Transsexuals, olympians, and survivors of cancer

I didn't write for too long last night. It's depressing when I look at a story that I once thought was fabulous, and then want to completely trash it. Saw the closing ceremonies of the Olympics, and while everyone was smiling on camera, I questioned whether all of the controversy with Russia as a competitor would invoke political hardships...or worse....

I can't stop myself from being depressed. I need to exercise or something. Haven't done that in a good year and a half or so. I don't want my friends to be depressed, either. I want people to be happy, or at least content. I want my friends to have their needs fulfilled, or whatever. So what might one call this? Secondary depression? I'm far too empathetic to be living this life. Seriously.

I have a confession: I was watching "Jerry Springer" earlier. Seventy-four channels and nothing was on. A man had been cheating on his girlfriend for six months, with a transsexual. How novel. It was all too evident just how staged the episode was, especially when the entire audience just happened to break out into chants of "Sit down whore!" all at once. I had a friend from summer camp, Christy, who went on "Sally Jesse Raphael" for a "very special episode" of "My ex-boyfriend is stalking me." She said that one was staged, too. It's a shame that I no longer keep in touch with her. She was funny.

I wonder how my mother is doing. She was in the hospital for a few weeks starting at the end of January, and just got out about a week ago. She's terrible about keeping in touch when she's sick. I call and call, and all I'll get is voice mail. Somehow, my sister stays updated with my mother's situation, since they only live an hour apart. So Sarah tells me mostly everything that I need to know. But still. I'd like to speak with my mother, you know? Haven't spoken with her since January 26th--she had called me in Chicago on Sarah's cell to wish me safe travelling for the next day to New York--but we only spoke for a good 30 seconds or so, because the doctor took away the phone because she wasn't allowed to have phone calls right then and is this a run-on sentence or what.

So...yeah.

Hault: There's traffic in my head!

Today, some of us went to Sampson Park and I'd forgotten how beautiful it was. I guess I just never really paid attention. Needed some peace and quiet...didn't get much, though. Then we went bowling and were all mentor-y with some Geneva kids. Good times.

So tired. Got too much sleep last night, for a change. I think about 10 or 11 hours. It's strange to get that much sleep in one night. Strange indeed. Sorry to be so boring. I'm just very relaxed right now, and I'm about to dive in to revising a fiction piece that I haven't looked at since I was in college, oh so many moons ago. I revised another one a few months ago and it's pretty damn near perfect. But I haven't done much since then in regards to my writing--took a bit of a hiatus. Wish I were more motivated sometimes.

Well, off to write now. Cheerio! (I'm the crook-a-dial hahntaaah!)

Leave me alone.

What to write...what to write....

Thinking....

Argh. Nothing. I know. Let's talk about people who don't understand the word "no." On second thought, let's not. Not worth my energy right now. Not that there's much of it left to begin with.

It's a quarter past sadness.

Why am I still awake?

I am currently in one of those translucent states of mind, where I know that all that's left for me is sleep, but as soon as my head hits that pillow, all I can think about is Matthew Shepard. It's such a random thought, too, because nothing has happened lately that would trigger these sudden memories, except when I was drafting my template the other day, and happened to post a link in the old sidebar, to the official Matthew Shepard site.

I remember when it became national news on my radio alarmclock one morning sophomore year. I remember it especially well because it was my birthday, and it was the first thing that entered my ears. The funny thing is, I don't remember my birthday at all that year. I remember my first year, having some argument with Jenna at lunch, we'd made up by dinner, and then all eight of them got up on-so-inconspicuously to get one piece of cake in the dining hall at dinner, leaving me alone at the table. I remember my junior year, mostly because it sucked. I'd gone to classes in the morning, worked in the afternoon, then facilitated a few writing colleague meetings, went to work at the Cellar Pub for the dinner shift, literally ran to the Medberry parking lot to meet some people so I could be mentor-y with some first-years at some bowling event, got home after 11 p.m., had Jenna stall me for a while as she tried to convince me that she'd forgotten her gifts for me in Renee's car, and at 11:50 p.m. I think I told her we were going to my surprise birthday celebration like it or not right then, we got in some cake before the stroke of midnight, and still managed to get into trouble with security and the RA's on-call in those measly ten minutes. Senior year wasn't so hot, either, even though it was a Saturday and I had a friend come up and visit for the weekend, sacraficing her father's birthday, which was on the same day. But I had to wake up super early to make some bi-annual report to the Alumnae Council, of whom my counterpart, also nicknamed Mel (as in, Melanie), also shared my birthday. And I'm sure we had some liquor that night, and I'm sure I don't remember a lot of that day in general. But I do remember that the cake was beautiful, and full of rainbow colors, because a nice lady had taken three hours to make it. I will say, though, no matter how many people I've met who have shared my birthday, nobody has been born in the same year as well. Damn shame.

