This Won't Slide. Not This Time.
I kept a journal on my computer in Las Cruces. I didn't know about LJ then, but it's the same thing... only in MS Word.
This entry - which I won't backdate because it's relevant now - sums up and exhibits my reasons for being upset about Pam moving back into my life. v.v
11-08-02 LET IT SLIDE
How pathetic. I get a Hit Parader rip-out of Kurt Cobain and become pacified. She has to pacify me. Sad. One kind gesture, and I’m supposed to forget the footprints all over my back. Nice.
Oh no, I can feel my pulse on the right side of my neck…
I smell pot-smoke.
So I took the Chevelle back and saved four bucks. It was worth it. And the Quicktime video even worked. Mom bought me Jonathan Livingston Seagull for four bucks. She said she read it when Grandpa Mel was dying and it changed her life. Hmm. (“Give me Peace!” I scream. My head explodes… That would give me peace.) I could read it in one night, but not tonight - I’m too tired.
Pam is out with the guys. They went to see Jackass. I lent them my car to save myself the trouble. I only hope they don’t get into more trouble. PLEASE LORD. I wanted to record that riff I came up with. I still might. I’ll at least write down the lyric.
Man, work tomorrow. And it’ll be tough. I hope Roger’s not working. He makes me hella hella nervous. He’s not even that cute, and he’s too old for me. No chance no chance just letitslide. That black dude today was strange. I’d never had an experience like that before. It was strange how immediately warm he was to me, even after I had just realized I had an anti-charismatic power. What help and kindness. It was frightening. Why does everything have to be sexual?! ARGH! My vision is blurred and dirtied with perversion. Perversions of all kinds; not just sexual. I pervert everything so it’s not as good as it was intended. Pamela has perverted. Perverted to their level. I was thinking that the other day - or was it this morning? I can’t clearly remember it now, but it was something about the way people can morph - something like the way a flaw can manifest… I thought of her subtle morph from what she was to what she is: something fainter, something less.
I wish I didn’t have to go to work tomorrow. I’m so slow at it. At least I don’t have to go until 10:00 AM. And then Sunday Afternoon I can go home. But Mom and Nuge will be in Albuquerque - but I’ll have a place to myself. Oh yay. All to myself - like I’ve never had before. How exciting. Well, at least no one will be needing the phone line.
Auntie Debbie: “I just wanted to check on you; see how work was going; see if you were happy.”
Me: “No. I’m not happy. I’m miserable. But thanks. I really do appreciate your asking.” Funny you should ask specifically if I was happy. But I can’t tell you that, let alone why, dear Aunt. No, you’ll have something to say, if you’d have seen the way I cried on my mom’s knee, and totally broke down on my sister’s shoulder. How horrible.
I’m tired.
“Can you take me down?” - TRUSTcompany, Hover
Just like anamorphous psychotropic Portobello mushrooms.
I miss Cason. Stranger, I miss Joel. Joel, and how he introduced me to Punk. I realized I missed him when I heard “Dammit” on the radio.
There. I recorded my riff. “Walk over me again.” Damn, I got my voice real low on that.
Well, I gotta check outta this document and into the Lyrics page. Soy cansada.
How strange. Reading over my first entry, I said, “Look at me, figure me out.” Bizarre that on the first page I see in Cobain’s JOURNALS he too, says, “Look through my things, and figure me out.”
If a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? If I exist but don’t stand out from the crowd, am I really alive?
This entry - which I won't backdate because it's relevant now - sums up and exhibits my reasons for being upset about Pam moving back into my life. v.v
11-08-02 LET IT SLIDE
How pathetic. I get a Hit Parader rip-out of Kurt Cobain and become pacified. She has to pacify me. Sad. One kind gesture, and I’m supposed to forget the footprints all over my back. Nice.
Oh no, I can feel my pulse on the right side of my neck…
I smell pot-smoke.
So I took the Chevelle back and saved four bucks. It was worth it. And the Quicktime video even worked. Mom bought me Jonathan Livingston Seagull for four bucks. She said she read it when Grandpa Mel was dying and it changed her life. Hmm. (“Give me Peace!” I scream. My head explodes… That would give me peace.) I could read it in one night, but not tonight - I’m too tired.
Pam is out with the guys. They went to see Jackass. I lent them my car to save myself the trouble. I only hope they don’t get into more trouble. PLEASE LORD. I wanted to record that riff I came up with. I still might. I’ll at least write down the lyric.
Man, work tomorrow. And it’ll be tough. I hope Roger’s not working. He makes me hella hella nervous. He’s not even that cute, and he’s too old for me. No chance no chance just letitslide. That black dude today was strange. I’d never had an experience like that before. It was strange how immediately warm he was to me, even after I had just realized I had an anti-charismatic power. What help and kindness. It was frightening. Why does everything have to be sexual?! ARGH! My vision is blurred and dirtied with perversion. Perversions of all kinds; not just sexual. I pervert everything so it’s not as good as it was intended. Pamela has perverted. Perverted to their level. I was thinking that the other day - or was it this morning? I can’t clearly remember it now, but it was something about the way people can morph - something like the way a flaw can manifest… I thought of her subtle morph from what she was to what she is: something fainter, something less.
I wish I didn’t have to go to work tomorrow. I’m so slow at it. At least I don’t have to go until 10:00 AM. And then Sunday Afternoon I can go home. But Mom and Nuge will be in Albuquerque - but I’ll have a place to myself. Oh yay. All to myself - like I’ve never had before. How exciting. Well, at least no one will be needing the phone line.
Auntie Debbie: “I just wanted to check on you; see how work was going; see if you were happy.”
Me: “No. I’m not happy. I’m miserable. But thanks. I really do appreciate your asking.” Funny you should ask specifically if I was happy. But I can’t tell you that, let alone why, dear Aunt. No, you’ll have something to say, if you’d have seen the way I cried on my mom’s knee, and totally broke down on my sister’s shoulder. How horrible.
I’m tired.
“Can you take me down?” - TRUSTcompany, Hover
Just like anamorphous psychotropic Portobello mushrooms.
I miss Cason. Stranger, I miss Joel. Joel, and how he introduced me to Punk. I realized I missed him when I heard “Dammit” on the radio.
There. I recorded my riff. “Walk over me again.” Damn, I got my voice real low on that.
Well, I gotta check outta this document and into the Lyrics page. Soy cansada.
How strange. Reading over my first entry, I said, “Look at me, figure me out.” Bizarre that on the first page I see in Cobain’s JOURNALS he too, says, “Look through my things, and figure me out.”
If a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? If I exist but don’t stand out from the crowd, am I really alive?