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Tuesday, Jul. 02, 2002 / 8:51 p.m. ~No Point At All, Here, Now~ Gladys plops herself down on the carpet, rests her head on a stuffed likeness of Bill Clinton dressed in red, white and blue shirt, blue running shorts and sneakers. Behind her is her stuffed frog that makes noise when crinkled. I hate it when the Mail System Administrator returns email because the address is not good. There was something I wanted to write. What was it? Something happened, or I thought of something, something occurred, and I don't know when it was. Something I wanted to quote, or something I wanted to remember. Maybe it will come to me. Jon wrote back. He likes to write on his way out. Out of town. Out of the office for the weekend. He writes before he is going to be away. Sort of a last word situation. He knows he got the last word because he can't see any other words following his own. So light and breezy. And he told me to PLEASE stop speculating as to why he did not pursue me romantically, so I said that's quite impossible. I'll always wonder, and there's nothing he can do about that.... unless he wants to explain himself. Fully. Honestly. A repeat of "Gilmore Girls" is on, not that I'm watching. I paused to see a scene with Jess and Rory, reminded that I'll never have that, the handsome and mysteriously wonderful new person pursuing me until I can no longer refuse because I fall in love. I'm here, catching up on diaries, pausing to write about Gladys resting on a stuffed likeness of Bill Clinton, because I do not enjoy hitting the backspace key over and over. That is why I'm writing, because I don't enjoy it right now. The buzzer is going off, or is it on?, on the dryer, and I have clothes to fold. I'm hot, I'm cranky, I'm tired, and when am I not? I was reading everything I have written in my paper journal, my notebook I carry around in my backpack, for those moments when I MUST write, and every day I have written that I'm tired. Life makes me tired. I'm intensely cranky too, I find. Just now I wanted to throw things because the buzzer was making its buzzing sound, as it should, as I've requested of the dryer. I request it, that sound, to warn me, to alert me, but knowing I'd have to stop what I'm doing, knowing my hands are hot and the veins are bulging on them, that it's hard to type when my hands feel like this, knowing I've started this here, and now is not a good time to stop suddenly, I wanted to scream or break something, at the very least yell very loudly. I must try to re-send my email now. She must not realize I do not have her email address. There is too much to do, and too little time, and sitting here is hot and I have no idea why. It shouldn't be. Why am I writing? This has no point, no point at all, here, now. Cost of the War in Iraq
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