But yeah, Matthew Shepard. I remember reading an editorial in the Colleges' Herald by an out Hobart student soon after, about how supportive the faculty and staff had been of him in dealing with this "sudden" brutality. I remember a gray cloud sort of hanging over the glb community at my school. But, for the life of me, I cannot remember my birthday that year. I'm sure I went to classes, I'm sure I ate cake. But all that I truly remember is this: The radio. I can only remember snippets about a bar, a scarecrow, and a certain sadness for someone we didn't know.

Bipolar Digression

Right now, I am going utterly insane due to another person's insanity, misinterpretations, psychoanalyses, depression, and general scare factor. I won't say names because it isn't fair, but this one person has got me worrying morning, noon, and night; has got me anxious when I fall asleep at night; has got me running around with my head cut off; is vamping my energy reserves. I am seriously considering committing myself just so I don't have to deal with her.

That's me in the spot...light....

Religion is a funny thing. Or, maybe I'm just a funny thing. I'm thinking about those Jehovah's Witnesses that came over yesterday morning. It made me remember my first uneducated encounter with one.

I was in the eighth grade and was staying after school to get help in math from Mrs. C, who I absolutely aspired to be at the time. I was flipping through some pages of Seventeen magazine while waiting for her to finish with another student, and when that student left, I found myself fixed upon the horoscope section of my magazine. Wishing to tell Mrs. C her astrological predictions for the month, I asked her, "When's your birthday?" She shook her head, and at first, I thought she was just heavily concentrating on the math book in front of her. So I pushed...and pushed...because all people celebrate their birthdays, right? She finally told me that she didn't celebrate her birthday, but denied me an education as to why, and I left the room, confused. A year later, after I'd left to go to the high school, she was sort of stalking me after I'd shown her some of my poetry. See, she didn't really understand the concept of metaphor, being a math teacher and all, so she thought I was suicidal--which I wasn't--and she got all sorts of people involved, and really it was just one big mess.

This of course reminds me of a family friend. Okay, okay, it was my therapist from when I was younger. Anyway, from the third grade on, I gave her a gift for Christmas every year, thinking nothing of it, even upon seeing her Star of David necklace on her neck every single week. And of course I didn't question myself, since she gave me a Christmas gift each year as well. It didn't occur to me until my junior year of high school that--wait a minute--she was Jewish. I felt like such an idiot. So that Christmas, I didn't get her anything. But I didn't get her anything for Hanukkah (Chanukka? Litcherfest?) either, and at times like this when I'm sure she's probably dead by now, I get really sad about that.

The Apocalypse will not be televised.

Do I sleep? Have I slept?

I've never gone hang gliding, bungee jumping, parachuting, or skydiving. I've never been rescued from a fire. I've never been to a Broadway musical, I've never bought an eight-track, I've never drunk coconut juice, I've never been to Italy. I've never been to the west coast. I haven't gone scuba diving, I haven't been to a lacrosse game, and I haven't ever dressed all in green. I'm not very photogenic, and I've never had a cavity.

