Oh, God, nothing makes me so angry as hating the way some institutions are handling shit (especially when it's my shit) and knowing that it's wholly futile to protest.
Lots of people love you. We all have to put up with noxious human beings whose creation and subsequently irritating existence we just can't seem to justify no matter how openminded we try to be. Oh, well. They'll get their comeuppance on judgment day, just like . . . well, just like all the rest of us. We're all doomed!
It's just that some of my interpersonal relationships are not proving their worth - in fact, they're proving abusive and nasty and very little fun.
Anyway. I've been listening to the Ballad of Tom Jones, which is absolutely hilarious. Totally worth seeking out. It's a wonderful duet. Tomjonestomjones! Mwahahahahah!
2003-07-09, do you believe in me or are you leaving me
Aw, Ariel. Aw shucks.
I just got back from New York. Whee! Crazy gymnastic psycho modern dance named after spores! LOEHMANS, sweet Jesus, there are still Loehmans in this world! Slut-ho clothes at cheap prices! Designer clothes at slightly less than designer prices! Leather coats! Clearance racks a mile long! Glory be! They don't even have the communal changing room anymore. It seems inappropriate to thank Jesus - doesn't Loehmans seem very Jewish? But oh. Oh, whoever is the mighty God of money-lenders and capitalists, and specifically of retail, I love you. And owe you a cow.
I bought two dresses. One is long-sleeved, heather grey, with brown trip at the bottom, and a crewel-work-esque detail at the belled sleeves. It is cool. It is also waiting for me to lose 20 pounds, and for the winter. The other is red with turquoise and white geometric pattern. Asymmetrical hem. It is double-plus-stylish. Fun and dancey. Then a floral & lace skirt, a hot hot hot red polka-dot tank top, and I am too cool for any school you know.
Now! Now, tomorrow I'm getting paid to do yard work which has me thrilled. I'm plotting trips to H&M in Connecticut, oh how the retail gods have smiled on me lately, and I'm going to schedule a haircut (at some point - it's gettin ratty-ass). And be cool. Oh you know it.
Sure, the dance was the point of that trip to NYC, but you KNOW that retail was the hightlight. I am nothing if not a well-dressed whore of capitalism.
2003-07-05, Yeah, there was some art too. Capital A, Art.
Bean came by tonight, and she just left. I'm still floating from having seen her. My parents fawn over her, and do what they always do with the girlfriends of mine that they love - tell her dorky stories about woodpeckers and make her look at bird books. Then we went to the new cafe in town, drank coffee and ate dessert. She asked me a thousand and one questions about the boys in Wales, and I answered all of them. Then we talked about her.
We talked about sex and love, and I'm beginning to realize how good it is to have a really solid conversation partner for the subject, and how important it is to have someone with similar experiences. I know that I used to be very deer in headlights when people talked to me about their relationships, especially their problems, because I was just so absolutely clueless. Not like I'm the queen of experience now, but I know a bit more and I also don't get stupid jealous like I used to. I think I'm better at being genuinely happy for people when they're in a good relationship.
Oh, I hate the word relationship. Hate it, hate it, hate it. Not the idea, just the stupid sounding word.
We talked about the socially graceless things I've done, and man, there have really been some zingers. But Bean is nothing if not forgiving, thank you baby Jesus.
I showed her pictures of the last guy I dated, and she thought he was so cute. He is so my favorite, and I know that could really be damning with faint praise, but he was wonderful on many counts, and definitely cute and nerdy enough for me. I mean, there's no way of knowing what would have happened, but he was lovely.
It's wonderful to have someone who has felt what I feel, who knows what it felt like. It sounds so so so lame, but Bean and me understand each other sometimes in a dreamy way.
Shit, I'm pretty happy right now, and it feels wonderful.
2003-06-30, la la love
I drove down the parkway like a somnabulist. I think this is what Sarah once called emotionally confused.
