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Wednesday, Mar. 17, 2004 / 7:36 p.m. ~It's the "Never Mind" First Thing~ I wonder if when the cats are old, older than the old they are now, and probably ill and dying, I'll regret that I sat here at this computer so many hours of their lives, ignoring them, telling them to sit down or go away, turning to see them sit in corners, feigning misery. Will I have regrets? Will I wish I'd initiated play more often? Will I reason it all away, tell myself they were too old to play for any length of time anyway? How do 'real' writers do it? How did Hemingway sit and write and write and write with all those damned cats everywhere? Were there less cats back then? Did they amuse themselves outdooors? Are my cats just bored? Are they exceptionally needy? Pause to give the one a big squeeze, several very strong pats on the head and elsewhere, real hard loving, real, Get the hell over it, it's just not that damned bad loving. I hate this entry all of a sudden. It sucks. This wasn't what I was going to write. I've been feeling a good bit of self loathing the past day or two. It comes and goes. I started by wondering if I would appeal more if I got some serious laser hair removal, or dermabrasion, a chemical peel, breast implants, a personal trainer who would push me, if I dyed my hair, if I got my college degree, if I had my own business, if I traveled, if I were busy, if I volunteered, if I drank more, if I frequented Midtown nightly, if I kept my mouth shut, only spoke when spoken to, if I sat adoringly always. What about a Brazilian bikini wax? A bellybutton piercing? Botox. If I canceled my cable? If I wrote actual books, and were published? And why does this text keep freezing? I have shut down every single program, even email, nothing is running but IE. Is it IE? I am intensely frustrated, angry, bored, tired, angry and frustrated. Oh, did I mention those two twice? I don't even care anymore, about anything. I've lost interest. I will be terrible company tomorrow, I will give a bad impression. And I could use some waxing, tweezing, bettering, teeth whitening, because as I am, just like this, the natural me, all natural, just clean and natural, like some men have told me they really really like, well, they were lying, those men, this sucks, the real me, who I really am, is nothing to anyone. I suck. I am butt ugly. No, not appealing for sympathetic, "No you're not"s, not at all. It's just the truth. And know what? I'm getting older and uglier and less and less desirable by the day. Women my age don't even have sex normally anymore, do we? Women my age have usually had children, a few, a passel, a smorgasbord, a goddamned plethora, women my age have been married, at least once, they've finished everything, they coast, they sit back, they vacation in vacation homes, they raise families, they are the matriarchs, these women. They even run corporations. They're not pitiful and ugly and washed up and single and living with cats like crazy old cat ladies down at the end of the street. Or they are, but they're volunteering at the homeless shelter, they take painting classes on Thursday nights, they go swing dancing to meet men, they date men named Al and Bob, and they settle into whatever feels comfortable because they realize they are far too close to dying alone. It hits them all of a sudden, like I realized I hated this entry, just like that, BAM, old, gonna die, ALONE, Al is lookin' better and better every day, and his four teenaged kids and his ex-wife aren't really that bad, are they? Do impending birthdays always do this to me? Or is it having desires for men thirteen years my junior? Either way, wrong, wrong, wrong. Get with the fucking program already. Why oh why can't I stay that permanently affixed to the futon sofa person I used to be not so very long ago? What happened to her? Was I happy? Was I content? Complacent? Resolved? I feel nothing now. Nothing but guilt when I look at the cats sitting on the faux Oriental rug, the way they look so damned depressed, so sad, the way they try to get me to play with them after I come home from work and they've eaten, and they end up fighting with each other instead. I brushed them both last night, realized they're already beginning their Spring shedding, and they loved it, and G cat followed me all around, slept with me, as they both do, and I sit to read and write and they want me then, too, but I have to do this, I have to have 'my' time, don't I? Cats don't understand. What if I sat and wrote, full time, what if I had a 'book deal' (HAHAHAHAHAHAAHA!!!!!!!), how would I reconcile the guilt with the work? Ah, good thing that is nothing to worry about. This well has run dry, I have nothing, it's a little dry spell. It was a long day, and I hated it towards the end, and every day runs into the next, and every week is an extension of the last, and there is nothing really, it's all just one long day, isn't it? And I decided to take some time off for my birthday, then found out someone already has those days, so I can't. Maybe that was what started it, the "Never mind" first thing. Cost of the War in Iraq
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