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11:27 - January 25, 2003 The few times I've tried lying ('too tired to make out with you right now'), ('um, I'm gay'), it's been worse than me being blunt, (yes, I know, bad, bad bad bad, lying is bad) which only solidifies my point that, at least in this situation, and in fact in most situations, straight honesty is the best (and quickest) policy. It doesn't have to be extreme ('i would never date you if you were the last guy on earth') but something that gets across the point quite clearly ('i don't want you to think of me that way.' add an 'ever' onto the end if said boy is especially stupid, or stoned, or both). I truly hate the 'dating game'. I don't like the prescribed rules that everyone seems to have memorized in some part of their brain specially reserved for things nobody should care about. I read women's magazines because I am dumbfounded, I am amazed and disgusted and intrigued, that people actually care about what date number it's all right to have sex on. Do people count dates? Do they have it in their heads when it's the fourth date, or sixth or twelfth or whatever, and get it in their heads that they are going to have sex TONIGHT goddamnit, even though for all the past dates they've giggled and pushed the man away for fear of being called a slut? And what is this slut stigma? People enjoy sex, which is why they have it. Women are called sluts for doing something everyone enjoys (but only if it's before the x'th date). Of course the articles warning you not to be a slut by sleeping with him too early are next to the articles entitled '101 Ways To Make Him Swoon Tonight' which are next to a collection of 'real life stories' written by women who have fucked hot lifeguards in beach houses on vacation or who pulled the doorman of their apartment building into an alcove and had their way with him right there. And all these magazines, without fail, throw in one lone article about how women suffer in war-torn countries to make a point about how compassionate they are, these women who spend enough on makeup per year to feed fifty people. 'Indulge yourself.' 'You deserve it.' 'Be a woman.' I'm stopping now, this is making me sick.
14:50 - January 24, 2003 I remembered a day today just like it was yesterday even though it must have been at least thirteen years ago. Getting kicked out of the house for talking too much while my mom was on the phone. Outside it had just finished raining. I shuffled to the playground and put my hands on the gleaming wet silver bars and my palms turned red. I swung myself over the top and sat on the wet bar; my leggings became freezing cold to the touch. I jumped off, I checked for dirt, I put my hands back on and they stung. The sun was very angry through the trees, glaring suddenly through the parted clouds, glaring at me and my red wet hands. I felt like a criminal for daring to play at the park when it was wet. Everything was dripping and sparkling, and it was ugly suddenly. Even the old man wwith the brown corduroy hat and snakehead cane who sat on the bench wasn't there. Even the autistic boy across the street who swung on the big swing 18 hours per day didn't dare show his face. I ducked home behind a row of trees. I felt like that today for some reason. It snowed a few days ago and then it was 55 and it all melted. Now it's beautiful. But beautiful in such an obviously global warming induced way that I can't appreciate it. It's January in Colorado and it's 55 degrees.
21:23 - January 23, 2003
15:11 - January 22, 2003 The snow came completely without warning (yesterday it was perfectly sunny and warm) and snowed all over our anti-war chalkings telling people to come to the rally on January 29th (if you're in the Boulder area, it's 1/29, noon, UMC Fountain). Nobody will come now. Nobody was going to come anyway, but... I find it gets easier and easier to be apathetic the more you experience how nothing, no protests, no petitions, no flyers, no letters to the governor, really helps. At all. Numbers don't matter. It's like the difference between doing nothing and doing nothing. Nothing. Plans to move to Canada are still in full swing.
18:51 - January 21, 2003 This may work to my advantage and it may not. For example if it's about a lover I don't want to have and I fleeting think I do want to have them, then I can't be held accountable for my actions because it was the subconscious and I'm still therefore happy and lover-less. However if it's, say, the last link in a headmaze you can't solve yet, so somebody went away and left you with this one test, and if you passed it (by feeling this certain way) they would come back. But it wouldn't count if it was just a dream. This is going to happen to me. I'm sure of it. In fact I think it might have just happened and I was too high to notice. You notice everything except what you're supposed to. God, the TV commercials were so inane. I could think about that forever, the ITT tech guy saying he was the luckiest man on earth, and big magazine cutout heads dancing around in a diorama, and the 'subtle' tampax wrap that looked like a blue rhino head, and the walking paper towel roll with a little face. People just don't NOTICE these things. These commercials. It rolls by them, the walking paper towel rool and cutout heads and all. It rolls past me. It almost makes me believe in subliminal messages. You can only concentrate if you have help slowing your head down to a processable level. I tried counting to three in between screen switches. I couldn't. Is there some sort of fable or myth that grouches should live in trash cans? Sesame Street had to be spoofing SOMETHING; that's what they did. But I don't remembed any folklore concerning angry people (or monsters) and a home in a trash can. Sesame street makes even less sense now. It seemed the very voice of reason back then. I wonder how much product pushing lies behind the innocuous scene switch between Sesame Streets (I can still recite, in perfect time with the announcer, 'support provided by the Corporation of Public Broadcasting. And by viewers like you.') for example. To this day. stuff like that is all cluttered in the spaces in my memory where I was supposed to put the important stuff, like people's pet peeves and what to say on the phone to strangers.
17:42 - January 20, 2003
Denver felt very very short. Every time I get downtown I look for the building that looks like a cash register, but I never find it. The only thing I ever see, and indeed the only thing you CAN see, at night, is the Qwest building. Nothing, nothing, full of nothing... it's nice... for right now.
15:24 - January 19, 2003 Andrew, Chris and Jeremy are like tiny children in day care. If you give them an old box and some packing foam and a few pipe cleaners, they're satisfied for hours. I just hadn't gotten around to purging all my packing shit from moving in yet, but I guess it's a good thing I didn't. Now, instead of some old cardboard boxes lying around and annoying white styrofoam cluttering up the floor, I have styrofoam spaceman masks hanging off my walls, along with a Pringles Can deftly balanced on a nail, a cardboard arm shield with the words 'your neck' written on it, a yellow origami swan that says 'Andrew's Freak Swan', and memories of the three of us carrying Lara, squished into the one yet unmutilated cardboard box, into the elevator and travelling up and down with her laughing hysterically and swinging her feet and not noticing that there was anyone else in the elevator, which there was: one predictably preppy girl, inching closer and closer to the far wall. When I tried to get into the box later, it broke. Ah, well. They're free to invade my room anytime they like. We also laid down some music tracks, of course... no one can come into my room without messing with the synth. We have quite a few raps going down (Chris) and screams of 'I want your blood!' (Andrew) over Mario noises and helicopter propellers and sirens and train whistles and the rare piano or organ chord. It will, of course, get us a huge record contract and then we'll be millionaires but still sit around playing with cardboard all day. Lara was delighted to find that poking Andrew in the stomach with a plastic gun yielded squealing results, and continued to do it for a half hour.. I was amused. It also sparked a discussion of why men don't like it when women say they (the men) have breasts... Later I was briefly reminded (again) of why I hate to drink (again) but luckily it was brief, and everyone (still) understands. I don't know why I feel the need to keep establishing this to myself. Maybe each time I do it I think it'll be different. It isn't. Nausea. Spinning. Ho-hum.
It suits others, though. (Out of service Buff Bus, outside gas station, backing up: 'beep! beep! beep!' I love days that are just full of good carefree college nonsense such as this. I was having fun with photoshop and I was going to post this fun, but apparently the fun was too big for Diaryland to upload. Hmph.
02:56 - January 19, 2003
I've had an excellent weekend, considering.
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