Whether one would rather live with pain than die is an excellent indication of how much pain one is feeling.
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Sunday, 30 January 2005
Saturday, 29 January 2005
Thursday, 27 January 2005
Tuesday, 25 January 2005
well boo fuckin hoooo
I'm really getting sick of all my whining. Good god. Get over myself. I'm not a poor, unfortunate slob. This, honest, no kidding, is what just flashed in my brain: Or to take arms against a sea of troubles / and, by opposing, end them. Generally, I'm not the Shakespeare quoting kind, and if I were it might be more in character to select something a lot more obscure, like, say, from Troilus and Cressida. And whoooops! that particular line alludes to suicide! I more had in mind 'kicking melancholy's scrawny, bitter, crybaby ass.' How about scare tactics? Hey! You talkin to me?
Fuck off or I'll bite your greasy head off, ya scurvy cocks*cking malodorous sniveling excuse for a mood disorder! GAURGHHHHRGHHHH!!!!
*foot tapping
*impatient glance at clock
Well. We'll see. Worth a try.
here's something else I'm thinking about, when I'm thinking, which is rarely. The other day I had a conversation with someone who is really good at telling stories. By which I mean not (as far as I know) fictional ones, but personal past-events ones. So I got to hear a really good story, and it was told well. And then I was requested a story ... I think I kinda sucked at it. There's just one story on this blog that I am really, really proud of ... not that I think it's the best thing I've ever read, but I think that, for me, it's quite good. Anyway, suddenly there was this in-the-moment request and I froze, but then I did come up with something, and I'm not sure how it went ... well. In any case, I am utterly unable to fabricate anything entirely. If I'm called upon to 'make up' a story, even by my daughter, it never ever comes easily. Well, as a rule, it doesn't come at all. Describing events that happen to me, also: difficult, but I can do it; and I'm usually horribly dissatisfied initially with how they materialize textually; later, they look a bit better. But an impulse to write never appears to arise from imagining something that is outside my experience, and when trying to conceive of a springboard to fiction, the only thing that occurs to me to attempt is to call up a memory, and then alter it.
Spalding Gray used to claim that he had no ability whatever to 'make things up'—all he could do, he said, was talk about things that had happened to him. If I had a fragment of his talent it would be impossible wealth ... but my point was that, of course, the fact that Gray's life was the raw material of his art in no way suggests that what he created was not wholly creation, as opposed to mere reporting, exposition ... so I suppose I need not consider my unfictional tendency as an insurmountable obstacle. And then, there's changing what happened freely, to make the story better. I don't do that much—at least, not intentionally. Perhaps I'm not the one to judge how 'true' my version is. In any case, I want to be able to stretch myself more, to do something unlike what I do here. But I haven't even begun to figure out how.
and last: I bought an impossibly expensive jar of organic Italian chestnut honey, and it tastes like nasty Victorian medicine. It is actually bitter. Is it supposed to be bitter? Of course, it is sweet as well. Bittersweet, you might say. Which is a treasured attribute in memories, but not in something to drizzle on an oven-hot, wholegrain biscuit. The fragrance is strange (in a pleasant way) and haunting. But if I had been going for 'bitter,' I'd've bought quinine. Now I am spending way too much time contemplating whether I ought to try returning it. I think the decision all hinges on whether one who knows what chestnut honey ought to taste like, would anticipate bitterness as a leading characteristic. So, on to research.
UPDATE: Well, that wasn't too difficult, was it? Without even clicking the links, a google search on "chestnut honey" yielded this associated text: Dark & aromatic, this honey doesn't have the typical bitter finish. Or: chestnut honey from piedmont—Beautifully bitter ... *sigh* Ah fuck me.
Sunday, 23 January 2005
always look on the blight side of life
oh man. if you have a friend who can make you giggle like a thirteen year old in the midst of being fucking sat on by the sumo wrestler of depression ... lemme tell you, that is pure gold.
buttercup: I don't know
buttercup: I'm just no fun when I'm depressed. Y'know, unlike all the other depressed people
buttercup: who are hired to be the dancers at bar mitzvahs
bubbles: and phone sex opeators
buttercup: that, I could probably still do fairly competently
bubbles: yeah
bubbles: you could have a "dark" special
buttercup: the potty mouth is like the energizer bunny
buttercup: it just goes on ... and on ... and on ....
