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omnia_mutanturwondering about this medium, food pictures and strange confessions and i keep wandering back to something my therapist touched on last week, even through the sick, even through the fear and sadness and everything else.
journal. this is a journal. just say it.
i try not to talk about college. i'm probably not very good at it, but unless i'm trying to explain a specific point, i try to keep it under wraps. and i probably don't, and i probably sound like one of those terribly annoying women who think that they had the worst traumas, and that it was all some sort of game, or like i'm trying to exaggerate experiences to create excuses for behaviors that have no excuse.
and even here, trying to explain why i don't do something, i sound like i'm doing it.
and everything's supposed to be going forward, and i'm doing a really, really good job of it, and if there was anyone here from LongAgo, they'd probably be a little surprised at my steady job, steady partner and his mortgage, two cats and that i'm teaching myself how to cook.
protagonist's posts touch strange chords as she becomes one side of a profession that i expect to alwaysalwaysalways be on the other side of. i try to defend/explain choices i've made to lyric, and i know that different backgrounds cause linguistic gaps past all human reckoning.
1500 unsmoked cigarettes, per my adorable little quitnow homepage, and i still crave them, every single time i want to escape from a situation, a conversation, a un-de-railable train of thought.
why do people get to keep what came before? is it something about being a better person, less mutable, less crazy that seems to leave everyone with friends from LongAgo? i wouldn't change a thing, because i wouldn't be sure to end up here, anticipating a new cat and a new couch, with history always like a blanket fresh from the dryer in the middle of winter (except in the summer, when he's more like a bra straight from the freezer, but that's not quite so pointed).
is it that some people are coltishly awkward and some people are just sort vaguely funny-smelling awkward? am i too loud, too sharp, too raw, too much? is it just thursday nights alone in my bed with the nagging remmanents of the black death's little sister the Vomitty Almost-Death hanging out in my digestive systems?
i don't think it's a regret. i think it's just puzzlement, and unanswerable at that. because if i wasn't puzzled, i'd know the answer, and if i am puzzled, i'm pretty sure it means i wouldn't understand the answer if i found it.
so instead, i'll go webbrowse for a new necklace and gargoyles for the new house. and i see mech and media this weekend, and the ocean, and then there's moving and dar and mystic and years upon years of all of this joy and safety.
journal. this is a journal. just say it.
i try not to talk about college. i'm probably not very good at it, but unless i'm trying to explain a specific point, i try to keep it under wraps. and i probably don't, and i probably sound like one of those terribly annoying women who think that they had the worst traumas, and that it was all some sort of game, or like i'm trying to exaggerate experiences to create excuses for behaviors that have no excuse.
and even here, trying to explain why i don't do something, i sound like i'm doing it.
and everything's supposed to be going forward, and i'm doing a really, really good job of it, and if there was anyone here from LongAgo, they'd probably be a little surprised at my steady job, steady partner and his mortgage, two cats and that i'm teaching myself how to cook.
protagonist's posts touch strange chords as she becomes one side of a profession that i expect to alwaysalwaysalways be on the other side of. i try to defend/explain choices i've made to lyric, and i know that different backgrounds cause linguistic gaps past all human reckoning.
1500 unsmoked cigarettes, per my adorable little quitnow homepage, and i still crave them, every single time i want to escape from a situation, a conversation, a un-de-railable train of thought.
why do people get to keep what came before? is it something about being a better person, less mutable, less crazy that seems to leave everyone with friends from LongAgo? i wouldn't change a thing, because i wouldn't be sure to end up here, anticipating a new cat and a new couch, with history always like a blanket fresh from the dryer in the middle of winter (except in the summer, when he's more like a bra straight from the freezer, but that's not quite so pointed).
is it that some people are coltishly awkward and some people are just sort vaguely funny-smelling awkward? am i too loud, too sharp, too raw, too much? is it just thursday nights alone in my bed with the nagging remmanents of the black death's little sister the Vomitty Almost-Death hanging out in my digestive systems?
i don't think it's a regret. i think it's just puzzlement, and unanswerable at that. because if i wasn't puzzled, i'd know the answer, and if i am puzzled, i'm pretty sure it means i wouldn't understand the answer if i found it.
so instead, i'll go webbrowse for a new necklace and gargoyles for the new house. and i see mech and media this weekend, and the ocean, and then there's moving and dar and mystic and years upon years of all of this joy and safety.
