A disjointed narrative
I was reading my last entry and laughing hysterically because I sounded like a messed up inspirational poster. The paragraph about driving, in particular, cracked me up. The sad thing is, it didn't occur to me that it could be read as a metaphor for life. I really do find myself looking out the windows while I'm driving - and then nearly crashing. Do I have any deep and personal reasons for doing this? Do I particularly want to savor my life instead of focusing on my future? Or am I just a nit-wit who's gonna get in an accident? (Doesn't it make you feel safe to learn that I'm not watching the oncoming road? Yeah, thought so...) It's like I watch myself and try to think of all the deeper meanings of the stupid things I do, and guess what - sometimes there just is no deeper meaning and I'm just a nit-wit.
Also, I had a surprising reaction from mike about my last entry. "i can't tell you how nauseated i am that you wrote a paragraph about menstruation...theres no need for that graphic content when men will be reading...." I'm pretty sure he was joking about the "men" part. And if he wasn't, woe upon his soul. I'd like to say that I don't write anything for shock value (only attention getting measures). I seriously didn't think any of my friends would care if I wrote about my period. They might care that I didn't do such a wonderful job writing about my period, but that's different than being "nauseated."
Enough of that. I've been reading "The Importance of being Earnest" by Oscar Wilde. The subtitle of the play is either "A serious play for trivial people," or "A trivial play for serious people." Either way, it's the new title. Light, happy - no philosophical reason attatched. I haven't really figured out why our english class went from Oedipus Rex to Wilde, but I'm enjoying "The Importance of being Earnest." I can't help thinking "Dave Foley" every time I see the name Oscar Wilde. Damn you, kids in the hall! I'm becoming testy about what I read - a bad sign. That shouldn't happen for at least thirty more years. If I don't finish a book, I blame the author and not myself (as I used to do). Why didn't I read Oedipus Rex? 'Cause Sophocles droned on in monotone? Or is it because I have the attention span of a gnat?
My father is completely senile. Not completely, but four times tonight at dinner he asked me how my squash was. He said this was because he is a chef, and needs possitive reinforcement if we're gonna expect him to keep up cooking for us. That doesn't account for the fact that he asked me four times how my squash was - having forgotten the previous times he inquired. My parents fought today about the grocery list - my father was angry that my mother had left it in the car when she went to the supermarket. It seems almost amusing to write that they fought over groceries and the fact that my mother forgot peppercorns and bought too much orange juice. Sometimes I think one of the strains on my father's relationship with me is the fact that I resemble my mother more than anyone else on either side of the family.
I have her Scottish face, and her bumbling demeanor, and her breasts, and her voice, and her forgetfulness and her scatter-brained qualities, and her affinity for food, and her depression. All the things that drive him mad, I seem to have inherited. (Oh, look at me blaming heredity.) When he's angry at her, he transfers it to me. I'm in far too good a mood right now to be serious. At the same time as I'm giddy, it was disturbing hearing my family fight over such trivial things.
Spy Eye 13: I was just thinking about you. I was going to complaign about the new zeotrope.
hang10hon: why?
Spy Eye 13: there's no list of links. I use that list of links. I need that list of links.
Spy Eye 13: oh wait. there it is at the bottom. terribly sorry.
hang10hon: its at the bottom!
hang10hon: tim you make me laugh
Spy Eye 13: I make me laugh tooTim has a diary. Go read Tim's diary and bug him about his spelling.
My cat has a congenital breathing problem. It's not really a problem so much as an annoyance when one is attempting to sleep. He snorts and gurgles and sniffs everything. Right now he's licking a bowl of ice cream and making his SnoreCat noises. It's completely impossible to render them with these limited alphanumeric letters, but if you could imagine a harmonica stuck on one tone - it's kind of like that. Snort snort snort - tip the bowl over - knock the spoon on the floor - snort snort. It's a regular symphony. I just took some pictures of it.
My grammar is shot to hell tonight. My spelling is shot to hell tonight. My sense of gravity is shot to hell tonight. My keyboard is shot to hell tonight. My mind is shot to hell. I'm out of it. (That implies that there are times when I'm not out of it.) This is my twenty fifth entry. What's the convention for the 25th anniversary? Bronze? Tin?
2000-02-19, A disjointed narrative
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