I've almost drowned three times, one of which I can no longer remember. I once ate liver and thought it smelled better than it tasted. I've been to two football games, several renditions of "The Nutcracker," and the first movie I remember seeing in the theater was "E.T." Although I'm a staunch acrophobe, I've climbed to the top of a 200-foot tree just to say that I've done it. Twice. I celebrate Christmas and my birthday. When I was six years old, my mother told me that I could choose my own religion. I never did.

I once had five single roommates in a two-year period. I grew up outside of Boston, went to college in upstate New York, and worked under the government in Chicago. I've eaten flan in Spain, tostadas in Mexico, and cereal across the street from the White House. I've seen the Alvin Ailey dancers and I have 20/20 vision. I've eaten chocolate covered marshmallows thinking that there was caramel inside.

I used to be allergic to tomatoes, mushrooms, onions, olives, and almost anything else that I now detest. To date, my only allergies are to pollen, cats, amoxicillin, and sulfa drugs. My mother has 52 allergies. She was in labor with me for six hours; my brother, four; my sister, three.

I’ve been in foster care, special education, and 12 years of on-again-off-again therapy. I’ve worked in offices, I’ve given customer service, I’ve worked in a warehouse. I do my laundry in three-week intervals, and I’ve forgotten to file my taxes for the past three years. I see my family ten days out of the year. I like at least one song from each genre of music. My first concert was the Moody Blues.

And what does all of this signify? Perhaps nothing. I just needed to write.

"Orange" rhymes with "door hinge."

First commercial break of Winter Olympics 2002. Yeah olympics!

Whips and Handcuffs

Gosh darn, I am so tired. Couldn't sleep last night at all because the cats thought it would be super cool to dig their claws into my forehead at intermittent intervals during the night. Know what song I've had in my head for almost a week now? "Karma Chamelion." What the heck. Make it stop! I watched "Little Shop of Horrors" yesterday morning. It was actually pretty good, considering I generally avoid musicals.

God. I need a morning job.

Somebody kill me.

My stomach is wretching. And why? Not because I just finished watching "Little Shop of Horrors" with Eva. No, because of nasty old Pizza Hut last night. We were all sick within the hour after leaving the restaurant, and the health department is saying that it was probably the casserole we had on Monday. I can't even sit down right, everything is hurting so much. Waaaaa! Down with Pizza Hut. I'm never eating there again.

Have you filed your taxes yet?

Talk about knots in my stomach. As I was writing that last entry, Eva was trying to reach me at home because her car had skated into a ditch on her way to work. As luck should have it, the accident took place right across the street from a gas station, in which a customer just happened to have a tractor. Then, yesterday, we were both coming back from work, when the car skidded once again, into a ditch. This time, though, it happened sort of in the middle of nowhere--maybe there was a farmhouse or two. Thank goodness for soccer moms and their cell phones with speed dials to the sherriff's department. I'd just spent my first day at work skiing for the first time in my life, so by then, I was very cold. I have poor circulation anyway, so I'm always cold.

Anyway. Ooh ooh ooh--I want you to take my quiz, if you haven't already. Take my cool quiz! Some of you four people reading this, have already taken it. I think I'll make up a new one soon.

Man, there was a reason why I was going to write today--a real reason. But I forget it now.

Knots

I am writing today because my stomach is in knots about so many things, none of which I am comfortable enough to write about in an online journal. My brain is this frenetic mass of...of....something. I can rarely concentrate on the moment I'm in. Really, I'd love to be a multi-tasker, able to keep up appearances, even as I rebuild foundations whose corners deteriorate in one place as I am working on another. But I often wear my heart (and my problems) on my sleeve, because that's just the way I am.

I do try to take it "one day at a time," which is a phrase that I'm afraid is over-used. I do try to occupy my mind with recreation and all of that, but there is something that's ever-present, this ugly stress. And I want so bad to just let loose, or whatever sayings are out there these days. It's kind of like the whole roller coaster scenario. I will go on one just to say that I've done it, but the entire time, I'll be holding on for dear life. And I'll be screaming instead of laughing like most others on the ride. It's like, if I don't allow myself to feel the ride--to truly enjoy it--and I give in to my fear, then there's no way anything can happen to the mechanics or the machinery of the roller coaster while I'm on it. Apologies if this is making no sense to you; I guess all it is that I'm trying to say is...superstition.

