Monday, October 08, 2007, 6:12 PM
While I live, breathe, check e-mail, go piddle, shower, hear myself eat (sounds very loud in my head), blow my nose, laugh, and listen to someone talk, I'm having all kinds of inane and disjointed thoughts that often have nothing to do with what's going on.
Stricken by conscience
Yes, Becky! There was a post on Saturday. It was about my conscience. And after I wrote and posted it, I did have an attack of conscience and therefore deleted the thing. Now I'm wondering if I can petition Bloglines to get rid of the sucker.
I heartily dislike having a conscience. Having one sucks the fun out everything. It also makes my eye twitch.
Banana split personality
Have you ever felt torn in more than two ways? About more than just one thing? Like, say, your job? Your life? Your future? Well, this is me. And I'd rather have the chocolate syrup-covered coffee ice cream, please.
Depression and public blogging
It doesn't go together. At least not for me. Oh, I'd love to share my woes, anger, struggles and fears, but only if nobody friggen knew me.
Instead, I feel that I have to be kind of funny because that's who I am. It's what I do. I retreat when I'm hurt. Don't look at me when I'm hurt, please. If you do, I'll only cover it up with a smile and a (bad) joke.
Besides, when I try to explain myself in a more serious vein, my palms sweat, I can't breathe right, and I nightmare-dream about what I wrote. Is it grammatically correct? Interesting? Too angry? Do I seem like a whiney blob? An idiot? Shameless for sharing such things publicly? Oh, is that why I'm divorced? I always wince after posting such entries because I'm so awful damned good at imagining the worst. I keep wishing I'd be awful damned good at playing the lottery, being organized, or exercising, but I know what they say about wishing, which just makes me feel worse.
But I promised myself I'd do the blog post-a-day thing. I do want to do it because I don't want to give up on myself again, but God. It sucks when I'm depressed and the only things I can think of to write make me want to bury my head.
I haven't had a kitty to love in almost three years. This is part of my problem. I've been reading a fellow blogger who keeps taking in strays because she thinks it will hurt less when she loses one, if she has more of them to love. (I think it's going to hurt as much, but maybe not as long?) One of the strays she took in was a little ginger-colored girl kitten. I cried because I can't look at orange kitten photos without crying.
I saw this movie this weekend. I like Ed Harris. He has these piercing blue eyes, so you'll have to imagine my surprise when I saw how dark they were in the movie. Apparently Beethoven (I say beet-hoven in my head when I'm typing it, by the way, not bay-toe-vin) had brown eyes. A good part of the movie is devoted to him composing the Ninth Symphony and when he finally plays it for a live audience, my emotions see-sawed. I was like, oh wow. And then ho-hum. And then wow. And wow, I forgot how inspirational classical can be. And sigh, is this ever going to end? And then the choir sang and shit, you cry baby! And wow, it's still going on? And then, you idiot, you obviously don't appreciate good music.
I like Ed Harris more with brown eyes. Who knew? (I'm sure this has something to do with his wild mane of hair in the movie. I really like guys with wavy, shoulder-length hair.) (Uh, no longer than that.)
Keanu? Are you reading?