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2000-02-06 I'm still not writing here in my diary as much as I'd like. I know, it's mine and I can do anything I want in it, but I remember how I was with a paper journal. I'll look back and see a month or two of earnest writings, note taking, and thought-producing, and then a months-to-years gap before the next entry. The funniest ones are the entries that stop literally mid-sentance. "I really ought to do something but" I often forget what I was thinking minutes later, and am reputed for jumping around seemingly non-sequitor like. Try following that train of thought up after six months to a year. I don't know if my lack of mental focus is necessarily a shortcoming of my character. Occasionally it comes in handy for art, and it often amuses people with the strange wit it engenders. But it certainly gets me into trouble at work, and with The Boyfriend. What were we talking about? Every day this week has been about a particular type of chaos and, to be blunt, about me fucking something up. Monday I was publicly ridiculed and villified as a racist idiot in an epic, three-hour-long staff meeting. OK, racist is a bit harsh, but the suggestion I made for trade show giveaways was considered "culturally inappropriate," which stung for a while afterwards. And lets face it - a three-hour meeting itself is simply cruel and inhumane. Tuesday was chaos in the material realm. Things flew from my hands, mechanisms broke down, electronics failed. Wednesday was an intellectual "dead" day. I produced nothing important at work, but stayed late to do it. Thursday was the closest to an OK day I've had -- the chaos seemed to be owned by other people that day. Friday I exploded at the Roommate, who was burning the foulest incense I've ever smelled and listening to very loud dance music when I got home. Maybe I overreacted. Maybe I was passive-agressive. But I was tired. Last night I managed to not go out with the Boyfriend. I'm certain that there's nothing wrong -- he was playing with his and his roommate's new iMacs, trying to network them; I was playing Diablo; and we talked on the phone for an hour or so -- but it always feels like there's an *issue* when I don't see him on Saturday Night. So here we sit on Sunday morning, first cup of coffee, writing. Wondering what I will fuck up today. Maybe I can offend my parents. If I believed in God I could offend him -- oh, wait, I probably already have. Is this the reason why Catholics came up with confession? It must be nice to know that you can always sit down with someone and have them tell you "It's OK. Everybody makes dumb mistakes, says the wrong thing, overreacts and offends others. You are forgiven for your errors." The fundies say people like me will burn in hell for our sins. They seem to think that the hell part comes later. How very Sartre. Hell is other people, eh? [Slapping self] I woke up with determination, that I'd get groceries and file paperwork and clean things and do something nice for other people. But by the time I sat down to start writing I'd lost that determination. Maybe I'll play video games instead. Blah. Blah.
2003-03-29 - Moving Notice |
