I was struck by a woman this morning, in the smoking lounge. She was reading a book I'd already read and wearing a ring in a style I gave up years ago. Chunky, silver, with a strange design. She also had my hair. Same color (except you could tell it didn't come from a bottle of Sun-In combined with a blowdryer, like mine), same style--except the bangs were curled under. After the pleasantries were exchanged, I watched her covertly. Is this what I would be like in fifteen years, twenty?
When I'm middle aged, will I be wearing that same incandescent shade of blue eyeshadow? Will I look that raw, that tired? I don't know if I could handle that. Does she sometimes look in the mirror and remember when she was like me?
I never asked her name.
I got about two hours of sleep last night. In the name of mind-expansion, I picked up Margaret Atwood's book Wilderness Tips and couldn't put it down. It's a lot of short vignettes, portraying the human being/soul as both a malformed, overfried shrimp, and a magnanimous bear hug. They warmed you at the same time they chilled you. You are all those people, you have so many of the same characteristics.
Why are so many people coming from the March 22nd Entry to my site? Granted the first paragraph or so is lovely, but beyond that? What's the attraction, folks?
Yesterday morning was ugly. My father, long-suffering man that he is, stayed home with a sinus headache until 9:15. So, I snuck out to pick Dirk up from work. Well, horrid traffic and an iced-over car later, I arrived to find out that Dirk had given up on me and called his mother. Apparently, he'd called my house and my father told him I was still asleep. Begin the ugliness.
Sometimes I make myself sick. Sometimes I wish I could strangle myself, electrocute myself, flay the skin off my own back. This was to be one of those times.
I couldn't quit being mad. I had no justification, Dirk did the best anyone could expect under the circumstances, and I was still pissed. He tried to talk me out of being upset, but I wasn't having any of it. When his mother came to pick him up, I just drove off.
Anyway, I thought I was over it when I called him from my house. Honestly, I only intended to tell him that my father was leaving at about nine, and I'd come to pick him up then. But when I told him that I'd called for this reason, he said, "You changed your mind, and you're not going to?"
Oh. That. Was. The. Wrong. Thing. To. Say.
Please understand, I am a spiteful bitch. My forte is making people hurt. It feels astonishingly good to make people cry. To make them suffer. To make them wish they were dead so they could escape the mockery I've made of reality. It's like a shot of adrenaline. That first cigarette after you'd quit for a week. The best sex you ever had, with a malevolent aftertaste.
I fight this temptation constantly. Most of the time, I win. Every once in a while, however, I lose. Completely. I lose control less often now, maybe once every couple months. Not like when I was with Roachboy, when it seemed to happen every day.
I still feel bad about that. I wish I was strong enough to jam a pin in myself until only the plastic head is sticking out for every time I made someone suffer like that. I can't atone. Other people might forgive me, but I never really learned to forgive myself. I can't make it not have happened. I can't erase all the horrible things I've done and said when the anger/bloodlust was singing in my veins.
Anyway, I pushed Dirk too far, and we ended up having a long crying/silence session over the phone. I picked him up at 9:30. Everything was alright again.
I cooked eggrolls, burned them when I got distracted, and Dirk professed a desire to have one when I got too stubborn with my percieved failure to cook more. He doesn't like eggrolls. He changed his mind, he claims, when he "saw what type they were". Dirk thought I was making a "different kind." Lies, all of it, but it saved my pride and I cooked enough for both of us (without burning them).
I don't want to lose him. I hope he understand that I try to be normal, for him. I try really hard.
I smell formaldahyde right now. Why is the scent of formaldahyde wafting through a top-secret government institution?
And......(drum roll)....my supervisor has put me back to full-time!!!. Yes, baby. I can now afford the lifestyle I'd so dearly like to lead. My own appartment, my own car, no more assholes bothering me.
We saw Cats last night. I lovedlovedlovedlovedloved it. Men prancing around in really tight leotards (cat-colored or not) is my cup of tea. Especially when most of them didn't look the least effeminate. One in particular, Rum-Tum-Tigger, was very -ahem- well-endowed. We had front-row center seats.
I had to drive into D.C. during rush hour, so we could park the car at my mother's building and take the Metro to the National Theatre. D.C. during rush hour is an ugly, ignorant place. After getting money, dropping a sleepy Dirk off at his house, and getting gas, I was running late. So, I was doing 70 up I-95. There's a certain point, right before Seminary Road going northbound, where you're on a hill overlooking a section of I-95, and the southbound side lookes like the largest diamond necklace on the planet. That's at night, when the headlights are on, and the traffic is standstill.
