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Saturday, Jan. 01, 2005 / 8:54 p.m. ~Gassy Bowel Girl~ I am remembering I do have a silly side, and I love to laugh and make people laugh, and I am funny, and I make myself laugh, and I used to be fun and have fun, and know people with whom I could engage in the fun. For the fun is fun. I mean to say, yes, yes, I always do have a point, that I am not this morose and consistently depressed lovesick hopeless pathetic creature of a woman. Nay, I am often quite strong and horribly independent, horribly awfully leave me alone I SO do not need you nor anyone else, look at me, like Mary Tyler Moore tossing my knit hat up into the air, give me Lou Grant and a newsroom, an old manual typewriter and it's all about the Story, yeah, that kind of woman of independent means. Or not at all, but it's not actually often I get all sappy for a couple months at a time, all piney for some schmo is totally worth pining over, but who won't give me the time of day. Why, why, why, you ask? Today someone told me I am so very beautiful, I must surely be dating. Well, er, no, does your perception of my beauty act as instant indicator of my social status? How very peculiar. And he was decidedly not pretty. To me. Appearances set way to the side, it's been a grand day, it has. I've done just as I pleased, and the sun did shine, and the temps did rise, and it was spring-like, there were birds singing, and cavorting, they did cavort, I saw them outside my window, and I contemplated going out, in the out of doors, but felt I'd awakened too early really, and I enjoy the "Twilight Zone" marathon every year, and it's on now, still, some 30something hours in, yeah? So, I did that, the marathon, half watching, and balanced ye olde checkbooke, and it balances fine, thank you, and the dishes were washed, the fingers logged with water, and a big fire engine came up outside and I watched an ambulance come too, and men load someone in on a stretcher. And I listened to James Brown, and Moby early underground, and I danced across my living room floor, and I ate cheddar popcorn, and said Happy New Year to the one I pined for early last year (but he said it first), and the bygones warm my heart now, for I am in love with these bygones. That one hurt me too, but we are at an understanding, and I know what we were and what it was, and I will never forget, but I like that we can be civil, and let it all be in the past. It feels so good to have it all in the past, like all of that, all of it was so last year, SO last year, it's done, over, all the bad juju, and despite any residual longing and declarations of feelings, to myself, or to interested parties, and advice given and sought and heeded, this is what it is, clean, fresh, new, and I turn to Norm and make fun of her gassy bowel, and call her 'gassy bowel girl' since her hospital stay, and we have windows open, and the kitchen looks fabulous and the bathroom too, and so what if there never really was any pest control service and I had to discombobulate my entire kitchen, bathroom, laundry room et al, this is good now. I am ready. I mean it, I feel ready. I know that everything is going to change, very soon, and there is tremendous potential, but I refuse to get bogged down in pain and suffering, for that is not worth the toll it takes upon my soul. I need to be healthy and well, for this won't be easy, any of it. Change is hard, and we fight it, the lot of us, but it is possible it will be very good. And I can be Mare in the damned newsroom, metaphorically speaking of course. For I am not a journalist, but I can be on my own and make it after all, er, right? Not that I haven't, but better, more successful, more satisfying, more creative. Tomorrow? Oh hell, I could collapse in a heap again, but I sort of doubt it. I went down as low as I go, sort of slithering on the floor of that pit called despair, and I was amazed hours later when I was doing laundry and humming and feeding cats and cleaning litter, writing letters and watching this damned marathon in black and white. Life goes on, it just keeps on going on, amazing, yeah? Cost of the War in Iraq
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