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:: Wednesday, November 17, 2004 ::

I'm baaaaack yet again, everyone.

My voice remains stubbornly out of reach, and I sound like a pissed off minnie mouse when I'm yelling at work. Yelling is our main form of communication there; walking to the back takes too long when there is a customer or phone line waiting, and walking can often be hazardous if done in a hurry and inattentively, due to stray water/flour/pepperoni. However, apart from the occasional cough to rid my body of the icky stuff in my lungs, I'm feeling much better.

I made fried chicken and rice pilaf for the guys for dinner and now I smell like white trash. Ugh. I don't know about everyone out there, but for me the scent of white trash/despair/hard living is the combination of burned cooking oil/butter, stale cigarette smoke, and cat/dog urine. Think about it. You know that's what you think too.

Joe's father is playing Captain Beefheart and Frank Zappa at full volume, accompanied by his far-too-loud bass playing that runs nearly every single night from the time Joey and I get home until a half-hour after we go to bed, where the request to STOP finally sinks in. If it's not the music, it's the shrieking-girl anime (which is pretty much all of it). Over and over and over again. Like sonic chinese water torture. This is seriously the WORST FUCKING MUSIC I have ever heard. Apologies to any lovers of the aforementioned artists out there, but you are out of your collective fucking minds if you consider that even a distant inbred cousin of the institution of music.

I really hate smelling like cooking oil.

I'm going to drop MicroEconomics. Again. I just can't deal with it. I can't get up at 8 am for that damn class. I just can't. And I won't. This whole school thing has gone far enough. If I want to take it at my own god damned pace, it's my business. I've made myself inexpressably miserable tripping over myself to keep my father happy because I have some kind of frigging paternal failure complex, and I'm going to put an end to that shit. If I have to pay every dime from here on out to educate myself, so be it. It's how my stepmother apparently wants it, anyway. Now everyone's happy.

My libido's been through the roof lately, and I'm having hardcore spikes of random happy. Not like "it's good to be alive" happy, the scary eyes-popped-open teeth-gritting sudden rapid manic happy of Ren & Stimpy cartoon fame. I'm kind of freaking myself out. I don't know what the hell's up. My body is a playground for fucked-up emotional cycles.

I was looking through some really old pictures today, from my childhood, and my heart feels trampled on. It's like looking at photos of the recently dead. Bittersweet and all that....but what I really get is a hardcore junkie-type need to be a part of that again. But everything in those photographs is dead...my childhood is nothing but a handful of ash. Oh, sure, the *people* are alive, but not in the connected-to-me ways they used to be. I feel like both of my parents have gone nuts, sometimes - hell, nearly all the time - and I've come to the recent realization I don't really have any friends. I have friends, yes, but not *friends*. Like, if I wanted to go to the mall tomorrow, there's only one person I could call, and chances are she would be busy. I want a female friend who I can kid around with and be sisterly with and who carries no chance at hitting on my boyfriend. At all. Is it so much to ask?

~Fox



:: Fox 11/17/2004 10:08:00 PM [Say what?] ::
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