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I was going to entitle this soon to be written piece: Born to Bitch because
I feel like biting and snapping at things (in a non-sexual way). Fuck
being nice to me. It's wasted.
Of course, what I really want is someone to negate it all (I picture that scene where the troubled teen is all surly and negative and a sally field hugs her/him while he kicks and screams and eventually cries and says "I love you mom".)
It's raining in this city. It seems to rain all the time now - either that or stay at low-sixties, and - you guessed it - I'm sick of it. My boss is still asleep. I too would love to still be asleep. It's raining, and we all love a good lie-in - preferably with a beloved who has decided to join you in 'calling in sick' or perhaps even a lover who is independently wealthy and adores you for you and your creative enlivening self.
Yes, FPC = Former Precious Child. A friend of mine was extolling the virtues of this lovely innocent teen. A teen who still thought it was all possible. I think that is why we like the young. They don't know how much it hurts and what that makes you. Greg and i coined that "former precious child" t-shirt. We thought we'd distribute it to the homeless or welfared - maybe in sweatshirt form as it's more often cold than warm. However, we are jaded and dull and don't believe in doing things anymore... just talking about them. Ah the days when I was a Precious Child.
So, my hair got wet as a rabbit (it's raining). I wiped it off with a paper towel and black dye still is coming off - after a week. (I have short short hair for the first time EVER, and i dyed it black because I wear black on my head because black is how I feel on the inside - or I'm in mourning for my hair - decision is yours.)
That reminds me, people tell you sometimes - in a relationship - that they are going to start doing something - change and relate with you in a new way. In my particular case it was that I would be henceforth making the decisions and that no advice would be forthcoming. People don't change.
Don't be fooled precious children.
I am a failure as a precious child that our country poured all its hope upon. Some even fought that I would not be aborted. How kind.
I need to be around cheerful people, but I dislike being around people. My last cheerful friend turned into a psycho cheerful friend. I would probably make cheerful people sad as I always am the one who delves and probes:
"you're not REALLY cheerful are you. Tell me something dark within you.
Show me!".
It's raining here. I have to watch some dude's tape of him skydiving then find some fuzzy dice and nylon bags for people. I'll be divorced on friday, and some dude who I relate with told me to postpone it and get therapy.
Charming. We should go to therapy together. Mark still doesn't believe he deserves to be loved - not REALLY. I keep telling him that I'm just a cheating whore who is rather sad that I'm no longer a former precious child but rather a cog in the wheel adult.
I read some detective maigret book when I got home last night. I drank three beers and smoked all my cigarettes (I'll be quitting again starting today with a patch I found from cleaning up a party the gallery had this weekend. ah sweet fate - see a kind of good note). I thought about being alone briefly - then I thought about nothing but how I knew all along the bookkeeper had done it, but I was happy for the company.
I was brave and read what I had written last night on my new novella/novel.
Actually, I only read about four pages because it sickened me. Then I started "A Moveable Feast" and was shocked to actually like hemingway's style, and again the comparison dejected me. I'm not hemingway.
It's raining here.
I regret to always be bitching. I mostly write when I'm sad and feeling it because that's really what I use you for - my fucked-up attempt at intimacy.
Who are you? I knew I would be sad this week as it's the ole countdown to the unhitching of the yoke; however, I was rather surprised that events transpired that I would be going through this alone - save email buddies.
Even Mark is out of town this week.
I just picked up the phone and sighed in frustration (how DARE they interrupt me while I'm writing my sub-par long rambling bitch column where I bemoan my loss of childish flexibility) then I put on my cheerful voice for which I'm paid and answered with my call sign.
Only eight more hours until I get four hours to stay in the fetal position.
Happy stories full of wit and sweet hope to come.
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