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I had a dream that my dad wasn't my real dad. And now my dad wanted to date me. My sister was in favor of it. The dream makes me feel like a freak. I don't want to admit that I had it, even anonymously. We drove around town in a van my dad had when I was a little kid. I remember thinking that my mom must have been kind of a slut to sleep with somebody other than dad. I think this is one of those dreams you have when you worry about dating someone like your dad.
Where is that special guy who makes everything easy? The guys I'm dating lately want me to jump through all of these hoops. They are so cold to me. One doesn't like to kiss or cuddle, but likes to be sexual. Another doesn't want to kiss or have sex with me. Another never even tries to hold my hand. Another puts his arm around me and never calls again. In every situation, either we both just quit calling each other, or it crashes and burns spectacularly. There's no way this isn't my fault. It is something I'm doing to myself.
There is a plump red pepper shaker next to a fat green salt shaker on a field of bright yellow tile. A round pegged plate in white and a pink, white and blue homemade pot holder made out of rag loops sit in a square of sunlight. Cut flowers in a navy blue mug disguise the white chip on the rim. Beige-flecked diner coffee mugs with brown rims are filled with dirty silver forks. Scrambled eggs clog the sink. There is an ant on a chair leg. Under the table, stale chocolate cake sits stiffly on a soggy Superman napkin.
She was violent, once, when she got drunk. She's not sure what it means. Only assholes do what she did. She didn't think she was one of those assholes. Of course, there were some days when she would like to ram her fist through someone's face, or kick them in the ribs when they're down. But she never thought she'd actually do anything to hurt anybody, pushing and shoving and punishing that guy, like an abusive mother. So she's going to cut down on her drinking. Thinking about an anger management course. And she blames herself every night before sleeping.
I haven't completed a painting or a short story in a while. It makes me feel like a failure. It almost doesn't matter what the end product is, as long as I'm still producing, I'm still in the game. Moving towards a goal. Right now I'm dead in the water. Not even coasting. Just floating, looking up from the icy water into the infinite, icy sky. If I can't break all my bad habits and become a better person, I should at least produce something. If myself as an end product is insufficient, I need to give something else back.
I can't just give you good directions and tell you what color the house is. I can't just unlock the door and invite you in when you ring. I can't just give you the tour of the house, introduce you to everyone, and show you where the bathrooms are. I can't just show you the kitchen. I can't just put a tape in the VCR or turn the music up. I can't just think up elaborate stories to amuse you while we wait. I can't just paint you pretty pictures. I have to invite you to sit down and eat.
It is really cold in here today. I didn't wear a bra to work today. My yeast infection is all gone today. I didn't laugh much today. I couldn't breathe well today. I drove my car today. I watched my favorite television show today. I made a list today. I had a lot of time to myself in my apartment after work today. I only ate one thing that is "good for me"today. I didn't get my bloodwork done today. I didn't drink any coffee today. I thought up my Public Member Name today. I pet the cat today.
I read an article about how horrible it is to give gift cards as Christmas presents. Did you read the same article? The only gifts I've used so far have been the gift cards, though. If I had cash, I would have spent it all on coffee and subs by now. As it is, I'll have money for books, money for cat food and shampoo, and, yes, money for coffee, too. I know the cards make my Mom feel better about things. She wouldn't give me cash; she'd be afraid I'd spend it on drugs. I don't even do drugs.
Zubeida is the lovey young daughter of the sheik, a holy man. She comes and talks to him about life in the village and the decrees of the sultan. She does not understand that her father's countenance never changes because he knows his true rewards are in heaven. Zubeida's only job is to make her father his meals, announce the arrival of his visitors and to have her little chats with him. Every day she repeats the same movements around his house. If she ever wanted to escape this private dance and leave her home, she never spoke of it.
I own a shitty, shitty printer, which I got for free, which is not supposed to be compatible with XP, but I forced it to bend to my will and it works, in a kluge-y way. One day, a beautiful printer-scanner-fax combo will fall off the back of a truck and roll onto the sidewalk outside my door. It will sit, unharmed, faintly glimmering in the sun. I will nearly trip over it, then heft it onto my shoulder and carry it inside, whistling a happy tune. Carefully, I will take out the still-full toner cartridge and gently shake it.
