27 June, 1997

I hurt. I need. I'm lonely. I'm ruled by fear. These things you know; they are all I write about. I want. I feel. I'm moody. I'm thinking. These things you don't know; I never write about them.

Why? Where is my joy? My sunny smile and sweet temper? Where is that child? Who has stripped my world of her? I used to see her in the mirror...long ago. Who murdered me?

I leave the kitchen window open every night that her ghost might return.

_{(How serious do you think I am?)}

Therapy Dude said something Thursday that truly offended me. Yes, I do mean in a pinched-faced, pursed-lipped, Victorian manner. I was oh-fen-ded. We were discussing Manly's total lack of interest in all things parental, when Therapy Dude interjected, "Well, he's [Wee Babe's] father, right? I mean, you were both there. He ejaculated inside you."

I cannot believe he had the nerve to say such a thing to me. First, that's extremely frank and entirely too familiar a tone to use with someone you've only just met. Second, my kid is one hell of a lot more than the result of some schmuck's ejaculation. How distasteful. How inappropriate. How...rude.

I may be (oh, the horror) 25, and living in the 1990s, but I am, always have been and always will be, a prude. If you don't know me, you don't talk sex talk with me. That includes, but is not limited to (hi, chris, dig my legalese?) discussions of my husband's secretions and the manner in which I found myself pregnant. Off limits. Maybe I should wear a sign, or something. "Don't touch me; don't breathe on me; and don't say shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, or tits in my presence."

_{(That'd be one big damn sign.)}

I'm to have new and exciting company next week. Dread dread dread. I'm so stodgy, I really ought to have been a Taurus (not the car, dork). "New" makes my stomach clench and my head hurt. Oh, quick, someone fetch me a lemonade to sip and an embroidered hanky with which to fan myself (I should've been a Southern Belle, too, but that's an entirely different fantasy). The "what ifs" are having a fit in my head, too. Real circus. What if they hate me. What if I hate them. What if they tell everyone what a doofus I am. What if I get spinach caught in my teeth. What if I can't find red-red dye #xyz and can't get my hair coloured before they arrive. What if...

I think those things because I'm hypercritical. I think terrible things about everyone. Of course, I save the worst of it for my own damn self. And, I expect the same of everyone else, to a lesser degree (no-one is as judgemental as I), certainly. Now, yes, you could say that I'm being paranoid there. And, you're right, most people aren't intelligent enough or observant enough (likely a combo of the two) to be critical (ooh, harsh much, gage?). Unfortunately, my near future visitors are.