship we have, a non-relationship. And, like everyone, there are things I won't write about here, although I'm sure it seems I've tackled every subject and more. I'm the queen of too much information, but I don't mind talking about my periods, they're such a huge part of my life. I save you from discussion of my bowel movements, though they're insanely regular, thank you, and I don't always write about my depression, or how I really feel about things, and knowing that Brent might read this, I decided not to write about what happened last Wednesday night. I could tell you he tried to give me a pity fuck, and he failed miserably, and really I didn't want it anyway, just wanted to see how far he'd go. He may think he's god's gift, but he's not, and all I ever wanted from him was friendship (he needs to consider being loyal to his girlfriend though, the one he plans to MARRY!). Funny how he wrote to me to tell me he'd been reading this diary, and how he read the part where I said no one respects me, and he said he does, he does. Classic example of not respecting me was continuing after I said "No". Really, men don't realize it, but "No" does mean "No", though sometimes it's easier to say "No" quieter and quieter, especially if the man in question is big. I allude, and that's my right, and what I write at LiveJournal is not much different, and I don't write about that journal as any sort of tease, but as a fact of my life, just as I write that I'm ovulating, or I watched "Tarzan" last night. I write here, and I write there, and as I am a factual sort of writer, more inclined to mention the details than the intimate feelings, I will tell you, 'you' the anonymous reader whom I might guess is 67.58.64, or 120.78.116, or Ameritech.com, or etc., that I wrote there, and there I will tell 'them' that I wrote here, and I will link here from there, and would vice versa if it worked that way, but it does not. I have secrets everywhere, because I don't KNOW you. You pry by being here, but I let you pry, but this does not mean we owe each other anything, and this does not mean you know me, and I certainly don't know you. Most people who write in journals and diaries online don't even break this 'fourth wall', like this, they just write. But I know you're out there and I won't pretend I don't. I prefer to ignore you, I can let loose when I forget you're there, but then I'm reminded, and I've let you down, or I've aggravated you, or I've said too much, or not enough, and all of a sudden this is your daily fix, not my diary. But I want it to be my diary. Like I said, it's weird. I ate more than a person should be allowed. A Double Whopper With Cheese and Fries. My belly is huge. I was uncomfortable most of the day. As my wet hair dries, fresh from the shower, it thickens and curls and gets in my way, and I wear a headset, or earpiece, and if there's time, if it's slow, I hook up more earpieces to my ears, from my Walkman, and today I listened to Madonna's "Bedtime Stories", but I had earpieces, and earrings, and hair that would not also stay behind those ears with so much already going on there, so I clipped it back with a big claw-like clip, and then my pants came up too high on my waist, and too high in my crotch, and the legs rode up too high too, and my underwear was a pair I seldom wear, sort of an 'emergency' pair, very tight and uncomfortable, and it got hot inside, near 80 outside, and I was alternating between earpieces, answering the stupid questions of the callers on the phone, and the PMS kicked into high gear. But I got to read a lot of EW, and I am my usual four issues behind, diligently reading every single word, trying to catch up, desperate to read a novel instead. I'm sick of Entertainment!!! Egad! Did I just write that? It's no fun reading about what happened three weeks ago, or four. But I am compelled. It is a compulsion. I'm just going to write here, as I always do, and I'm going to write at LJ too, and I've taken some people off my list over there, and I can see me whittling it down to like two people who are 'allowed' to read it, and they never let me know they are actually reading it, so it's no big thing. Don't give it a second thought, but I am inclined to talk about it here, and about this there, because it's what I do, I write about what's going on, I 'talk' about it in writing. This is like pretending I have friends, and I'm telling them what's going on, and I pretend they care and want to know. And it's fun for me to go back and read it later too. The Interweb is an odd place, that's all I have to say about that. Now, I HAD tremendous energy earlier, then I got sucked into thinking about this issue and now I don't know. I have things to do, laundry and vacuuming and changing my sheets, and I think I might actually be able to do it, so there. Cost of the War in Iraq
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