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I was apparently more tired than I thought. This afternoon I got home from work, got confronted with food I wasn't hungry for, but felt obligated to eat. Then I lounged on my bed for a few minutes... I was going to watch some simpsons. I was going to play a few games. I was maybe even going to clean up a little, try to get the piles of books in order and find an order to my general mess.
I laid back for a few minutes and the next thing I know it's around 8 o'clock and it's clear that my being awake the last couple hours was just a dream.
And I'm still sleepy, I know I'll sleep just fine tonight.

I don't nap. It just doesn't work for me. And I can't figure why I was so exhausted today, aside from that whole ovary thing.

As it was put in a conversation the other day, it's not me that's emotional, overly sensitive, cranky and needy. It's my ovaries.
My mood? My mood is excellent.
But my ovaries are *pissed*

I've enough pure, unbridled female hormonal shifting power for whole morning-jog-devoted bands of post-menopausal centruum silver ladies. This month it's turned into tearing up at certain Simpsons episodes and finding that it's just easier most of the time to keep my mouth shut and mope through it all than to open up a little. Becuase it's a deluge in here.
When it hurricanes, it monsoons. When it waves, it tsunamis.
I'm an emotional girl anyway... but boy howdy do you want to avoid me and my ripe-tomato heart sometimes.

Nothing new, any of this.

I've been reading Invisible Monsters. Probably not the most 'healthy' book for me to be reading at the moment. But fuck that. It's an incredibly good book. It's wonderful and painful and it feels, not like the slap in the face, but the weird, tingling, hot handprint aftermath.
It's the sort of thing I want to read chunks of aloud to people.
It's the sort of thing that I read and find myself wanting to be a writer. And find myself knowing I'd never be a writer like that.

I miss my crackhead writing style. Go back far enough in this journal and you'll see it nearly every day. Clipped 4 word statements piled together. Nothing linear, nothing sensical. All cryptic, cheshire cat half-talk. Because I was so fucked up I needed to say it right there, all out in front. And I also needed no one to understand it so I could feed that part of me that wants to be misunderstood.
And then, I could pretend some meaningful connection if you cracked the code. And I could just as easily yank that away when it became clear that you just got lucky with the decoder ring those few times.
Becuase I was really fucked up.
Nothing new, any of this.

There aren't enough hours in the day. There aren't enough legal stimulants to get me motivated enough to fix enough to make me happy enough to make my life full enough to stop needing stimulants just to wake up enough to put on clothes and put in contacts and put on a nametag.

nothing new.

I'm not in a bad mood really. I'm just feeling so bland faced, ironic, cynical, and such a product of my force-fed gen-x-yness that it's a shame, really, how much I loathe starbucks.
I'm smirky and mellow and lowkey and deadpan. I've been reading too much Palanhiuk.

heh, going to make some phone calls... share the crap that passes for personality and humor if you just remember to never ever smile in an honest way. heh... you know what I mean.

Comments

( 1 comment — Leave a comment )
saintsteven
Dec. 31st, 2002 11:45 am (UTC)
I just finished up Choke and Survivor.

Really good stuff.. lots of fun.
( 1 comment — Leave a comment )

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