15:53 - Friday, Nov. 14, 2003 much more than it does
Platonic sleeping together, that's something I could use. I remember when I was seven or nine or so, my cousin and I tried to go to sleep at night holding hands and wake up holding hands. The point was not to roll over or anything and break the hold. (It always got unbearable after awhile and I would yank mine away and curl up into a little ball in the corner, but that isn't the point.) I'm really angry that being under the same covers is supposed to equal something much more than it does.
23:39 - Wednesday, Nov. 12, 2003 robots behind the wheel
Lately I've been obsessed with bus etiquette.. I mean, it's so strange and random. Here everyone thanks the bus driver, smiling, as they hop down the stairs onto Broadway, chipper, backpacks bouncing. Even at night when it's the opposite and everyone's slogging around, they all yell their thanks to the driver. Some of the drivers appreciate it. Some of them will say it back; mechanical, to the line of them getting off: 'thank YOU... thank YOU... thank YOU...', some of them roll their eyes. One woman driver even puts on her stop-announcing microphone to wish everyone exiting out the back a good day... without the microphone, they might not hear her.
There are a few drivers who will be insulted if you're the only one on the bus and you pull the stop cord instead of telling them verbally when to stop. Others won't want to listen to you telling them your stop, so you have to pull the cord. Some adhere to the rule of not standing in front of the white line, even when the bus is full of students desperate to make their 8:00 and people have to squish. Others just laugh when students' backpacks bump them in the face as they reach for the microphone to announce the first campus stop. Some mind if you break the 'no food on the bus' rule to bring your carry-out Chinese to sit in your lap. Most don't.
It's kind of strange, you pull the cord to tell these people when to stop, and show them your identity so they'll let you ride in their caravan, and you treat them like they're the bus itself and not really human at all. I wouldn't know how to remedy it, though. Just reminds me of an ATM every time I ride. Swipe the card through the magnetic reader, flash your bus pass to the robot behind the wheel.
22:42 - Sunday, Nov. 09, 2003 this is what i've been afraid of?
Everything that I've been writing lately can't be posted because of the fear of the wrong people finding it. I wish this was passworded sometimes. I'd never do it, because who knows who may stumble across it who I want to stumble across it, as opposed to the alternative?
If I had locked this a year ago, I would have a different roommate, and most likely a whole lot of different friends. And that is the truth.
Safe quotes:
�There�s a war on drugs right now, but people are allowed to act like Chris.�
�Yeah, there�s no war on alcohol...�
�There should be a war on Chris.�
�A million FBI agents and an 87 billion dollar budget to hunt down Chris.�
I can't discern important from un right now, but...
oh, that's totally not even true. I can discern it. I just don't want to admit it.
I threw up for the first time in 12 years on Friday night. It was like the eye of the storm. I mean, since grade fucking seven I've been terrified to death of throwing up and it's kept me from doing so many things. Performing on stage, going on trips... really, if I had to choose a root for my anxiety, there it would be: PUKING, in big red, or green, letters. 5 years ago it was that I had last thrown up; in seventh grade all I remembered from those five years ago was that little-kid feeling that throwing up was the end of the world. I had no other context.
After it was done I felt like the world had been lifted off my shoulders. It was four-thirty in the morning and I wanted to run around the house screaming with joy. If I had known THAT would be my reaction, how would I have lived my life differently?
I would have danced, I would have kissed more people, that's for fucking sure.
Here's part of a diary entry from a few hours beforehand:
'i�m getting colder because i see the futility in where we�re going. nothing is resolved, everything is convoluted, and i can�t fucking breathe.... and he knows where his happiness will be but i have no idea where to find mine. i�m sick enough that i stand up to leave. �i can�t talk about this anymore,� i say, and i�m so nauseous i�m slurring. he regards me for a second, changes the topic gently. we go back to the point where i�m comfortable enough sitting back down and we come to this conclusion: happiness is not thinking. thinking complicates things.'
(I'm so nauseous I'm slurring because I have the stomach flu. Not because, as it has been for years and years past, seven to be exact, I was panicking for NO REASON. Imagine that. Irritable not because of some unexplainable terror but because of physiology. How much time I could have saved if I had known. How much energy.)
(Excerpt:) 'this hug is the most earnest hug i�ve ever given. i put my arms around his neck and close my eyes, thinking, i�ve got to remember, i�ve got to remember..'
(Excerpt:)�thanks for talking to me,� he says, and i choke on my own breath.
�thanks for putting up with my panicking,� i say, absurdly. i don�t let go. i put my hands into fists, cradle his head between my shoulder and my cheek.... he lets out a breath, rocks gently back and forth, right foot to left foot, side to side. we sway together.
�i could fall asleep like this,� he whispers.'
(Excerpt:)'it could have been forever.
his house smells like cinnamon and cloves and pepper fom the tea he�s made, and molasses and ginger from the cookies.
going home is like a dream.'
That close to feeling that wonderful, I tossed those same ginger cookies. This is what I've been afraid of? I mean...