There is a three-day weekend coming up. God, not too long ago, I would be planning my drug binge for the weekend: talking to someone who would talk to someone about the stuff and the cost, planning when to start, figuring out when it would be tapering off and factoring in recovery time. I don't remember really making the decision to "never do drugs again-. I don't think I've ever really made that resolution. But, I would never plan to trip all weekend, and I never seek drugs out anymore. I feel like a toddler who's given up his pacifier.
Sometimes the words don't come easy, even one hundred of them.
It's a nice feeling to sit down and cut my computer on. I already feel productive. I know it is strange that I work on a computer and with computers all day and still sometimes feel the compulsion to go home and write on my computer. In coffee shops (I know it is a clichÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â©, but I get a lot of writing done in coffee shops, dammnit) I prefer notebooks with foil covers with stars printed on. But at home, I get nothing done unless I'm on the computer.
He just wants to fool around with me. Sometimes I wonder why he doesn't want me to be his girlfriend. If I'm honest with myself, I know the answer. I'm ugly compared to the girls he normally dates. I'm not that thin. I don't dress very well. I don't have a lot of self-confidence with him or men in general. He doesn't like my accent or my sense of humor. We're not the same religion. I feel like none of my flaws would matter if I could just be beautiful. If I were beautiful he wouldn't care about everything else.
I'm inspired by one of the writers here. This chick used 100 words as a diary of her several-month road trip across country. Every day she's hanging out with crazy people, kissing strange boys and getting guys to buy her dinner. She drinks a lot, too. I imagine her thin and blonde and trust-funded. Like Paris Hilton, only beautiful and not trashy. She has classÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€a bohemian class. She would not have time to worry about the things I worry about - the dumb boys I crush on, my hair color, getting my driver's license renewed. I want that freedom back.
Country music is cornball, but it is so positive. Oprah magazine is the same way, although it isn't cheesy. The January 05 issue has *the best* writer's block advice I've ever read - and I own a lot of "how to write"type books, friend. The best part is the advice from artist Sol LeWitt; that you need to play rather than work. "Stop worrying about big, deep things... Then you will be able to DO!... Try to do some BAD work. The worst you can think of and see what happens but mainly relax and let everything go to hell.-
Migraine bubbles up. Little kids' voices bounce from the front of the house next door down the shared alleyway. Bus brakes moan. (Watch your tenses, keep the verbs active.) E-mail speeds off to Arizona. Cat blinks and puts her head on her paws. Click "publish"and update the ole blog. Pain in my head bleeds away, beaten back by Excedrin. Blink in surprise that the spell check knows how to spell "Excedrin-. Mix up some pancakes, but can only eat four. Who eats four pancakes? (Check your word count.) Anne Dillard says, "Write as if you were dying." I will.
I stepped out of my comfort zone this weekend and went out for dinner and a movie with my roommate and some of her acquaintances. I felt really out of place. The food was really good at the restaurant, really, really good. I'm definitely going back there. The movie was pretty good, too. And I'm glad I got out of the house and hung out with people. I think it's good for me. But, the whole time, I just wanted to run away from these people. I was embarrassed to hang out with them. And my roommate couldn't stop talking.
Well, I think the guy is grouchy with me because he thinks I have a boyfriend. Or maybe because I didn't do what he wanted me to that day. Or maybe it is something that doesn't have to do with me at all, but for some reason he's chosen me to take it out on. Guys are so weird.
My stomach hurts badly tonight. I'm not sure if it's the supplements my dr's making me take or too much caffeine. Ugh, but it hurts. How am I supposed to figure out my life problems with this pain in my gut?
Things continue to surprise me. I think I have everything figured out and I'm usually wrong. I need to learn to go with the flow more, to just relax and see what happens, instead of tying myself into a knot. I'm so confused about life. I wish I had some kind of manual.
Things are looking up today. I'm closer to finding out what's up with my health. No resolution with the boys, but I feel better about that. I'm still on the lookout for some kind of adventure to distract me from my problems. Nothing has yet presented itself.
Going to get drunk and throw up tonight. Going to get drunk, drunk, drunk. Lonely and drunk, drunk and lonely. Going to get drunk so I won't feel so lonely. Or maybe I'm getting drunk so it's easier to cry about being so lonely. People around me make me want to be with someone else. I'm so tired of missing my friends. Where did they all go? Why am I so alone now? Wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow, bitch, bitch, wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow, wallow.
If I feel so worthless that I should die, why do I care so much about what people think? If I'm going to off myself, why can't I go out and have fun first? Why can't I throw caution to the wind and do what I want to do? If I'm so sure my life is worthless, why can't I be care free? If I have no future, why can't I live right now?
