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corky will be back. the ocean is from this site. |
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the muffin man the muffin man blah blah blah the muffin man Fri|08.23 My niece is two weeks and a year from sixteen, which is so odd. SO ODD. She can speak Spanish now, and maybe she has a boyfriend. I don't know, we're not close like we were, oh, 13 years ago. I was about to begin my last year of college when she was born. Her mother, my sister-in-law, is my age. From the moment I saw that girl, just a few hours old, I loved her more than I have ever loved anyone. It was painful. I wanted to kidnap her. I didn't think her mother could understand her like I did. I felt that I should be the one to raise her. I didn't do it, but man how I wanted to. I would pat her back for hours to get her to sleep. Pick her up, hold her, rock her, feed her, extend my fingers for her to wrap her tiny hands around as I guided her through toddling steps. She liked it when I blew on the back of her sparse fine hair. She liked to pick lint off the rug and hold it up to me, wonder on her face. She was the sweetest baby to exist, ever. She almost never cried. I think she went entire days without crying, not because she was happy, but because she was peaceful, and passive, and way too accepting. I recognized the look in her eyes as my own, and as that of most of my immediate family's. When I look at pictures of her at her first birthday party, I'm amazed by how young we are. I remember how she felt in my arms, how she smelled, how perfect she was. She was fascinated by each strip of paper she pulled from her presents, by the shape and color, and she held them up in offering, much like the lint from the carpet. At her second birthday party, I watched from the porch with her mother and her mother's friend as the friend's devil spawn walked up to my niece on her big wheel and lifted it up by the handles, tipping my niece onto the ground. The mothers looked at each other uncomfortably, and did nothing. I glared at them, and at the child, and at my niece, who was bewildered and rubbing the back of her head, and then crying. The bully kid was now riding the big wheel. Was he spoken to? No. I wanted to kill that child, and his mother. And give my sister-in-law a stern talking-to. I didn't run out onto the lawn, I didn't pick her up, comfort her. I didn't tip the kid over and give the big wheel back to my niece. I thought it was up to the parents, but they did nothing. I thought I shouldn't step in. I still kick myself for that, when I think of it. I still feel the rage and the hurt of my niece, and I know that it's mine, not hers. She's fine. She's more than fine. She seems to be an incredible young woman, and I don't know her anymore. I moved away, cut myself off, and have stayed in sporadic touch with them. If I'd stayed, how would it be? It's hard to know. Feeling sorry for myself is not the only recourse; I could take the steps to fix things. Upcoming days will go by whether I'm talking to them more or not. Why not do it? it's over it's over now it's my turn move over now Thurs|08.22 Dear people. I see you daily. Slowly, slowly, you are making me insane. I know you don't mean to. Yes, it's probably me. Isn't that always the way. But, if you don't mind? Don't clip your nails on the bus, or anywhere near me. I mean really. And when you have a cold, or quite possibly TB? Your hand will fit nicely over your mouth while you're hacking your lungs out. For those of you with the allergy problems, my sympathies. You've not yet heard about "tissues" and let me tell you, they are quite useful when blowing your nose. There's no longer a reason to blow snot rockets onto the floor of the bus, not once you have tissues. Seriously. KLEENEX! They make an excellent tissue. Stop spitting. When I'm trying to get past you, out of my seat? I would like you to move more than your knees. When you stand in front of the door, and you're not getting out? You are blocking the door, and I can't yet walk through you. When I say "excuse me"? That means GET THE FUCK OUT THE WAY. It doesn't mean, lift your shoulder in a fake-out "see I'm flexible! go on through me out the door!" Next time, I push you outside with me. I'm not kidding. We will take it up from there. And you will represent everyone who has ever shoved past me on the the sidewalk while walking three people across and not giving an INCH, you will be the person with the shopping bags that hit me in the head, the backpack carrier who clocked my face with it, because there is just NO WAY TO KNOW that your ENORMOUS BACKPACK IS KILLING PEOPLE AROUND YOU!!! How would you know? What? This giant thing attached to me back? Isn't rendered nonexistent when I can't see it? NO IT IS NOT. I hate you, man who won't put his legs together and takes up three seats. I hate you, newspaper reader who brushes my hair with the edge of the paper every time you turn the page. I hate you, loud cell phones and some of the people who talk on them. No, I will not give you money. I didn't yesterday, and I won't