2004-03-30 - 11:09 p.m.
I've been putting off writing this, waiting for a day where I have funny interesting sensical things to recount.
This day is not coming in the lifetime of me.
The days aren't bad by default necessarily, but they aren't the thing you would write home about.
Or if you were going to write home, it would go something like -
"Dear Home,
I made a cake for Father's birthday on Sunday. The icing was quite nice. Things are going well here, except roaches keep darting out at me and causing girly shrieking and arm flailing. Strangely it only occurs when I am doing homework. Maybe it's a sign? Anyway, hope things are well on your end.
Babs xxx"
And that's while using the edit-out-pages-of-crap function...
The truthful account would be more like... can I dare give it? We'll claim the honesty is only virtual and thus punningly cheapened, eh.
"Dear Home,
I've started having the baby dreams again. I'm haunted by this need for a life inside me, and I'd seemingly settle for someone else's.
The days blur by while I lose myself in a series of growingly complex fantasies, chocolate, and my pseudoparent, television. The last two are relatively natural for me, but I fear the fantasies are evidence of irrationality.
There's usually a boy and there's always pain. It used to be me crying in them but now it's him. I don't want to know what it means.
Today I unexpectedly started bawling because there was no icecream in the house. When someone offered to get me some, I refused, went to my chosen corner, and cried harder.
There's a good chance that I'm more than a little unhinged but it's easier to argue that it's P.P.M.S.
But I can't say things are bad. I've been badder, and others even worse so. I can't even say that things are new.
I chew the same old cud but I've run out of stomachs.
So life can vaguely be described as nice, and I'm just not sure what to do about it, not sure that I should try, keeping one eye on the potential point in the distant future where I can just give up everything, as if it would be some relief.
Trying to diet is a lot harder than starvation or overeating.
Damn the middle ground and the low roads and high roads, none of it gets me anywhere.
Babs xxx"
This day is not coming in the lifetime of me.
The days aren't bad by default necessarily, but they aren't the thing you would write home about.
Or if you were going to write home, it would go something like -
"Dear Home,
I made a cake for Father's birthday on Sunday. The icing was quite nice. Things are going well here, except roaches keep darting out at me and causing girly shrieking and arm flailing. Strangely it only occurs when I am doing homework. Maybe it's a sign? Anyway, hope things are well on your end.
Babs xxx"
And that's while using the edit-out-pages-of-crap function...
The truthful account would be more like... can I dare give it? We'll claim the honesty is only virtual and thus punningly cheapened, eh.
"Dear Home,
I've started having the baby dreams again. I'm haunted by this need for a life inside me, and I'd seemingly settle for someone else's.
The days blur by while I lose myself in a series of growingly complex fantasies, chocolate, and my pseudoparent, television. The last two are relatively natural for me, but I fear the fantasies are evidence of irrationality.
There's usually a boy and there's always pain. It used to be me crying in them but now it's him. I don't want to know what it means.
Today I unexpectedly started bawling because there was no icecream in the house. When someone offered to get me some, I refused, went to my chosen corner, and cried harder.
There's a good chance that I'm more than a little unhinged but it's easier to argue that it's P.P.M.S.
But I can't say things are bad. I've been badder, and others even worse so. I can't even say that things are new.
I chew the same old cud but I've run out of stomachs.
So life can vaguely be described as nice, and I'm just not sure what to do about it, not sure that I should try, keeping one eye on the potential point in the distant future where I can just give up everything, as if it would be some relief.
Trying to diet is a lot harder than starvation or overeating.
Damn the middle ground and the low roads and high roads, none of it gets me anywhere.
Babs xxx"
