|
|
< 8/1 8/2 8/3 8/4 8/5 8/6 8/7 8/8 8/9 8/10 >
|
Tuesday, 10 August 1999 (wishlist) 11:04am ...damnit. I really need to start writing stuff down. 12:04pm
That's how it began.
|
||
 | ||
Monday, 9 August 1999 (yield) 7:34am Belladonna Arcana is closed, and goodgoth.com is out of the Manic Panic violet foundation. I'm running low, though it won't be an issue for at least a few more days as I'm allowing my skin to heal. Still, bode well, this does not. 8:22am Imani couldn't have been in a bouncier mood at Shrine on Friday. We hugged whenever we ran into each other, and she had our picture taken together almost every time. I swear, I think I'm the only person that night who didn't bring their camera. I asked if she needed a ride home (since my frequent passenger Tiff was absent), and she said she'd probably be leaving with Duke, whom she typically rides with. Barring that, she said she'd received an invitation from the lead singer of one of the bands playing that night to his hotel room later that night, and would I be interested in coming along? I observed that I might not be entirely welcome, and that the offer itself probably wasn't too kosher. It apparently hadn't occured to her that it was in all likelihood a booty call, and that's one of things I find so damn charming about Imani. It's not that she's naive, exactly, or slow—far from it. It's something different. She concluded that it'd be just as well, since, as she put it, "Madeline probably wouldn't like you being involved in a after-show motel orgy." Very true, and it isn't exactly my scene, either. Turns out she has a new job, though, at a strip club not too far from where I work. She invited me to see her show, and to specifically ask for her at the door. Tempting, I must admit. Not quite my scene, either, but it's different when a friend is involved, and I haven't been to one since seeing Josie in '96. Who knows, maybe it can be part of Maddy's introduction to the shock that is San Francisco culture...
Slightly less intimidating than that was Brigid's offer for Maddy to take part in our silly little photo
shoot, now tentatively planned for the first weekend in September. There's a considerable amount of
anticipation for her arrival, and not just inside the two of us...
I also restarted the online Scrabble game Maddy and I played nearly a month ago. Because, you see, it's all
about using
the technology to its greatest potential.
Oh, bite me.
Just in case, I wrote Belladonna's (former) owner and told her that I'm interested
in still buying leggings and the foundation, if she has any left...
|
||
| ||
Sunday, 8 August 1999 (trust) 12:20pm Oh, man. I so need to switch this page over to sfgoth; hooked is dying a painful death. Hopefully later this week. 5:44pm The final episode of Mystery Science Theater 3000, my favorite television show/cultural obsession of the nineties, is on tonight. *sigh* This saddens me deeply. No more MST3K...is this the kind of a world I want to live in? I realize all good things must come to an end, but damnit, that doesn't mean I have to be happy about it. 5:50pm So I drove the car to Phil's on Saturday morning, and while I was there The Ex came by to pick it up. I'd suggested that she come in and say hi, since I knew Phil had been wanting to see her. She did, and Phil was of course very happy to see her. I was still on the table, and we got to talking about the potential new computer and the car; specifically, that she was on her way to a computer show at the Cow Palace and could probably get all the parts Mr. Ex would need to put it together. Phil decided wisely to take a break, so I could sit up on the table and speak to her face to face. mechanical animals was on the CD changer, hot on the heels of Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie, and in fact the title track you were automatic and as hollow as the 'o' in godwas playing. The question was, if between her getting me a new computer and signing the car over completely (and, of course, me keeping the damn thing) we could could consider her debt resolved. She hastened to point out that she wasn't looking for a definite answer right then and there, that I could think about it for a while. But I started thinking about it, and something very scary happened: I realized maybe we were once so human but if we cry we will rustI was going to cry. This wouldn't be the mannered sobbing of last time, either, but the real damn thing. Oh, god, not again, not twice in a row. And I couldn't stop or hide it. Right here, sitting on the table (though I had my feet on the edge of the table and my knees clutched to my chest), in front of The Ex and Phil. Perfect. Just perfect. As soon as it started—and it wasn't as intense as that time back in May, but the most I'd done in front of her since then—The Ex sincerely apologized for having brought it up at such a bad time. "Two vicodin" was all I could manage to say, and I really