21:54 - July 09, 2003 off-tilt
Rrrr, finally, I have a night alone at home that lasts more than three hours, most of which I used to finish the Electric Kool-Aid Acid test curled up in my bed under two quilts because (why??) it's suddenly freezing. The book makes me not want to care about being eloquent, or spelling, or practicing Bach, or saving money. Spelling I do automatically though, and the other stuff is enough ingrained that I can't help it. Anyway, if I were to be driving a neon bus all over America and it broke down, I'd cop out and go back home because I don't know how to fix buses.
At work I have graduated to taking apart clarinets - all the tiny little pivot screws and rods (everything in instrument repair has way obvious sexual connotations that immature minds like mine pick up immediately... which reminds me of last night: 'Oh my God! We didn't do it on the Jane magazine!' ::uproarious laughter:: 'No.. no.. we did it on the computer desk!' ::more uproarious laughter: and then her: 'this will SO not be funny tomorrow.')
So I've been spending my time with repair tools twisting my hands in unnatural ways to work all the parts out, and then measuring them with a little gadget that measures in thousandths of an inch. A shaky hand is not helpful in this line of work, so I'm getting repairman hands - black with grime and steady. (And immune to pain. Yesterday Vince and I were sitting at the workbench, and Ted was sanding metal in the corner. Sparks were flying everywhere, onto his skin and scorching through his apron. 'Look,' I said. 'Ted is on fire.'
'What?' said Vince, who couldn't hear me over the sander.
'Ted is on fire,' I said again.
'What?' asked Vince again.
'TED IS ON...' I started to yell, and then Ted jumped back from the sander, flicking the switch off, brushing the burning sparks from his hands.
'Ted, you're on fire,' Vince said.
'What?' asked Ted.)
I wonder a lot of the time why my particular place on this spinning ball happens to be where it is, and if I spend so much time wondering about it, why don't I turn it on its head and peel rubber out of here. By which I don't mean suicide, but a lifestyle revolution. There are a number of things that I am sure about; and one of them is that it is not ideal to be as distanced from people as I am; friend-wise, but also lover-wise... you'd think by now someone and me would have clicked, at least once. (Six months ago, in my dorm room: me: 'I know my mom thinks I'm gay because I never bring any boys home.'
Nick: 'Well, are you?'
Me: 'That's a loaded question.'
Nick: 'Ok. You've had relationships, though, right?'
Me: 'A few. Four, no, really two.. no, one. No, two. It doesn't matter. In every instance it was the boy who felt closer to me than I felt to him. For all my waxing poetic about romance, I have never reciprocated any romance offered to me.
Nick: 'You've offered it, though.'
Me: 'Is that a statement?'
Nick: :shrugs:)
So, ok, I offer it. In a sense. But I'm starting to get the feeling I only do it when there's no chance of it coming back and hitting me in the face. Once, in eighth grade, I took a step back and considered what my reaction would be if Erik had decided to like me back. And the conclusion I came to was that my reaction would be to run away.
Nevertheless, there's a grain of truth in my apathy as well. Nothing like this can be scripted, nor should it be, but goddamnit. It's been over three years since I have touched another human being, and it has been five since I thought I loved one in any way resembling sexual. I am nineteen years old. I'm slipping through that window of age where it's acceptable to be idealistic about love, and through that whole window I have had no one to be idealistic about. It has this vertigo-inducing way of making my whole world feel off-tilt.
00:14 - July 07, 2003 obj*******
More than anything I hate hate hate the concept of objectifying people.
