Lump

I feel so utterly useless today. I can't bend my knee enough to drive, I can't work from home, I can't sleep peacefully, I can't just wait and let things be what they will with D. This rollercoaster ride that's all in my head is making it hard for me to survive, and yet I can't just hang on and stop screaming, but I can't make myself just get off the ride. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Except maybe an unbroken heart.

Why Do Fools...

Is it really possible to know what it is about a person makes you fall in love with them, or what makes you love them after that? Think about that for a second. If you don't have children, at least, since I can understand loving a person in part for the critters you've created.

I'm pretty sure I'm falling in love, and Danny (there's your mention, Danny...feel better?) asked me what it was that I loved about the guy. I'm attracted to him, we have some similar interests, he's fun to talk to...he makes me laugh, and makes me feel like there's a reason to bother with the future. But are these the reasons I'm falling? Can't blame it on pheromones, since he and I have never been in the same room together, yet. I don't know if there's a name for it. It's like a sort of magnetism, and I could feel it the first time we talked online. Love at first click.

And what if I'm wrong? I've been wrong before. But I'm really not worried about me. I know what I feel, and I'm pretty sure I could love this person. What freaks me out is not knowing what he thinks. So I overreact, panic, cry...stable as can be. He even has the ability to calm me down (not to mention get me worked up). I really want to do this right.

Percalicious

I am convinced that in some language, Percoset means "happiness." No, not for long term use. But this weekend would have been utter torment without it, between post-surgical pain, being alone, and some emotional turmoil.

The funniest thing is that Percoset wasn't the only good part of the weekend. I think it helped me feel more secure and less panicky about D., especially since he was out of town. I really hope I can continue with my new protocol of no freaking out. It's hard for me to not freak out when I think I
am falling in love...though I certainly don't have the guts to tell D. that. But I'm pretty sure he knows. He's a smart guy, and my shirt sleeves are covered in cardiac muscle. The biggest trick is not telling myself, baselessly I should add, that he doesn't feel the same way. I don't know. I hope he does. It'll really suck if he doesn't, but I know I'm strong enough to survive it...I just don't want to have to.

And then there's the strangest thing: Tommy came back. Tommy was a big, strange part of my life many years ago. I met him online, became friends, and inadvertently fell in love with him, or the persona he portrayed. I was a really weak, frightened person then. My life was falling apart, my relationship was falling apart, and he offered me the attention, friendship, support, whatever, that helped me to get through it. It was a fucked up friendship - especially when he disappeared all of a sudden, and he's not someone for me to fall in love with...but like it or not, I care about the guy. I want to ask him about his real life. I want to be friends with the person he really is, and I'm afraid he'll never let me in. Worse, how can I ever know for sure? The internet allows people to lie, portray who or whatever they want to be. I do know, though, that if he disappears again, I'm really going to give him hell.

I don't get it. I have so much love, so much caring for other people, and still I feel that people see me as a cold, sarcastic, unloving bitch. Maybe because there's no in between. Either I'll die for someone, or I wish they'd die. I think I'm getting better at not letting people know I want them to die, unless they push me. Then they deserve whatever I have to tell them.

Deja Loser

So, here I am again. Uncertain but growing more and more sure that I've found another relationship that will just strip me bare and beat me bloody, metaphorically speaking. It's not even a relationship, this time. It's more like the karmic boomerang, relationship edition. Little Danny chased after me and I was absent and "too busy." And here I am, chasing after someone who is busy and uncommunicative and doesn't seem to mirror my emotional attachment. I'm a leech, an emotional vampire, a...something else bad that would explain why I can't put together a decent relationship to save my life.
I should be ok with this. I decided a while back that I like living alone. It's just such a damn tease to find someone that seems to fit so well...but they all seem to fit at first...or at least many of them. Danny didn't, Bill didn't, but the rest...I got that painful, anxious excitement that is the feeling of my common sense dying.

Just as I lose hope, something changes, I'm thrown enough of a lifeline to keep from going completely under. I never get back on the boat, but I never entirely drown. I'm supposed to have faith. Hah. Me, faith? You might as well tell me to have a penis, because I wasn't born with one and I'm not about to spontaneously grow one. It would take work, both for me and at least one other person, for me to obtain a penis. The same goes for faith. The only big difference is that I wouldn't mind having faith. All penises in my life should be part of other people.

Kill Me, Billy

Ya little pecker.

I don't think I'm quite cut out for this world. Bad things drag me down to the ground...and I'm finding that I'm so afraid of losing good things, I can barely stand having them at all. I hate the internet for fucking with my emotions. I hate the internet for muddying the waters there were never very clear to begin with. I hate the internet, and I can't shut it off.

Obsess Much?