suspect being doped up had a lot to do with it. I could tell, though, that she regretted doing this to me and wished she timed it a little better. This was not an act of wanton cruelty on her part. When I was able to speak after a few minutes, we did manage to discuss it a bit more. The fact was, neither of us had been keeping close track of how much she owed me, and I certainly didn't have it in me to attempt the math at this point. Not that it would make a difference, because I know her resources were limited. (Although...she did make a reference to her parents agreeing to help her get a new car, and that they were in Vegas this weekend. Neither of which quite jibed with her previous pleas poverty on their behalf, but I knew that if I brought that up I'd just start crying again, and nothing would be accomplished.) Taking it out in trade seems to be the most viable option. Frankly, between a new and top of the line PC, having the car to myself and my own apartment, I'll be doing okay. Not to mention having someone close to my heart close to my body as well. (Which isn't part of my deal with The Ex, but the timing makes things even better.) No, it's not total payback. I'd love to have the remainder in cash, which would come in very handy towards both electrolysis and Maddy's possible move out here. But demanding more money wouldn't help this situation, it really wouldn't. And some things—hell, most things—are more important than money. Money's great, it's a wonderful thing (as the poet said, it can't buy happiness, but it can buy happierness), but it's not what my life is about. Besides, I'm making a very good living for an out, 26 year-old tranny goff, and I have a respectable career ahead of me. I'm that unique position of being able to exist in and benefit from the corporate world without ever having having to even remotely consider putting on a tie. Can't complain too much. (Yeah, yeah, I know, I know...) I was at Phil's for five hours altogether, though he kindly charged me for only four. It was another one of those times when I would have gone for six or eight hours if I could have. Particularly since early on, he expressed frustration about my regrowth—there's just too damn much of it. *sigh* This is all going to even longer than I'd anticipated. Tania did say on Friday night that she's never noticed stubble on me, and she's not one to say something just because it's what I want to hear.
Oh well. Such is life. Just gotta keep at it.
|
||
| ||
Saturday, 7 August 1999 (departure) 9:08am So there was a rave also taking place in the basement of the Maritime last night. The ravers didn't seem to like us very much; the weird hissing sounds and hand gestures they were making at us in the smoking area out back suggested as much. Because, you know, goffs are all devil worshippers. Even those of us who don't believe in the supernatural at all. Security was actually making a point of keeping the two groups seperated, and probably just as well. I'm quite confident that we wouldn't have started anything, largely becuase our "beer-fueled testosterone freak" quotient was noticeably lower than theirs. Beer & testosterone: is there a more potentially explosive combo? i am a big man with a big dick and i must prove it...those faggots, look at those faggots, are they laughing at me? they think they're better than me? i'll show them, i'll fuck their shit up... I'm not suggesting that leaving beer bottles on the sidewalk isn't a constitutional right, of course. That's the very last thing I'd suggest.
But anyway. Off to get zapped.
|
||
| ||
Friday, 6 August 1999 (no color here) 8:06am Having actually bothered to time myself this morning, I've discovered it takes about 20 minutes to go from boi mode to Young Female Operative For The French Resistance mode. That's good to know. The Ex had no comment on my appearance last night (which I'm beginning to think is my best so far), not even the return of the beret which she knows I got from Pandora. I guess she thinks it would be inappropriate. The truly sad part, what makes me wonder if there's truly any hope for (maintaining? establishing?) a friendship, is that she doesn't laugh at my jokes anymore. Nine years of knowing someone, you get a sense of what they find funny, particularly when humor is so important to me. If I can't get someone to laugh, it makes me nervous. And she was aggressively not laughing, making a point of it, simply acting confused almost to the point of agitation. ("Huh? To get to the other side? Whatever.") Now, of course, as any modern comic will tell you, the way to save a bombed joke is to over-explain it and hope to squeeze a chuckle out that. ("It's meant to be ironic, you see, because the Pope is Catholic, and...") Nope, nothing. I apologized, then pointed out that she used to find that sort of thing funny and had assumed she still would. She got a momentarily pained look on her face. Message received.