He wrote me an email, and it reminded me of when I spent time with him. I would have convinced myself that I didn't care for him one iota, but I'd spend time with him and change my mind. Partly, I'm sure, because he was there, he liked me an awful lot, (he adored me, how nice it was to be adored!), he was a willing and appropriate partner, I could bring him home to my parents. But it was easy to talk to him. And he was cute (he had little mole eyes! Hahahaha, mole-boy!). Hearing from him reminded me of things I liked about him. He writes like me, scarily enough. And calls me all the right names, without my ever telling them to him.
The volvo struggled up the hills, and swerved on the uneasy bridge over the gin & tonic river.
Steph asked me if I was going to "save myself for him." I should have teased her for using such an eighties phrase, but I just scoffed at the suggestion. But I suppose I should wonder why I feel like I'm full of sawdust. I guess I kinda miss my west-midlands boy.
2003-06-29, washed up like a shell
Instead of "working" I've been reading Feminism and Prostitution, and think it's pretty good for the most part. I don't necessarily agree with some of the analysis (why are feminists always, always going on about how this lust for power drives every social engagement? Why can't it just be lust?) it's interesting to read the study. In nine years of research, all of the prostitutes she talked to cited economic reasons behind their entrance into the business. A lot of them seemed to feel emotional strife and develop psychological techniques for dealing, or "making out." Most of their clients are married men (there's a study with statistics from the US on this).
It's much more interesting than inhaling carcinogens as I shelve Gov Docs. Well, that sounds like I'm damning it with faint praise, but I do think it's a good book. It's incredibly hard to find books that I think are any good on the subject.
Do you know what's unnerving? The only thing to send me into a quivering blob of tears and snot in the past few months has been the notice my oldschool therapist sent me saying that she's quittin' the biz. How's that for awful? The only time I need a therapist is when she's decided to retire. It actually has made me horribly hideously sad. What good is a friend-for-hire if you can't hire them forever? And really, this means that she's dying (like all of us) and that's just sad. >
I'm crying right now, I don't know what's wrong with me. I guess I figured I'd see her again, but I thought she'd always be a therapist and always available, so I could put it off forever. And I've had other shrinks skip out on me (like Jean Marie after my sophomore year) and I've felt this way too. I'm going to slip into psychobabble, and probably cry some more, and moan about my fear of abandonment and how this all isn't helping, or whatever. >
What's wrong with me? I must need my happy pills adjusted. >
My family feels like the mafia. My father is holding ME responsible for the fact that my slack-ass lazy brother hasn't got a job and it's the end of June. Now, whose fault is that? I keep suggesting that he start harvesting his organs and selling them on the black market, but noooo, it's somehow MY fault that he doesn't have a job. Whatever! Who needs BOTH eyeballs? >
> Honestly. >
> Anyway, I'm sorry about all of this various sadness and anger. Hey, I'm sexually frustrated too! Want to hear about that? Ah but I doubt it. And I'm mostly kidding. My cat's breath smells like catfood. aggle aggle.
> I'll try that "forget you fools" line. Quality family time is a myth > invented by the Florida Tourism board. >
> love you,
> marge >
Ah, Margarita, I'm so sorry about your therapist. This is why I can't stress enough that the only therapist you need is liquor, and lots of it. It's easily accessed and readily available, and as long as this great country of ours has anything to do with it, it will never ever run out on you. Poor Margaret. I suppose the best thing to do would be to wait a few years and then find a therapist who's younger than you are, and will probably not retire before you cease needing her services.
Sadness, anger, sexual frustration - what would we be without them? We'd be really freaking boring and smug smurf-like creatures with no art and no souls, is what we'd be. Actually, I just flipped to a mental picture of you as the female smurf which is quite adorable. With the big white hat and flower. That doesn't help anything, but it amuses me.
If your brother can't harvest his organs, would he consider muling cocaine across the border? Or employment in any of Middletown's finer escort services? Why on earth would you, rather than the depressed economy and a shortage of jobs on all levels except perhaps for migrant workers, be responsible for his not having work? Ah, how I adore the absolute lack of logic involved in family relationships. Talk to you later.
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