Last night, I stayed up late, waiting for D. to get online again. My knee was throbbing, but I tried to ignore it...if I took a vicodin, I knew I'd fall asleep and miss him. To top it all off, I couldn't use the nickname he knows on IRC, since somehow I'd managed to stay connected from work. Cue small panic attack.
I waited...and waited...and waited. I told a friend about the situation, and he suggested I call D. But...I don't know. I don't want to see so damn needy and insecure, even though I am. Especially since I am. I also was worried he came home from work exhausted, or with another headache, and I really didn't want to call and wake him up.
God, I hate being a stupid girl.
So, I took a vicodin when I couldn't stand my knee anymore, and struggled to stay awake. I kept dozing and forcing my eyes open to see if he had suddenly appeared online. Eventually, I just couldn't do it anymore. After a bit of sleep, I ended up closing my laptop and leaving it on the corner of my bed so I could collapse without light. This morning, 5 AM or so, I woke up and opened up the laptop. Right after I had fallen asleep, D. had come online. Just my luck.
As S. pointed out, if D. likes me, and it seems he does, it'll be harder than that to screw things up. But I worry. I always worry.

I had really strange dreams, too. I'd blame it on the vicodin, but I always have strange dreams. I remember being on a large boat, with masts all over the place, rather than in the usual arrangement. We were escaping from someone or something, I think, but there were no ropes for the sails. Someone put together paperclip chains, and we used those...I had no idea what I was doing, but I guess I managed.
I also dreamt about being a vet tech again. My old boss had some sort of spinal injury, and we were taking care of this sick dog that was owned by a greasy 'I know guys in the Mob' type.
Plus, there was something about highschool, with no one wanting to sit near me, feeling totally left out. And I think there was some sort of bomb scare, or poisonous gas or something. That was definitely the worst part. I've got to stop talking with Messy about things like that (highschool, not gas. I try not to talk to people about gas, unless it's argon or acetylene).

Kittycat

I shouldn't be sitting here writing this; I have so much work to do my head is spinning. But my head spins for another reason too. I met someone. (How many times have I said or written these words? Shouldn't I know better by now?) I think for the purposes of this silly journal, I'm going to call him D.
Part of me doesn't want to say any more than that. I'm always certain someone is going to read this and cause problems for me. I'm afraid he'll read this and say, "Oh shit. All I wanted was a fuck buddy and this loony is going all googly-eyed over me." Which I guess is what happened with me and Danny the loser...I don't want to be on the other side of that sort of mistake. Ever.
It's probably best that I don't have his email address or screen name for a messaging program (yet), since I really am googly-eyed this morning. Googly-eyed but worried. Scared. I can't just ignore this, but this feeling has gotten me in trouble so many other times. I'm exhausted because I stayed up too late hoping he'd go back online. I want to track him down and ask him if he's some sort of hypnotist, though I know I'm just suggestible all on my own. All it takes is someone with the right proportions and types of intelligence, humor and desire.

I worry that I'm not good enough, every time I start to fall for someone...but if I really think about it, I'm plenty good, dammit. I like to take care of people who are good to me. That doesn't make a very good fuck buddy, but...well...I guess I just need to be patient and see where things go, if anywhere. The distance will make life difficult. I wonder if I told him that I didn't want to meet him in person until after my surgery and once I started to lose some weight, if he'd get frustrated and either drop me and disappear or tell me to get bent. I feel more like he'd try to talk me out of that, tell me that it doesn't matter. Part of me really really wants to hear that, that I'm ok the way I am and that anything I do to fix myself will only make me better. Part of me wants to hide under a rock and never come out, so I don't get hurt.

Meow meow cough...Meow?

So apparently Germans are dropping their cats like they're hot, simply because one dead cat was found to have the dread flu virus. Shelters are full. I wonder if they use gas chambers in German animal shelters. C'mon, kitty, time for your bath!
I guess this shows that not only Americans are stupid. How hard is it to keep your cat inside, where it won't contract the flu virus? Fuckers.

Maybe I'm a crazy cat lady. I know four cats is a lot, but I can't imagine how lonely and drab my apartment would be without them. Even when they decide to fight in the middle of the night. I just wonder what these people are thinking. Are pets just disposable? What would you do if your little son or daughter's friend came down with the bird flu? Time to kill the kiddies, hon. Oh well, we have pictures.

What's Left of my Brain

It's a good thing Winblows has a little date and time thingie down there in the bottom right hand corner of my screen. I keep getting this horrible fear that it's really Thursday, and I'll sleep in tomorrow thinking it's Saturday. Wait, that doesn't sound so bad, as long as no one told the boss.