Anyway, this is continuing to shape up to be a busy month. She swears that
the bed will be out of the apartment by the first of September, by
any means necessary, and that she'll let me know for sure as soon as she
does. We'll also be switching the remaining bills and whatnot over to my
name in the near future, and the car should officially become mine on the
weekend of the 21st. Whether or not this will require a trip to Fresno
on my part remains to be seen. Oh, please, no...
I wish I could believe it were that simple.
A published writer who's been published in more than one format.
And she's all mine, damnit.
I'm a liar, a hypocrite. I'm afraid of everything. I don't ever tell the truth—I don't have the courage. When I see a woman, I blush and look away. I want her, but I don't take her. For God. And that makes me proud...and then my pride ruins Magdalene. I don't steal, I don't fight, I don't kill; not because I don't want to, but because I'm afraid. I want to rebel against you, against everything..against God. But...I'm afraid. You wanna know who my mother and father are? Wanna know who my god is? Fear. You look inside of me and that's all you'll find. 7:56pm Doing Shrine tonight. Tania's going to be making her semi-monthly appearance, and Laurel will also be there. I think the poor thing needs to talk to someone, and I'm happy to be there for her. Like I've always said, it's all about being able to help those you care about it. Ultimately very little else matters. Mmmmm. Rice is almost up.
And, tomorrow night I get to actually speak to Maddy, to hear that
voice again. It's been too long.
|
||
| ||
Thursday, 5 August 1999 (in the rain) 9:39am The hallways are being painted yellow, that being the company color and all. Plenty fumes. I just hope they don't paint the Red Hallway, because the Demons will not be pleased. 10:27am Jesus! I have 299 megs of R.E.M. mp3's on my hard drive. That explains a lot. 2:34pm Once again, she's there, I'm here, and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it. 2:37pm We're all just going a little bit mad, I think. We're all breaking down. Perhaps I'm the only one not to see it in myself. She's in pain. They're both in pain. I want to help. I can't. If you can't ease the suffering of those you love, what's the point?
Here's a token of my openness 5:19pm I think I've figured out why I'm gaining weight: I keep going to lunch with Summer, and she has an inordinate fondness for Jack in the Box. They put American cheese in their tacos. Consider the implications. 5:31pm go away. leave. you're not wanted here. you don't belong. this is not for you. 11:53pm Another tension-filled evening with The Ex. There really has been a substantial shift in the mood between us lately, and I'm pretty sure I can trace it back to when I first told her about Madeline—specifically, that Madeline would be staying here in September. I could be completely bitter and say that she resents me moving on, resents the fact that I'm no longer in the pain I once was, resents that I seem almost content, or at least as content as the circumstances allow. I'm no longer hurting like I was for most of the first half of the year, and I've emerged ahead of schedule. For what I did to her, destroying her dreams in such a manner, I'm supposed to have a lot more suffering ahead of me. This simply isn't right. I'm sure that's not it, though. My remarkable progress in regards to my appearance? Certainly me being cuter than her would be a serious blow to her ego, and part of me tends to think that point's already been reached, even if the fuckin' baggeer at Safeway kept "sir"-ing me at every oppoturnity. But no, that's a little more unlikely. And it doesn't matter anyway.
|
||
| ||
Wednesday, 4 August 1999 (watching, remembering) 3:56am I tried. I really tried. Opened my eyes, looked at the clock, saw it was quarter past three in the morning, decided that it's been too long, what the fuck: I'm going to the gym. I may or may not be able to do much in the month before Madeline arrives, but I can make something resembling progress. If not for her, then just for myself. Particaularly since on the way home last night I stopped by the Great Highway Market on Taraval next to Brother's, peeked in the freezer, felt my will evaporate— Cannot find my bicycle shorts, my traditional workout clothing, anywhere. I searched in all the usual places; nope, no luck. Shit. (Trust me on this one, that's all I can exercise in without bad things happening to my inner thighs.) By all rights I should be on one of the last of the L owl buses right now, heading to the Club One at Sansome. But I'm not. Tonight I'll search more extensively, and while I'm at it do a bit more of a thorough cleaning, in the process doing some of the bedroom modification I've been considering for a while. The Ex will be coming by for the first time in weeks (months?) tomorrow, so I should have it done by then.
