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Sunday, Jul. 25, 2004 / 3:27 p.m. ~The Live Feed Recaps Are In Full Swing, Only I'm Just Joining the Fun~ For the record, let me say that it's easier to waste, er, spend hours online reading journals and the NYT and message boards that recap the Big Brother live feed, than it is to shop for groceries, cook, clean and do laundry. I tend to go with what's 'easier' when I have time off. Work is so scheduled, so constrained (is that a word?), so meticulous and detailed and tedious, that being FREE for two whole days leaves me balking at anything that smacks of 'work' or how I must function while at 'work', yet 'work' is always somewhere on my mind. Even last night, out with one of my former coworkers and now new work contacts at the large corporation, when we said goodnight, she brings up a problem document, mentions the employee by name and everything, and my reaction was "Whoaaaaa, save that for Monday, will ya?!", and yikes and shit, worlds colliding, help me, must get back to 'normal' here. Whew and such. We went to a midnight showing of what I think is Brad Pitt's best movie to date. No, it's not a "Brad Pitt Movie", but if you think about it long enough you'll guess it. First rule is don't talk about it. Good lord, every time he had his shirt off? Holy moly. It's been years since I last saw it, and I think I only saw it the one time, the day it opened in theatres, and I was obsessed, couldn't stop talking about it, thinking about it, bought the book and read it, etc., but now? Well, the woman next to me had halitosis, so every time she exclaimed, which was often, chick wouldn't stop with the grunting and groaning, I had to be sure to hold my breath. Do not inhale, wait, wait, "Unh!", shit, wait, wait, wait... etc. Regardless of all that, I find it strange, in a previously and heretofore undocumented way, the experience of someone who sort of actually 'knows' me reading my diary or my journal instead of, in place of, communicating with me directly. And ceasing the actual communication in favor of the reading. It approaches stalking, I think. And I'm also thinking of the one who had done what I thought I wanted to, the one who paints the clouds. He was so intrigued by me, had so many questions, wanted to know more and more and more, and at some point, and I theorize which point it was, he lost interest, his interest waned, I said the wrong thing, in his mind, and that was that, and now? Nothing. Does it matter in the grand scheme of things? Of course, only in that it's odd when someone wants to know me, or thinks he does, then when he digs deeper he doesn't like what he's dug. It's disconcerting, of course, and is it that I have an initial impression that so very differs from who I really am? What? You didn't know how often I say Fuck me to tears!? Or that I took a lot of drugs at one time, or that I am a ball buster, that I've used up as many men who've potentially used me? That I'm independent and will pretend I don't give a fuck if you're around or not, then in private I lament our end? I don't want you to know me or think you do or get inside, and I'm riding the emotional rollercoaster here, don't want you sitting beside me. But it's odd, all the same, the questions, the digging, then the backing off and disappearing. It's not the first time. And now I don't even want to think of him when I look up at the sky. There's a bad taste associated with the clouds now. Let's hope it goes away soon. Cost of the War in Iraq
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