I hate going to the post office in this town. Now, the people at the counter are friendly enough, and they generally give me my mail in a somewhat timely fashion. It's just this one guy that seems to get his mail at the same time I go, every single friggin day. If you look in the dictionary at the entry for "molester," you will see a picture of this guy, from skeezy little moustache to icky hair right down to too-tight jeans. I keep telling myself that the guy probably has no idea, thinks he looks fine, and is most likely an upstanding member of society. Oh god, now I have to wash my eyes out with bleach, after using the words "upstanding member" in regards to him. That's just not cool.

Ok, we have to get rid of that mental image. Let's think about the physician's assistant that examined my knee yesterday. Could I take him home, please? I'm sure my insurance would cover it. If not, I have a few suggestions as to how I could compensate him for his time. I just wish I had the sort of face and/or body that would make guys want to get to know me better, instead of a personality that sometimes makes guys look past my physical self.

What's Wrong With Looking Like A Person?

I followed a link from some website today and came to the portfolio of a...graphic artist, I guess. There are all sorts of before and after pictures of models and celebrities. Every wrinkle is wiped away and not a blood-shot eye can remain. God forbid that a magazine image is remotely true to life. I have the urge to email the artist and tell her that she can count herself among the responsible when it comes to eating disorders and poor self esteem. I hate them for this. Maybe if models actually were shown as they are, my head wouldn't be so messed up. They actually made models skinnier! Why?!? Apparently, a few inches on the hips is all that stands between a model and actual beauty. Fuckers.

Why should a fifty year old person be pictured with the skin of a twenty year old? I don't even want to see this. It's not art. It's not selling jack shit, at least not to me. It's dishonest. They're pulling the cashmere/virgin wool blend over our eyes, here. When we hit fifty, we're disgusted that we don't look that way...no one looks that way, honey, except for maybe a twenty year old, on a really good day. I don't want to hate myself. Instead, I think I'm going to hate the people responsible for this. Not just the artists, since they have a talent and they're most likely being asked to do this stuff. I want to hurt the magazine photo editors or whoever it is that orders those tiny lines be erased from the model's face and hands. Like there isn't beauty in the unaltered human body and face.

My Mind Wanders

Sometime this morning, I realized I had a song stuck in my head. It's the Oscar Mayer bologna song...kind of.

My bologna has a first name
It's Oscar
My bologna has a second name
It's Mayer
Oh I love to eat it every day
And if you ask me why, I'll say
Cuz Oscar Mayer had his way with your b-o-l-o-g-n-a

I'm twisted. And maybe just a little bit retarded.

Fuck Lent, I Want Cadbury Creme Eggs

Ever pretend you're a raccoon raiding a bird's nest, cracking open a nice Cadbury Creme Egg to get to the creamy yolk....no? Ok, maybe that's just me. The bitch is when you open one and find the cream all congealed and dry; it's like finding a mostly grown chick in the egg you planned to fry. Except I'll still eat the Cadbury egg. The other one is only good for shock value.

I started my new diet today. Zero fat. All Peeps, all the time. Hey, Peeps have no fat. Wait, where are you going? At least it's better than blowing them up in the microwave. Kinda.

Is it bad that I just had a conversation that involved the words "hot throbbing cock" with a customer? Because I rather enjoyed it. It's fun to have a customer to flirt with again. He's even married, so there's not as much chance for it to be uncomfortable. Now, I just have to find an unmarried perv.

I Am A Whiny, Self-Absorbed Asshole

Yesterday I got the preliminary results of the MRI on my knee. Fluid. That's it. There's fluid in my knee. Which really sounds like no big deal, right? But without an injury to blame all the pain on, what am I left with? The fear of rheumatoid arthritis, that's what. The disease that had my grandmother in a wheelchair. The disease I've seen drag my father down over the years. Ever since I became aware of the fact that it is hereditary, I've been deathly afraid of every ache. Just thinking about that possibility yesterday brought me to tears, on the phone with my father trying not to be accusatory about his rotten genes. I told my mother it felt like a death sentence.

So I took some Tylenol with codeine, and sat down to watch some TV. I flipped through a hundred channels and stopped at A&E, one of the usual suspects. I actually stopped there just in time to see a movie starting, one that I had hoped to get a chance to see. "Murderball," about the US quad rugby team. It took me a few minutes to register the irony of it all. I was watching these broken men, most of whom bore long scars down their necks, some of whom were missing hands, legs, or were otherwise disfigured...and they were competing fiercely, then celebrating wtih girlfriends and wives...living. What kind of an asshole am I for calling arthritis death when these people are living fuller lives than I have, without the use of their legs or even full use of their arms? It gave me a combination of hope and disgust with myself. I needed both.

What I really need is a longterm goal. Something to focus on, something to make me work through whatever obstacles I come across. My version of murderball.