tomorrow. I don't care how many legs you're missing. I CANNOT HELP THAT. I hate you, Marina people. I hate overhearing your annoying chatter and I hate being stuck anywhere near you, where I am forced to acknowledge your existence. I hate you and I hate your ass face. (No not YOU.) he's a mahhhhhnnnnn he's JUST a mahhhhhnnnnn Mon|08.19 Second year of college I went into the therapy for a bit and she had a weird name I had never heard of before and I wasn't even sure how to spell it but it turned out to be sppeelled completely different from how I would've spelt it. She was blonde, rail-thin, very proper, big blue eyes, and I guess attractive? But she was just so no-nonsense and unsmiley that I couldn't tell if I thought she was pretty or not. Not that it matters! I mean my god she was a PROFESSIONAL. I guess she was a social worker or something? I dunno. The school referred me to her. Is this going to be another story about some guy hitting on me? WELL is there any other kind of story??? I MEAN PLEASE!!! Do you think the waiting room of a bunch of social workers is EXEMPT from the HITTING ON OF ME??? WELL DO YOU???? Anyway for some reason she asked to read my journals and I handed them over (I was on journal no. 2 by that time) and I was kind of nervous but proud at the same time, because I was a FREAKIN GEENYUS and maybe she would publish me! I knew she was a social worker but still, you never do know. When you're dealing with a FREAKIN GEENYUS you call people, you pull strings. I mean Houghton Mifflin was just down the street for criminy's sake. When I got them back, the second one was bookmarked with a small green rip of paper. I opened it to see what she'd seen. What had made her mark that spot? Why THERE? And why had she forgotten to take it out? Sillyhead. How sloppy. I never would've forgotten to do that. Unless I was MEANT to see it. Hmmmmmmmmm. Deep. A mind fuck? Or forgetful? Hmmmmmmm. I read the pages on either side, nothing too significant. I decided it had to be, "there is always the ocean"--a very vague suicide threat. Not threat. What's the word? I dunno. It struck me that she hadn't been reading for pleasure, or from the burning need to know moooore about me, but was trying to figure out what the fuck was my problem and right there, she had found a little something, I talked about walking into the ocean. WOW! Put a little green marker on THAT page, Bob. The freakin OCEAN. She ignored the intense outbursts that often broke through the paper, and my calling everyone I knew and some I didn't a "bloody fuck" (my favorite insult at the time, so evocative) in several entries. Oh so that guy who hit on me, we used to be in the waiting room at the same time. I was almost 19, or maybe I was 19 at that point, and he was middle-aged, seemed blue-collar, was going through a divorce, had a beer belly. He was sweet and his depression was touching, the way it showed itself in his eyeballs, and in the elevator he asked me out and I said I had a boyfriend. THE FUCKING END. hello my love I heard this from you Sat|08.17 Yay, dead elvis. I was 10, how old were you? Who gives a shit. I have one of those headaches that makes me want to puke. CHOP OFF MY HEAD! I would beg my boyfriend, when we lived together. YEARS AGO. He always refused. Bastard. caution: this is a hate-filled and expletive-laced entry It's my own damn fault for sleeping so much. Then I go outside and wander around and sweat for some fucking reason I guess because I am ENORMOUS and I SLEPT FOR LIKE !$ hours and my body don't know WHAT to do, and then I'm in the cold and icicles form on my sideburns. Okay not really, to some of that. The other parts are true, though. So I finally bought Mr. Show and because I'm insane with the payday I also bought Big Lebowski so now I can watch it on video and DVD at the same fucking time. Are there any extras to Lebowski? Aww hell no, why would the Coen Bros. put in any m.f'ing extras? You know they hate you. (You did know that, right? Well they do. Especially YOU over there in the corner. Yeah, I see you. Freak.) I almost bought Fast Food Nation but I'm not done with meat yet. Maybe some other time. When I think about what I was like, and am still like, it makes me so angry. I was a wuss, a doormat, a mindless thought-free drunken slut waiting to be molded by some fuckhead asshole who thought it was his right. Well it was, wasn't it? I sure didn't stop it. And I'm still attracted to that type, and I still want to be molded, and I still need to be alone because of it. I can't be myself when I'm with someone. Fucking Dr. V used to call me passive and he was right, though he's still a bastard, and I'm much less so, thanks to my 30s and medication, but I haven't tested it much. I will fall back into it just like I fall back into drinking, just like I fall back into junk and sugar and crack. Okay some of that's not true. I AINT ON THE PIPE! Well maybe. Okay I'm not! Maybe. No! Maybe. I love my cat. She's staring at me, and when I looked over she looked away like, no, I'm not looking at you! I don't EVEN know you're THERE. Sure, cat. Sure. aRcHiVeS | hOmE |
