Eyes painted red

"Baby come

Baby go."

-patti smith

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Alright, serious discussion time. (maybe.)

The appearance and the internet is such a fuzzy thing. I wonder if I was drawn to the internet - three years ago - because I thought I was highly unattractive. (truth be told, I rather was.) I liked it when people said "You have wisdom beyond your years." It felt nice; whether they meant it or not. (and it didn't occur to me at the time that they were just being rediculous.) People I've known online have always said kinder things to me than those who've spent time with me in real life.

Which makes me wonder: I get tired of typing sometimes. It gets me down. I don't type as fast as I'd like, and my fingers get sore, and it just gets monotonous. At the same time, I wonder if I'd rather type than talk. I mutter and stumble over words and am horribly awkward to talk to. I like seeing things written out before me. I like being able to revise. (sadly, I rarely take advantage of this. I prefer email to say, telephone, and yet I don't take my time and don't think myself out.) What do I do when I tire of typing, if I'm terrible in real life? Shut myself in my room?

And why do people prefer to talk to me online? Is it because I hide parts of myself? I project a different Margaret? Subconsciously, I'd rather be someone different than me. I'd rather play the madman poet. The erotic sybil. The punk rocker. The madwoman. A cypher. I wonder about this. (This is such a stereotypical argument that it's getting on my nerves. I think it's been trod to death, to tell you the truth.)

No no no no no. I'm none of those, no matter what I say to you. I'm just this mopey middle class american girl. I wear keds (y'know, the dorky shoes) and listen to U2. I read a bit. I do not "run through the streets / eyes painted red." I am mediocre, and am (sometimes even happily) blundering through my life. I am not a philosopher, I do not have "wisdom beyond my years," and I'm not particularly pretty.

At the same time, I can tell you that I've been more honest with people online than I've been with people in real life. In fact, most people just think that I'm incredibly self deprecatory. I know my flaws and don't try to hide them. I can be hateful and dark and vengeful. Ruthless. Catty. Petty. (They show up more online too. The net brings out my furious side.) It's easier to be honest about these things online.

And maybe I like being able to control how I look to people online.

I think I'm probably more attractive than I was in middle school. Yes, that is a fair statement. Do I think I'm particularly attractive now? I have thighs like a rhinocerous. And no waist. Do I think the pictures of me posted online are particularly attractive? You can't see my waist, now can you? I don't think they're that bad looking. I mean, they're funny looking. Then again, I think most humans are quite funny looking.

Ahem. For completeness, that would be my bad complexion and lack of waist. I don't think I've ever quite looked that bad. And my living room. Happy now?

I got an email from someone that doesn't think that I'm unattractive. "No. I'm not pretty. I am not." I keep saying this, and I think I mean it. I keep trying to prove to this person that I'm not attractive. Except I like it. I really do. So, deep down, I don't really want him to think that I'm unattractive. Even though I keep taking ugly pictures of myself and posting them online. I like it when people say "Your narcissism is well founded." Because people don't say this to me in real life. Unless they're related to me. It gives me an ego boost. And it messes with my mind.

I knew a boy, once, who said I was beautiful. And I was cruel to him. I think he's sick right now. I still feel guilty over what I did to him.

This is hard. This is stuff that would be easy if I were anonymous, or if my friends didn't read this, or if all you internet folk didn't read this. But I like it this way. I think. I'm less paranoid, at least. When I was writing my anonymous journal, I thought I was so brave by talking about these things. But I wasn't. I couldn't post pictures of myself. I could face my friends tomorrow without flinching. I wouldn't have to deal with this. (I'm not being terribly brave now, but y'know. It's all perspective.)

I'm sorry this is so garbled. I'm tired. I am not happy and I am bleeding. I haven't had any meaningful email in a few hours. Curse you, humans! I'm going to build a robot that will satisfy all of my ego crazed urges. Then I'll never have to bother with another person as long as I live.

That's really a crazy good idea. I just need someone to tell me, on a regular basis; "margaret is wonderful. margaret is a genius. margaret is beautiful. margaret is my best friend. margaret is a good person. margaret's psycho christian references make perfect sense, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera!" I don't even care if it's a robot. In fact, I'd prefer it be a robot.

(haha, I really did get a friend to say that to me.)

Yup.

I am currently groggy and in pain. (Take a wrench to my uterus, why don't you?) Once again, I apologize.

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By the way, community service meetings are so much more fun when you're hopped up on Valium. Really. (I'll find a use for this pill yet!) You know what else I've learned recently? Olive oil in your hair does strange things, and I do not recommend it. Take my word. I now speak from experience.

I spent most of this weekend padding around the house barefoot. It's been cold, and my feet have been cold. I am one massive masochist. I slept a lot too. I think I'm regressing. Well, I'm a second semester senior now. Not much I do has many consequences. As long as I don't flunk out. I need to see my therapist. The internet makes a poor listener. I have no control. Oh, aether. Ah me.

2000-01-23, Margaret is sort of ugly, but we already knew this.

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