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Wednesday, Sept. 25, 2002 / 11:05 p.m. ~She Doesn't Know Why~ She didn't read me. I gave and gave and she gave nothing in return. I don't deal with that well. I removed her, she turned right around and removed me instantly. Tit for fucking tat. It was bound to happen. Karma, it's all instant karma. I don't worry about it because I know who I am, I know how I am, I know what I give, how incredibly generous I am, and if 'Internet people' don't see it, well, they're not real anyway. You know I care about a few of you, you know who you are, we write email, we keep up, there is reciprocation there, I need it, you may need it too, no one wants to give to someone who doesn't give a shit. It's plain. It feels weird, and that can't be helped. In the long run it's so minor, but in the short run, well, it feels weird, especially the tit for tat part. I could go on, I have a lot to say about it, about her, about the 'why' of it, but I talked to Mark about it last week and that was enough. He seemed to stare at me blankly, and I don't think he gets it, I don't think he gets that I am the way I am.... or is it that he does, precisely? That he is a people person. A 'people person', and I hate people. I loathe my own species. It's rare I reach out. If you knew that you would know what it means when I do, and you would know what it means when I turn away from you. You would know that it means I was hurt first. Always. Never, ever, have I turned my back when I didn't perceive an injustice, a slight, an offense, never. There is always a reason. And she? She doesn't even have a clue, not the slightest, though my guess is she is guessing. She thinks it's the remarks she made, but that's half of it, or one quarter more likely. It's over. Time to let it go. I will. The Mantra, 'this is for me', I write because I am a writer. I said it again today, to the 'new boy'. "I'm a writer, it's what I do, I write." I thought about it later, a ripple effect, the ripple finally bumping into me. Knocking me over in my chair. What? What did I tell him? Isn't that the way I feel about artists telling people they're 'artists'? How can I call myself a writer and why does it spill out like that sometimes? Am I going to be a writer one day? I know he heard me on the phone with Mark. He must have. Talking about reading my diary, Did you read it?, or Why haven't you read it?, or something, and he figured it out. He commented, and I can't recall the initial comment, but he asked if I'm writing in my diary, said it in a mocking tone, rather demeaning, I thought, as if it's childish or silly or wrong. Or stupid. Or I don't know. Yes, yes, that's what I do, I write paragraphs and paragraphs in Word, I load it on a floppy disk, I take the disk to the Internet PC on my break, if I can access, if no one else is there, and I upload to my diary. That's what I do. And no, you can't have the address. If you think hard, or maybe not too hard at all, you will know the address, you said it yesterday when I read my list of favorite names to Listerine, you said the one that is this. I said, "Mabel, Rosalie, Jolene, Edna, Clara, we'll add Clara to the list, and I've never heard of a Clara outside of 'Bewitched', have you? Stanley, Oliver Charles, Barney, Lucy and Esther [the cats belonging to the one who shall now be quite missed though animosity remains]...." He said, later, "Jolene", with some disdain, mocking, making fun. I gasped. Why that name? I left it at that. I let it fall to the floor. My head spinning. No one can read this, no one from there, from work, what would happen?, what would they say?, how far would it get?, who would be told? Repercussions? Of what sort? By end of day he was intensely curious, wanted me to write down the address, was dying to know, solely from my reactions. And I was saucy and sassy, I was in a 'mood' all day, I threw my mood at a poor unuspecting fellow diarist on my lunch break, via AIM. Yikes! I was ready to fuck him in words if he'd let me. And I would have if I'd not had to go back to lunch. Back at work composing a letter of pure sexual fantasy to send him later, but the 'new boy' and his curiosity kept me. I turned it off, I closed the window, I turned up music, I put on headphones, and he kept leaning across the aisle, kept talking to me, looking at me, as if he could pick up on my scent. A fertile day. A biologically driven mood. Entirely. I am a female animal of the human species, am I hominid? Is that it? Homosapien? I am an animal and today I was fertile and restless. The blood feels drained from my veins, but I don't feel it at all because it feels like it's gone. I feel out of sorts, not normal, lost and floating, not anxious, but antsy. Restless. And odd for letting her go. I'm still thinking about it. I honestly thought she'd keep me around though I let go, but she's not like that. Scorpio. Manipulative. Lying. Loyal to some, but she'll put you through the tests. I failed. Dramatic? I was privy to her life, for at least a year. I know more about her than some of her friends, I'm sure. I'm not a 'friend' though, and see, that hurts, I think. I think this is a sick and twisted relationship, writing a diary, letting her read it, reading hers. One of us feels closer than the other. Like a 'real' relationship. I get too wrapped up, I know, I get in too deep, so deep I can go no further and I have to back out. I know this. It just feels weird, that's all I can say, the way she doesn't know but speculates, the way she let me go too. I'm repeating myself. I can't help it. Another instance of me having nothing to say, but writing anyway. I see this pattern though, and I realize I don't mind it at all. I'd look for the one person who could recognize it and accept it and love me in spite of it. I remember one who saw through me and how good it felt. That's a long story, but when he called it, I felt so exposed, so vulnerable, and so willing to submit. Very strange for a strong and independent person as myself. But he did see it. He saw all of it. Walls and mechanisms, defense and otherwise. Hurt me, usually you won't see it. It's neglect, or a biting remark, it's a slight, and I recoil, then I lash out, you have to pay attention to really SEE it, it's obvious to me, but YOU may not catch it. I can be subtle, but didn't you notice? My reactions are varied according to what you mean to me, to your place in my life, but your reaction to my reaction is pivotal, crucial, the driving force for future events. You can make or break the situation from that point forward. Why don't people see it? It's not that complicated. Simple, rudimentary, obvious to me. You don't have a reaction, you missed the whole exchange, there was no exchange in your eyes, it's written. Marked in stone. Etched. Carved. I told you. I don't like people. If I lose you, I'm okay. I think, amidst this navel-gazing, that it stems from losing so much so early. I got used to people disappearing at a very early age. Everyone goes away. "Heaven", away, wherever, poof, gone. I just keep going. Occasionally there is the one I choose and I can get clingy in trying to keep that one close. It can get ugly when that one pulls away before I get the chance. Noticing this, not that I haven't before, but now, thinking about it again, makes me glad to be exactly where I am right now. This is good. It's rather perfect. The details could change a bit. The logistics. But overall, the lack of intimacy is best. I don't 'want' to be close to anyone. I really don't. I have a fertile day every month, I'm desperate for sex, but it goes. I have a moment or two wherein I want a 'friend', but that goes too, fog banks rolling in and out again when the sun begins to shine through. Analogies aside, I have more thinking to do, and regular things to do, and I am supremely content, but it's stuffy in here. The a/c is off because it's so cool outside, but it's a constant rain outside and I don't want to let that air in either. Cost of the War in Iraq
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