bubbles: for the masochists
buttercup: I could cry for the sadists
bubbles: almost spit my juice tea
buttercup: talk about my paiiiinnnnnnnn
buttercup: owwwwww
bubbles: offer to sell beakers of your tears
buttercup: tears rolling down my boobs
bubbles: yes, and then zip-lock your bra
bubbles: $10 a pop
bubbles: wait--that'd be a net loss
buttercup: tears are loaded with hormones
bubbles: just tuck some tissues in there
buttercup: I'd have to wear the 'shot' bras
buttercup: the ones I'm about to replace anyway
bubbles: i remember some story of a man who thought he'd be "cured" by the tears of small chilren
bubbles: so his "butler" would collect children and bring themto the mansion, tell them horrible stories about their families
bubbles: and then collect the tears
buttercup: someone I know drinks her own pee when she is getting sick
bubbles: almost spit again
bubbles: must look up before I do that
buttercup: apparently it's homeopathy
bubbles: yes, I have actually seen it
buttercup: no kind of homeopathy I cotton to
bubbles: no wait--that was on that Tom Hanks movie
buttercup: they knew a doctor in Germany who would inject your pee into you
bubbles: i have actually heard of him
buttercup: also, he did fantasy scenes
buttercup: kidding
bubbles: but haven't corresponded
bubbles: and not planning to
bubbles: fending off your next question
buttercup: I did tell you about that 'gynecologist', didn't I?
bubbles: the one who put his own sperm into people?
bubbles: oh no I told that one in response
buttercup: no, the one who advertised free exams in the paper
bubbles: yes
buttercup: and worked out of a storage facility
bubbles: in his garage
buttercup: and offered fantasy scenes in his ad
buttercup: no, it was an office space in a u-store facility
bubbles: yes and did well enough to move to a 10x10 in just three short weeks
buttercup: heee
bubbles: more tables that way
bubbles: line-em up
bubbles: no waiting
buttercup: oh god that was like my first smile all day
bubbles: haaaaaaa
bubbles: I STILL HAVE IT
buttercup: you really are good
buttercup: why don't you do this for a living?
buttercup: wait wait wait I know
buttercup: because it would SUCK
bubbles: give me pee, OBGYN, sex talk, depression, and the energizer bunny, and I can move the world
buttercup: what doesn't kill me ... makes me ... fucking depressed
buttercup: no, wait, makes me funnier. yeah. right
bubbles: what doesn't kill me is a rat bastard
bubbles: do a girl a favor, eh?
buttercup: ratbastard motherfucker to you, lady
bubbles: what doesn't kill me doesn't find me worth the trouble
buttercup: what doesn't kill me wasn't half trying
bubbles: what doesn't kill me is a fucking pussy
buttercup: what doesn't kill me, flays me and leaves me for dogmeat
bubbles: what doesn't kill me is going to have to take lessons from me
buttercup: dibs
buttercup: hahahahha
buttercup: first time I grabbed dibs on an IM
bubbles: what doesn't kill me leaves me pale and in need of a transfusion
bubbles: SHIT
buttercup: what doesn't kill me wasn't my type
bubbles: damn me and my touch-typing
bubbles: haaaaaaa
bubbles: what doesn't kill me, I can still date
buttercup: what doesn't kill me is not the marrying kind
bubbles: what doesn't kill me, could be Mr. Right
bubbles: opposite jinx
bubbles: what doesn't kill me can still bring me home to mother
buttercup: what doesn't kill me doesn't do windows?
bubbles: what DOES kill me can still do that, in a Hefty
buttercup: HAAAAA
buttercup: what doesn't kill me doesn't thrill me
bubbles: what doesn't kill me isn't really bloggable
bubbles: i'm out
buttercup: I think we shot our bolt there
buttercup: it went pretty far though
bubbles: now I'M depressed
bubbles: kidding
bubbles: but I am
bubbles: but I'll live
buttercup: well, but more than usual?
bubbles: because it doesn't kill me
buttercup: no, it just makes killing sound interesting
bubbles: almost spit again--that time it was crushed ice
buttercup: well at least it doesn't stain
bubbles: *ping off the monitor
wrecking ball
There was a time when some people I knew gave me some credit for wisdom. Maybe that time is finally going to come to an end. Wisdom isn't an attribute, anyway: it's something that passes through a person within a favorable moment. I suppose there may be some talent or developed skill in bringing such moments to fruition, but if I once had a season of being a medium for insight, I fear that it's past.
Today I seem to have slipped off of an edge that I didn't even know I was near. I'm teary and acting out, and I am probably irrational. I fear I've already made mistakes that I'll regret, and I wish that I felt that someone really understood me—or maybe could explain me to myself. One of my friends said earlier this week that I appeared to be constructing a new identity for myself. I am fairly certain that I am not; but on the other hand, there is a lot of revisionist history going on, and that process raises a lot of dust.
If only, if only. I want comfort, I close my eyes and try to imagine a hand on my shoulder and so very few words that would surely remove me from wherever I am. I haven't the slightest idea what those words are ... I know only that I seem to be sick from the lack of them.