So no actual working out this morning. I'll slam out a few crunches and
other basic stretches, shower, get made up and get the hell out of here. Maybe
I can at least rediscover the pleasures of taking mass transit before the
actual masses invade.
Maybe we can get together with Laurel and hit Sephora. I think Summer
and Laurel would like each other.
Maddy's quiet this morning. Or maybe I'm just loud?
Summer's so adorable when she has career jitters.
Better still, it's looking more and more like Maddy will be able to come out
here for New Year's. Besides not wanting to be alone for what may or
may not be the biggest party of our lifetime, there's always the remotest
possbility of civilization collasping. It'll be bad enough
that I'll never get to collect on my stock options, but then having to
cross the burning remains of America to get to her? That would really suck.
Yeah, I know, it sounds
inherently romantic and would probably make a great
movie, but in practical terms it simply makes more sense to plan ahead.
I received a package from Maddy today—an Alanis poster (yeah, bite me) and a
compilation tape. Time for me to peer into her soul a little more.
I think I shocked my intern with that, my description of my QA methodology.
Good, I'm glad.
Now, to start over.
|
||
| ||
Tuesday, 3 August 1999 (heresy) 7:47am The ironic part is, I don't even like the French. Damn frogs. Bomb 'em back to the Stone Age, says I. In spite of this, I seem determined to look French these days. I don't entirely understand it myself. I've been wearing the beret constantly, including at work; it either says something about the place where I work, or my established reputation as a freak that nobody has commented on it. Except Summer, after we'd been at lunch for a while. (She liked it.) Typical for me that when I should happen upon a new accessory which actually seems to work on me, I run it into the ground. Still, I haven't completely exhausted the possibilities just yet; today I have my hair tied back into a very simple over-the-shoulder ponytail, something I seldom do becuase it reminds me too much of the standard masculine ponytail. But with the beret (and bits of my bangs poking out from underneath), I must admit, it looks pretty damn good. And, yes, French. Certainly it doesn't make me look like I've recently put on weight. Although I realize how Bridget Jones this is of me, I'm probably going to start obsessively weighing myself again. Haven't done it since I was working out regularly, and at least then I had the excuse that machines usually ask you to enter your weight, and god forbid you should put in 188 when you're really 189. Anyway, I clocked in at 181 this morning, essentially the same as yesterday. Aaargh. Still ten pounds over what I was barely two weeks ago. A growth spurt in my breasts, perhaps? My doctor said they weren't as developed as they should be; maybe the timing was just a little bit off. Oh, hell, I don't know.
In the plus column, The Fidget Queen appears to be on vacation. It's a vacation for both of us.
As of Tue Aug 3 10:15:29 PDT 1999In other words, fuck you, don't call, we're working on it. I could make a snide comment about their spelling, but that would be the height of hypocrisy, so I won't. Thank you India for shell access.
Finished up John Shirley's Black Butterflies. Wow. Pretty damn amazing. Summer
tells me he's giving a reading in town later this month; I would love to meet the man. That's okay, though. There are worse things to look like.
|
||
| ||
Monday, 2 August 1999 (recoil) 9:25am I just heard an awful rumor to the effect that Belladonna Arcana, where I get both my leggings and my foundation, has closed. Oh, please don't let it be so. Between that, and my scale telling me this morning I've gained 15 pounds in the last week and a half...I mean, okay, yeah, I've been hitting the granola bars a little more than usual lately, but this is ridiculous. Not a promising way to start what's already guaranteed to be a heavy month. 9:55am Elizabeth just put in her two-week notice. Why is it always the good ones? 7:32pm My weight has crept back down over the course of the day to just over 180, meaning I'm now only ten pounds heavier than I was at my doctor's appointment Thursday before last, rather than fifteen. Small comfort. I don't like that it's happening at all. I mean, jeez, am I putting too many cucumbers in my salad, or what?
