"Paint every insignificance a sign"

 Oh, if only I had listened to yesterday-omnia's wise advice about not journaling past my bedtime.

Shuffle on my google music presents me with: Indigo Girls - Rage Against the Machine - songs from the Nashville soundtrack -Jesus and Mary Chain - Edie Carey- Kris Delmhost

 

I know there people committed to the idea of having either eclectic or omnivorous musical tastes and maybe I'm one of those and just haven't admitted it to myself yet. And yet there's a little bit of a map of the past in there too.   College lesbian, proto-SJW high schooler, depressed girl watching a lot of tv before she couldn't handle all the cheaters on the show, that weird tipping point between rock, industrial and goth and then the relatively recent past folk and finally the listening for twenty years folk.  So far it hasn't thrown up any  rap or straight up goth but they're all in there,

 

I am so fucking itchy at th emoment, it feels like my arm is being devoured by fire ants. Not that I've ever been devoured by fire ants,   I just looked up exactly what tegaderm is for and was directed to the website woundsource.com and found out that April is chronic wound care month.  So there's that.

 

I wore a bunch of glitter today and when I asked if it was too much, Light asked me what look I was going for.  I told him I was going for the look of someone who needs to wear her glitter to justify buying still more.   I guess by those parameters I should probably just coat myself head ot toe.

 

Back to Baba Yaga, since I can't seem to find a thesis to expand upon tonight - 

 

"There's always something) making clicks & clacks behind us, pushing us forward with a somewhat fear. No one's road is silent."

 

There's like fourteen places I want to go from this. The idea that everyone's running from something, everyone's trying to prove something, that everyone is driven by something.  I sometimes think I'm good at reading people, I sometime think I'm absymal at it, but I also always assume that I'm the most fearful, the most precariously balanced, the least aware of what I want. 

 

Maybe that's it, maybe I think everyone else either knows what they want or doesn't want anything in particular and everyone else isn't stuck in this half world of being able to sense a lack, but not being able to puzzle out what would fit in the hole.  But the idea that there's something behind everyone, or something behind most people making half-heard noises that move them forward.  

 

Someone recently made an offhand comment about having mostly come to terms with their own mortality.  I've worked my way around to no longer thinking death/non existence is the reward you get for having been alive long enough.  (there are so many questions there, what happens if you don't manage to stay alive long enough?  I assume younger-me thought that the worst possible punishment was to have to be a person again, to fight the same battles again.

 

Boisterous made an off-hand reference to Light singing kareoke and I kind of want to bail on the world for a bit.  I shoud probably tell her that talking about fun drinking things makes me super insecure/anxious/self-castigating.

 

I should be better than this. I should be able to go to places that serve alcohol with people who intend to be drinking the alcohol.  It's not that I think I'm going to punch someone in the face for their jack ((I know I used to mix it with something but my brain keeps catching on the idea that I mixed it with mountain dew, which I wouldn't put past me, but I suspect I mostly just drank it from the bottle).   And here, I feel like I'm trying to sound badass, and maybe I am but I don't think I am. But I'm also not trying to sound pathetic. ) It's that I can't iamgine how little fun it is to stare at people drinking the alcohol I'm denying myself.  Denying myself for very good reasons, and there are still days I wish I had found something not twelve-steppy to have outside support, 

 

But the best part of drinking was caring less about being me, and I once based a theology on the idea that being myself was a punishment and now I kind of assume I'm looking down the barrel of the last third of my life and I haven't come to terms with anything. I don't think I'm afraid of death exactly, I'm not going to any particular hell, even the hell of having to be an adolescent again but I wonder if this feeling I should be doing something comes from mortality, morality or just my brain's need for a narrative even when none exists.

Clicking and clacking, indeed.