Random City, Part the 98th
Wednesday, July 30, 2008, 6:04 PM
This is one of those posts where I share whatever's on my mind at the time. I try to abbreviate the muck that goes along with that because if you heard or read an unedited version, it would be something like this:
Lah, lah, lah, can't get you out of my head. I love that song. Can't believe I scheduled Vons for delivery at five, what an idiot, am I going through Alzheimer's? I'm not even home at five. My legs are still white and I think I'm not going to be able to wait until the 5th of August for Breaking Dawn. I pre-ordered it, why's it coming on the 5th? I don't understand, no, no, not at all. And someone peed on the toilet at work and it's so disgusting! Really makes me angry, too, which is a stupid thing to waste anger on. But geeze. Come on. How hard is it to pee in the hole? And do you do that in your bathroom, you sicko?
In the midst of that run-on mind barf, Vons called to reschedule my grocery delivery for Friday. Which means WANTED is out, dammit. James. James!
Here in aesthetics-is-all-we-care-about Hollywood, the new trend in shoes is flesh-colored heels. Which looks damn stupid when I'm walking behind someone who's wearing them. It looks like the woman has very looooong ankles which end in a slightly crooked heel. Not sexay at all. Someone should coughtellcough them. Or, better yet, don't. I always need a laugh.
Of the personal kind. Been feeling a lot of them lately. For others. For me. About life. Where I'm going, what I'm doing, how others are doing and where they are going. I feel trapped. I'm not trying to bring anyone down by sharing that, but notice--I'm not going into details either. I am a real person who goes through reality like a real person does, though. I can't always blog about fun, light-hearted unhingey wackiness. That would be misleading (and would make me gag), unless no one knew the girl writing behind the name. Since some of you do, I have to project somewhat of a humanistic appeal. But shee, if only I could be in two places at once...
Cell freaking Phones
When I'm home in my studio apartment, I have to stand on a dining room chair to talk to people without getting dumped into the cosmos. Crazy, huh? But I look at it as an equilibrium exercise (which I need like a fraidy-cat dental patient needs Novocain). It's all part of life and how complications make it challenging and interesting. Of course, I look at it from a writer's point of view. Which is more writable/readable/memorable? The girl with her hand over her eyes with her feet stuffed under the bed comforter, or the girl teetering on a K-Mart Blue Light special chair her parents got for a steal?
So tomorrow I see my shrink. (I'm not going into details, stop cringing.) I've come to realize that I'm a good actor. I excel at protecting/shielding the fugly-ugliness, I'll even erect spring-board deflectors. But what's a girl to do when she feels guilt/fear/regret/brick-wall-ege?
And who the hell ever said you had to do things by the book, A-to-B-to-Q, and explain in comprehensive terms when you fucked up, when you're already a mess anyway?
Dr. Jakhail/Ms. Hide
This is the cool part. Where I realize and accept I am more than the sum of my total parts.