If you were stuck in that traffic, you probably don't understand.
My mother and I had dinner at this place in the mall near the National Theatre (the mall is called "The Shops" I don't know what the restuarant is called. Something-Or-Other Grill.) She got the chicken quesadillas, and I got the shrimp fettucine alfredo. The alfredo sauces was amazingly light, non-greasy.
The show was fantastic. I don't know what I was expecting, more talking bits, I guess. But this was better than I expected, and since we were front-row, center, the "cats" were in our face, up close and personal. And the part where Grizabella sings "Memory" is beautiful. I don't care how sick you are of the song, in its many incarnations in cheesy music boxes and elevator music. When you hear it being sung live, onstage, by the dancer/actress playing Grizabella, with her air of dignity despite being shunned by the other cats, it's incredible.
And there was one part, where this hugely fat black and white "cat" called Bustopher throws a flower at a girl in the audience. He threw it at me. I got a flower!!! Granted, it's a tissue-paper flower, in the shape of a giant mum, and he couldn't have thrown it much farther back than the front row, due to its shape. However, none of this detracts from the fact that he threw it at me. And I caught it. So I am the proud owner of a white tissue flower from Cats. Damn good thing, too. I didn't have money to buy a souvenier.
I felt slightly out of place, sitting next to these two bimbos in their opera gowns. Their hair was stacked as high as it would go, and they didn't get the flower!!! Meanwhile, I was wearing jeans, tank-top, jacket, and corduroy jacket, looking laid-back. The two girls smelled like sweetened sewer water.
I irritated my mother the whole way home by singing a song about the flower. "A.S. got a flower, A.S. got a flower, A.S. got a flower..." It is currently resting in a place of honour on my shelf.
C-- e-mailed me. I was about to make a blase comment about him e-mailing me, but I won't. It wouldn't be honest. I am thrilled whenever he gets worried enough to e-mail me, because I know he doesn't do it for anyone else. I feel special, just for a minute.
(9:30 pm) So there I was, indulging in a Pina Colada whilst considering what to tell C-- (and wondering briefly, if I had the guts to simply give him the URL to this page), when I notice an e-mail. Unfortunately, it was just the e-mail from that girl who writes looking in. Apparently, she just stepped into the late nineties and got herself a refer-tracker. And she felt less than enthused about my mockery of her indecision concerning its name, and felt the need to point out to me that she's not depressed anymore. As if I care.
I wasn't particularly mean to her. I just told her, in the same tone as her e-mail was set in, that the link had been up there for more than a few months. I hate people who use the word "uh". That's such an irritating, hesitant word. Adolescence distilled.
Man, this pina colada sure has a fuck of a lot of rum in it.
Anyway, the way I see it, a link's a link, right? I mean, I know some of you guys have linked to this site, and I've read some of your descriptions. Some of them are a little harsh. However, I don't pester you with e-mail, do I? No. You know why? Because I have a life. I may be being a bit harsh, but honestly. Bugger off if you're just going to pester me and whinge.
And if you've got a problem, at least be concise. When I see rambling e-mails that are from people I do not know, you know what I do? Skim them and then delete them. I don't bother deciphering their twisted little thoughts.
So, anyway, I'm sure you're wondering where I got ahold of my Pina Colada. Well, remember when I went on vacation, and my Aunt Lani proceeded to drink with me? Well, she left one of those frozen drink pouches in the freezer, and it got buried in stuff. I unearthed it a few moments ago. Pina Colada, my favorite. So, I'm attempting to type and polish off the entire pouch at once. Needless to say, I'm feeling pretty damn good right now. It's much warmer here in the computer room than when I started.
I cooked stir-fry tonight, because my father and I both agree my mother can't cook stir-fry worth shit. Unfortunately, the only vegetables we had were frozen green beans. Frozen green beans, for the uninitiated, are fucking awful in stir-fry. Actually, they're fucking awful just about everywhere. It turned out alright despite having that hurdle to overcome.
I managed to stay awake long enough to call Dirk. However, I started passing out while he was talking. I don't know if he noticed. (I hope not).
And here I am, typing. Mildly buzzed. Out of fucking Pina Colada. I still have a secret stash of vodka, but I'm saving that for a special occasion.
Oh, if you like the girl from looking in, and you're mortally offended that I think she's a pest, fuck off. I don't care, and you know how much attention I pay to other people's bitching once I've decided I don't care. Don't e-mail me, don't start a vendetta against me, don't tell me how much you relate to that girl's site. It means less than nothing to me. I read her site, too, and I think she's a pest for e-mailing me. It's stupid to idolize perfectly normal human beings.