5/10/00
It bothers me how song lyrics often mean so much more when sung as opposed to, say, written. You can't write a word and make it mean the same thing it does when it's being wrenched from someone's soul.
I really wish I could access that "page builder" application from my computer at home so I could make these entries there. I seem to get more introspective and whiny at night, and I think I could produce much more interesting reading from my home desk.
The a/c works again, but yesterday and today were so cool that I haven't needed it (of course). I felt totally stupid, the guy showed up and Megan wasn't home yet, and I was trying to clean our pit of a house, and the dogs are running around like idiots (Noodle really likes men, any MAN that comes through the door is automatically a source of tremendous entertainment for her). Then George escapes through the fence because Megan took Noodle for a jog, and the other two go nuts if they don't get to go walk, too, so I'm out in the street, barefoot, screaming "George!" at the top of my lungs over and over and yelling obscenities. I'm sure the poor guy probably thought I was a raging lunatic and felt doubly compelled to fix my a/c as quickly and efficiently as possible.
My friend C finally got another job--staff attorney for a local big firm doing something with tobacco litigation. The major point is that he will now make about double his current (pathetic) salary. I was just so proud of him. Megan called his office and asked for him, when the receptionist asked who was calling, she said "Mrs. Phillip Morris." The receptionist hung up on her. She's such a retard.
I called the school grade line today and I've gotten an A in the criminal justice class in which we just watched movies. I haven't even turned in the paper yet. It's not even due for another week! So now I'm wondering if I should go ahead and turn in the paper because grades can be reversed by profs and not by students, or if grades are a concreted thing and I can blow off the paper entirely? Probably safest to turn in something.
I'm really beginning to totally hate my job and see it for the blood-sucking nightmare it truly is.
Speaking of blood-sucking, my psycho friend Paige called me this morning and I didn't have the sense not to pick up the phone. Dammit. So I got to listen to her rant for a good 20 minutes about how her idiot ex-boyfriend had been "fucking with my head" and "being the old him and acting all sweet and begging me to come back" and I'm like, would you just please quit talking to him? "Oh, I did, I told him it's totally over." Okay, then what's the fucking problem? Then she goes into how she ran out of Klonipin (which she has no business being on anyway, in my humble opinion) and that's why she had a "mini-breakdown" last week because she was going through withdrawal. And now she's on some different antidpressant and it's not working and she thinks they need to up her dose. I said, it doesn't work that way, you need to be in therapy. "I can't, because I already know what the problem is, I need someone to tell me what to do and how to get out of this step by step, that's what I need." Uh, yeah, and that's exactly your fucking problem, YOU NUT. The girl has lived her whole life without making any decisions for herself. She just waits around for other people to tell her what to do and then she does it. I bet if I told her, "Paige, I've given it some thought, and here's what you need to do--move back to KC, move in with me, and be a lesbian for about six months. Then shave your head, join a nudist colony, and write poetry about quantum physics. Then go on a strict macrobiotic diet, click your heels three times, get a job selling slurpees at the local convenient store, and you'll be healed," she'd actually take notes and follow that to a T. (BTW, did you know it's actually "convenience store?" But I think that looks so wrong so I do it the way my head thinks is right.) She's also decided to sue her former employer, a big major law firm, stating that they made her quit because they drove her crazy. Good God. And she wanted ME to go to the EEOC office here and pick up a form for her and fill it out and take it back because her statute runs in like, 2 days. I was like, go fuck yourself. So tonight I'm going to call her crazy ass and lay it on the damn line, and I highly doubt she's going to like what I have to tell her. I mean, I don't like to minimalize anyone's problems, because I know "to each his own hell" and all that, but come on--she's dealing with a manipulative, hick-ass, jerk-off ex-boyfriend and a crazy, overbearing family. It's time to move on and quit acting like a goddamn invalid. (Right now she's holed up in a former co-worker's Iowa cabin with no job and no money.) She's acting like a spoiled brat and I think someone needs to tell her, and who better for the job than a bitch like me?
God, I don't want to be here. I stayed here for lunch (because I packed myself one in my Pooh Bear lunch box) and now I'm feeling horribly guilty because the girls are out in the yard and George is locked in his kennel. But it's his own damn fault, if he'd just stay in the yard, he could be outside, too, but I'm not risking him getting squished by a garbage truck (it's trash day). Am I horrible? I'm a bad dog mom. If I were a good dog mom, he wouldn't be compelled to escape. God, I should smoke again, I'm getting really wierd.
I approached the subject of "relationship counseling" with Megan last night and she was like "it would have to be someone good and someone with experience in gay and lesbian relationships, because otherwise I won't trust them." And I'm like, well, I hope you've got damn good insurance. She is such a fucking mental health snob sometimes. She has never had anything good to say about my therapist because she's "just a grad student with probably no more education than I have." Well, that may be the case, but whatever she's doing, it's working, and it's a hell of a lot more than YOU have done for me, miss thang. I really hate the way she so often seems to think she has no faults whatsoever. She's perfect, and it's the rest of the world that's fucked up. That's delusion if ever I heard it.
Perhaps I will treat myself to a Pepsi this afternoon. (Oooooh!) I've been behaving very well this last week, drinking diet 7-up and trying to eat less like an 800-lb circus freak, and I'm still only smoking 2 cigarettes or less a day.
I am feeling like such a malcontent lately. There are so many things I want to do with the house, and I'm looking forward to other aspects of my life, as well...then on the other hand, I'd really like to chuck it all and move to Manhattan and rent a substandard apartment full of curb-shopping furniture and candles and silk scarves, and wait tables or some other dead-end job while auditioning for every on and off Broadway show out there. And have lots of relationships (some meaningful, some not so much) with lots of different people (some romantic, some not so much) and actually LIVE, because I don't feel right now like I'm doing a lot of living. I don't know exactly what is going on in my head, but I just have this feeling like I'm locking myself into something under par, like I'm really destined for much bigger and better things than a house and wife and dogs and steady job and respectable life. This life I'm living now, it just feels so...OLD. Ancient. Resigned. The end product of giving up on what might have been. (More)
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