I don't always feel this way. There's no need to worry that I'm really going to do anything. But, when I feel this way, I'm overwhelmed.
I knew a girl in high school who used to paint all the time. Not just in art class, even on weekends. Sometimes if I wanted to go visit her, I had to sit in her room and watch her finish a project first. Once a corner of her family's living room was filled with a life-size sculpture of her made from a plaster cast. She was extremely talented, and of course went on to major in Art in college. I'm not sure what career she's in now, but I know she was a telemarketer one time after she graduated.
I had a dream last night that I was in a seedy bar. I sat next to my friend who moved away about a month ago. It was New Year's Eve. There was a casino in one room, and a cavernous room in the back with couches and TV's on one end. Both rooms were separated from the small main bar area by long pink and gold-wallpapered bathroom hallways. There was also a close little room for card playing. The lady bartenders had to keep going into the card room to make these women quit giving the guys hand jobs.
I like the idea of writing an Indian novel. Never having to write an ending. None of the characters change. Stuff just happens. I like the idea of 100 words, too. Trying to write everyday. Why is it so hard to write 100 words everyday? I'm looking forward to maybe getting e-mails, too. Good ones or bad ones. I hope people aren't too hard on me. After all, it isn't really me is it? By the time January first is posted, I will be a completely different person than I was then. I hope I can keep comments in perspective.
This spot is where I barf out the innards of my cluttered brain. The way I feel is pretty normal. People don't express the things that I express, because everyone wants to be normal. No one wants to be thought of as crazy. At the same time, they are quick to dismiss others as crazy. Bastards!
I'm wearing blue striped socks, a bright green sweater, and red drawstring pants with little dark green diamonds on them. I'm a vision! I dated a guy who said he liked me in this sweater. It's pretty ugly, so I felt warmly towards him.
The migraines are coming thick and fast lately, not sure what's up with that. I finally bought some Death Cab for Cutie. I'd read some reviews of their stuff, and heard some song by them on the radio sometime last year or the year before and liked it. I don't think that song is on the cd's I bought. I also have the mp3 of "Such Great Heights-, which is by the Postal Service, but the lead singer of Death Cab sings on it. I have it on the mp3 player I use at the gym. I jog to it.
My friend had a psychotic break and had to go into a mental hospital for a while. When he came out, he got better, but it's been a year and he's still not completely back to normal. I keep hoping that his personality'll come back. At this point, I have to deal with the fact that he may never be the way he was before. It's kind of like he died. Or woke up from a dream where he was somebody else. Or woke up from a drunk that lasted years and years, and he doesn't really remember anything distinctly.
I tried watching that anti-wife-beating movie "Enough-, that movie with Jennifer Lopez as a waitress, but it was oh-so-terrible, I had to give up. Heart-rending-ly terrible. The beginning was really rushed and jumpy, and the characters were not interesting, at all. The dialog sucked, too. Let see, what movies have I seen that didn't suck? I watched Napoleon Dynamite again. That movie is great. I can't believe that's Hillary Duff's sister as Summer. What's her name? Hailey? Comet? She doesn't suck, in it. How strange. I hope she doesn't fuck up Joan of Arcadia too much. Her sister certainly did.
I have a friend who's a good friend, but when I tell her something's a nice shade of red, she says it is actually pink. She also points out the strangest clothes hanging up in the store and insists that they are "me-. I have no idea who she thinks I am. If she would let me finish the sentences I start instead of interrupting me to guess what I'm going to say, she might learn something; who I really am. I think that's just the way it is with people. You have to accept them the way they are.
I don't know if I can sort out my problems. I don't think I'm going to be able to get myself out of the mess I've gotten myself into. Unless I win the lottery, I don't think I have any hope of digging myself out. I could get a second job, but having my weekends free makes me feel so human and rested all through the week. I would never go to the gym again if I got a second job. Ya know? I don't know if I can sort out my problems. I don't think I have the ability.
I'd make a good girlfriend if given half a chance. I'll try to be less selfish, most of the time. I'd do what's right and I wouldn't cheat. I'd give the guy space. I'm a very physical person, which is a plus (some guys do not like to be physical, though, in spite of the stereotype to the contrary. In that case, we're just too different. It's not you, it's me). C'mon guys, give me a try. I'm fun at parties. Can both mime and do imitations (Full disclosure: can't actually mime; "imitations"consist of Ethyl Merman singing about porn).
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