Argh. I hate how I can't verbalize what it is that I really want to say half of the time. I hate how I can only come up with seven-year-old comparsions.

I am Joey.

I had a swell time at Alex's party last night. At the end, I was inspired by a test that I once took at emode, and I thought it might be cool to see which character on "Friends" everyone thought that everyone else was. I was surprised when it was my turn and everyone else said, without any hesitation what-so-ever: JOEY. I think someone might have even cracked, How YOU doin. I don't think I've ever actually said that, but whatever, I'll let it slide. Why me, I asked, why me. Or, more accurately, why Joey. No one could really come up with why, exactly, until two others said, no, wait, maybe she's Phoebe. Huh, I asked. So you think I'm one of the stupid ones? No no no NO, they exclaimed. The randomness! It's just, the randomness! Okay, I'll buy that. For now. But, really, I thought I might be Ross because that's who emode's test told me I was, or maybe even Chandler because I'm always having to put my foot in my mouth. But never would I have ever guessed Joey.

End obsessive tanget

It's almost 1 p.m. and I am still in my pajamas. Those last two months in Chicago, I hardly slept at all, so maybe that's why I've been sleeping so much lately. Catching up. They especially liked to work me in January, when they realized I was leaving and thought that it would be really cool to work me so hard for everything I had left, to the point where I'd be bringing work home and doing it till 2 a.m., then waking up again at 6 a.m. so I could go into work early and finish it on time for my meeting with X important person and I'm not even there anymore so why am I even saying this.

Oh yeah, so I got this thing in the mail yesterday, and it made me laugh. It was from this website, poetry.com or something like that, telling me that this poem I submitted like a month ago had been chosen as a semi-finalist for lots of money. I put ten minutes into this poem after I followed a link that Jenna sent me one day when I was procrastinating at work. So these people guaranteed publishing in this book they have coming out this summer, Poetry for the Soul. Yeah, uh huh, sure. And here's where it gets murky. This official looking letter arrives and tells me all of these good things, right? Here's the catch: If I actually want to see it in print, I have to buy this $40 book (discounted from $70 just for me). They guarantee printing my work regardless of whether or not I buy the book, which is under, by the way, a "working title only." It is also already copywritten under the Library of Poetry or Congress or something that I forget now. Anyway, they need me to initial this thing certifying that yes, this is an original work by me. And yet, they care so much that the postage wasn't even prepaid on the envelope that they incuded.

What a load of crap.

It was a mutual thing. Except, I didn't want it to happen.

So I had my first job interview yesterday afternoon for an after-school program about 20 minutes or half an hour from here. It went well, I think. I still need to hunt for morning jobs, though.

Sadly, I don't have much to write today. Everyone's out doing something. Eva's interviewing the Trustee Scholars for Admissions all day. Jenna's in Philadelphia visiting some family on her dad's side. Renee's at her apartment doing laundry, I think. Alex is probably cleaning for the party tonight. And I'm at home, alone, and incredibly bored. I just sat down because I'm done dancing to the Spice Girls and Culture Club, and thought I might have enough creative energy in me to write a story. Alas, nothing comes. I need something to do with my time, like oh, I dunno--a job or two? I can't stand having all this time to myself. I tried teaching myself to walk on my hands and failed miserably. The heater is making funny noises.

What the hell. Give me something to do. Why, oh why, why me, why me! Nancy Kerrigan flashbacks.

The Olympics are coming soon, hooray. I saw the torch stop in Seneca Falls at the Women's Rights Museum on the last Tuesday (?) in December. Less than a week later, the day after I got back, it was in Chicago at the Navy Pier. One of those places I never bothered to go to while I was there. I heard that the woman who replaced me as vice-president at William Smith carried it for a while. That's cool.

Can you tell I am bored? Shall I recite a poem, a ballad? Well, not a ballad, because really I don't know any ballads, I don't think. Me tock grammer good.

I 've been drinking seven glasses of water per day.