I'd give anything for some chocolate right now. Even though I don't need it. Or some really strong curry.
I got an extended lecture about the "dregs of society" I would be putting up with for the rest of my life because I decided to move out on my own and put college on hold. My mother told me this with a triumphant smirk, because finally, I am proving all her dire pronouncements to be true. I am a loser, I am going nowhere with my life, and the people I hang out with are losers. Except Katie, because Katie's going to college and has her life in order, according to my mother's definition.
Alex can go fuck himself. I am not answering that goddamn phone. He is putting together some kind of art project at his desk and I am not going to answer the goddamn phone for him.
Back to my loser status. See, my mother says that it's all well and good that I want to be a writer, but I have to have a career to back that up. A career. That's just so special that I don't have words to describe it. You know what happens when you have a career? Forget your creative impulses. You damn well better love your career, because pretty soon you'll be thirty-five, with a mortgage and two car payments and you'll forget that you ever had any artistic impulses.
Fuck careers. I have marketable skills, I can get decent-paying job. Maybe not in the middle-class to upper middle-class range, but I'll survive; with a car, too.
Even if Mr. Car is non-functioning at the moment.
But that should be cleared up in a few days.
Dirk went to work at 7:00 last night and worked until the same time this morning. So I can't call him until I get home tonight. This cuts out the most meaningful part of my day at work.
I am really lacking in entertainment right now. I was bemoaning the fact that C– is in North Carolina right now, and didn't even figure out a way to let me know exactly where so I could visit. Katie pointed out that he is not, in fact, a love interest. She also pointed out that she wouldn't want to meet people she knew online. I responded with my lack of entertainment woes. Seriously, it would have been entertaining to wrestle with the prospect of seeing C– face-to-face. I could have been in torments of desire. Or something like that. Meeting him would have been interesting, too.
While I remember, thank you to everyone who wrote something nice in my guestbook. I've gotten no more e-mail from dead people, perhaps because I changed my password and my filters.
I updated my links page. I haven't taken down the one to looking in. I'm waiting a few more weeks to see if she can restrain her urges to start another one, and get more sickly-sweet sympathy from the rest of the world.
Today I'm wearing a pleated red tartan skirt, a red blouse and a black sports jacket. I look just like the Typical English Schoolgirl. The guards in my building think I'm from Europe, and I haven't disabused them of the notion. It's semi-true. I was born in Italy – on a Naval base.
Yes, I am digging for topics today. Thank you for noticing.
I was reading this journal. It gave me pause. I wouldn't like to have her marriage, and I especially wouldn't want to have the kid. But if I was just a little less....forceful? Dominant? That could be me. I'm not saying I'm easy to be with. Whenever Dirk makes me cry, I make him pay for each tear ten times over.
But I could be stuck in love with someone who's insanely jealous and gets mad at me for nothing and used to hit me. I could be her because she sounds so much like me, and she's not pitiful and not beaten down into nothing. She's...her. She's coping. She's looking for happiness on her own terms.
I was lucky to find Dirk.
I was luckier still that he saw something wonderful in me.
Enough sentiment. I have to pee.
(4:50 pm)Okay, a couple things: Don't insult Dirk. I know you can find his picture (as you can find mine), and he's not everybody's idea of Prince Charming. That's your problem, not mine. I'm not everybody's idea of a princess either, but I do okay. He sleeps because –get this, it's so wild– he works graveyard shift. Not because he's manic-depressive.
The other thing is: Don't insult me. I could give a shit about your advice. If you think I'm royally screwing up my life, keep it to yourself. If you're one of The Dead One's sad punker-than-thou friends, you need help. Hell, if you're any kind of punk who wants to tell me how immersed you are in the punk scene, keep it to yourself. I don't care. Punk is a form of music, nothing more. It has very little to do with real life.
I say this because someone decided to be "helpful" in my guestbook. I don't need your help. I didn't ask for it. If you really want to help, don't put it in the fucking guestbook. At least e-mail me so I can block you. I delete stuff in my guestbook that I don't like, often without meaning to.
It was probably a friend of The Dead One, anyway. Sorry to have bothered the rest of you with this.