September 12, 1998
Command Central/Saturday Night


Working on it ... slowly but surely ...

(And yeah, I'm fine.   I'm still breathing, anyway. And I still have all nine of my fingernails. Things could be worse.)


Later That Same Evening ...

... and we now find Our Heroine home alone on a Saturday night (now there's a surprise) ...

... sitting at Command Central, surrounded by candles and library CD's and yellow legal pads covered with hieroglyphics (aka "notes for The Novel") and cracker crumbs and floppy disks and the world's oldest rattiest thesaurus and photos of The Tots (soon to be mailed to Scanner Guy) and pens in various stages of *inkage* and a GREAT BIG BOTTLE of ST. JOHN'S WORT ...

... headphones securely clamped to her head, listening to the same three songs over and over again:

1.  "Cold Turkey," Cheap Trick.  (I'm sorry. I'm as much of a *purist* as anybody. But there is a nice bland corporate rage to this one that I find vaguely soothing.)

2.  Something called "The Christ Child's Lullaby," Sheena Wellington.  From a CD titled "Celtic Spirit."  (I know it's not Christmas. I know I promised I was gonna give up the "Celtic" stuff. I don't care. This one is beautiful and spooky, at the same time. I keep expecting the ghost of my dead Grandma to come floating down the hallway, every time I listen to it.)

3.  Uhhhhh ... I don't wanna tell you what #3 is.

Dear Reader (impatiently): "Oh come ON. Tell."

OK. #3 is "MmmBop." (Shut up. I like this song. It always makes me feel sort of wistfully hopeful, in ways I can't exactly describe. I listen to this song every time I'm getting over The Asshole Doc. Why should this time be any different?)

I'm certainly sorry if I've worried anyone, btw ... particularly The Lady Who Gave Me Life (hi Mom) ... with the last few cryptic journal entries. That wasn't my intent. When I first started planning this website  -- over a year ago, believe it or not, although the journal portion of it didn't begin until June  --  I vowed never to use it for profit, revenge or pity.

I've lately had reason to seriously reconsider #1 and #2 ... (you listening, Bonnie Fuller???) ...

... but I stand firm on #3. My life may suck major intensive noisy smelly wind 66.598% percent of time. I may not be as happy as I'd like to be ... or as rich, or as recognized, or as loved, or as appreciated, or as well rested or healthy or sexually gratified or tattooed as I'd like to be ... I may have to take the bus everywhere, and use yesterday's coffee grounds once in awhile, and haul my own goddamned garbage up the world's narrowest crookedest concrete staircase every morning ...

... and yeah, I may be getting over the same ridiculous heartache I was getting over TWELVE MONTHS AGO, without anything in the way of verifiable progress ...

... and yeah, I still cry when I see families eating together at McDonald's, or when I see couples holding hands in the grocery store, or when I FALL DOWN the world's narrowest crookedest concrete staircase as I struggle to haul my goddamned garbage to the dumpster ...

... but I'm mostly OK. And when I toss a terse, "life sucks" entry onto the website, it simply means that I'm feeling overworked and underloved and burned out and I went to bed and everything will be OK in the morning.

(And yes, Lady Who Gave Me Life, I know you weren't "pitying" me. Eleven years from now, when Daughter #2 has a DVD 4000 Interactive Online Journal System and she looks into the webcam and says something like "Feeling too run over by life to write anything" ... I will doubtless understand exactly how you feel. 



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