26.Sep.2002

more to life than this

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random acts of menstruation

There are no songs in my head, just the perpetual, softly mechanical whirl of the computer fan and the unringing telephone.

In a state of despondency, it's easy to omit every positive quality from life, it's easy to admit defeat, and it's easier to lay down. I'm not depressed, finally, however. I'm angered.

I long for that vacation. Lab results came in expensively, and they were vague. They found some abnormality that could be as simple as a runny nose. My doctor, who can't spell, has issued a CT scan for my pelvis. I want to tell him to fuck himself, that I won't trust anything about him until he goes back to school and learns proper sentence structure. I abuse sentence structures because I'm Bohemian, and this is all we do, we stream-of-conscious-artists.

And. I'm. Not. A. Doc. Tor.

This could be a botch on the blood results. It could just be an inborn error of cortisol synthesis. It could be nothing. Nothing, however, doesn't logically explain why my endocrine system is failing miserably. It could just take one pill. They no longer think it's PCOS, but based on the vibes I pick up from them and the overall medical field of the American culture, they want my money and they want me to panic.

"I'm concerned this is something very serious," he said, but it probably isn't. I want to go somewhere promising and stretch myself out on a table and proclaim, "You, I trust you, now fix me."

Tonight is my last night house-sitting, although it's not necessarily considered house-sitting if one still lives here on a fairly regular basis. None of you knew about this, because I constantly feel the need to be as vague as possible in every entry uploaded to the diarylandic server.

Jay is an idiot.

I reminisce to arguments we've had that he's obviously started himself, only to flip them around on me. "I was in a good mood until I talked to you."

I said, "Maybe one day you'll grow up and be more supportive."

His retort: "Maybe one day you'll grow up and stop being a bitch."

The more I age, the more inadequate I feel, the more things that used to bring me joy are forcing me to question my self-worth. I think about my whims, I think about change, I think about my rampant insecurities, I think that should anything terrible ever actually happen to me, that I'll deal with it so well since I've wasted all my Worry Energy(tm) on bullshit throughout my life.

I'm intentionally blowing off my cronies, textual or otherwise, because I have nothing to say to them that would ease their minds about my well-being. So I say nothing, assume flakiness, assume silence, assume stupidity, I'm driving myself into grounds of seclusion. I hate it when I do this.

When I was younger, I beheld a rather common, teenaged demeanor that my problems were always serious and no one else could ever possibly understand from where I or my distraught emotions came. I do not count my losses, I try to count my gains, it's just simply harder.

I don't want to blame others for the way I feel. I don't want to continue making apologies to people who, out of sheer cruelty, led me to my disposition.

I started gaining weight. I remember wearing pants that were slightly too tight on me, and Jay reached over, slapped at my belly and said, "Have you been eating right?" This coming from the same guy who would hold me and proclaim, "Loosen up, it's me, I love you, don't be so uptight."

Fuck you.

Maybe one day I'll grow up and realize, completely and truly, there is more to life than this.

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time & machine