|
||
| ||
Sunday, 1 August 1999 (within) 8:31am One month. 9:44am As usual, Bill Hicks may have said it best. I was in Nashville, Tennesse last year. After the show, I went to a waffle house. I'm not proud of it, I was hungry. I'm alone, I'm eating, I'm reading a book, right? Waitress walks over to me and says, "Hey, what you readin' for?" Is that like the weirdest fucking question you've ever heard? Not what am I reading, but what am I reading for. Well, goddamnit, you stumped me. Why do I read? Hmm...I guess I read for a lot of reasons, and the main one is so I don't end up being a fucking waffle waitress. 1:42pm Next Saturday, 11am, Alameda. Zap zap zap. Guess I won't be seeing Lee that particular weekend, anyway. 5:11pm At Brigid's party last night, I got the answer to the question I posed in my latest column: no, nobody's using powder but me. I'd kinda figured that was the case, but the number of comments I received confirmed my suspicions, from mime comments to Perki saying that he didn't think anyone wore it anymore. (Nice to know my editor is paying attention.) Not so much the last of a dying breed but rather a random genetic mutation, a throwback to an earlier stage in evolution. Kinda like being born with a vestigial tail. Whatever. Just me and Anodyne at the point, I suppose. And really, it isn't even the powder but the violet foundation. I've yet to experiment with it minus the powder, though I should. In terms of my complexion I didn't do anything too unusual, but the apartment was brightly lit, my bangs were hidden under the beret (hence more exposed forehead, whoopee), I was wearing my sunglasses and my lips were actually darker than usual since I used the "flat" end of the thicker Tar eyeliner. So in that respect I was even more of a study in monochromatic contrast than normal. I'm certainly looking forward, with my usual trepidation, to seeing the pictures Brigid took. We're tentatively thinking in terms of a more extensive photo shoot towards the end of the month. I don't expect I'll be doing the super-pasty thing forever, of course. It has a lot to do with the simple fact that I don't like the way my natural skin tone looks right now. It's affected by the beardshadow no matter how close I shave, and shaving too close is what resulted in me slicing up my face a while back. I could be very wrong about this, but from my point of view the shadow's far less obtrusive when I'm paled out. In a lot of ways that doesn't make a damn bit of sense (wouldn't the dark hairs be more visible when they're on a white background?), but in my mind it makes sense. Someday I'll be able to get away with essentially my natural tone, like Maddy or Laurel, but I'm not there. Then again, I never did see Pandora any other way than paled out, and I mostly saw her at work. In any event, what ribbing I did receive about my appearance was completely good-natured, and I wasn't remotely offended. No doubt my particular circumstances (everyone knows me as Sherilyn, but nobody's fooled, and I'll talk about it with anyone who wants to know) gives me a certain leeway. Besides, Leonard's presence very effectively diverted any potential freakshow value away from me. I'd first noticed him at Shrine a month or two back, usually sitting alone writing in a notebook. I was often tempted to sit down and ask what he was writing, but I'm quite glad now that I didn't. This is probably the meanest thought I've ever expressed out lout, but seeing his odd waddle, perpetually skewed grin, utter joy in being tormented—and the utter joy that others have in tormenting him—and his certain resemblence to an out of shape Matt Damon, it feels like I'm watching a retarded version of Good Will Hunting. As I watched Kenya kneeling on his back, knee firmly in his spine, I had a peculiar sense of my self-esteem as an individual rising (for compared to Leonard I've got my shit together in a big, big way) and as a human being dropping (is this what sentient creatures do?). I'm told he's actually extremely intelligent. That's the scariest part of all, I'm sure he is. I also finally go to watch The Leader in action. I'd never met him (still haven't, really) and only know him through reputation. A reputation which is even more bulletproof than Crawford's, almost cultlike, and nothing about him suggests he minds that status. Although the first thing I heard him say was a threat to knock Leonard's teeth out. I hadn't expected him to be so petulant, but then again, I'm not yet of the body. The closest thing we had to a conversation probably seemed like nothing more to him than some drag queen mouthing off like they always do. Someone had some dolls from A Bug's Life, a pair of football-sized bugs which, when you pressed a button and pointed their infrared sensors towards each other, would have a conversation. I didn't understand a word of it, but I haven't seem the movie and wasn't paying overly close attention anyway. I was observing The Leader, trying to get a sense of his charisma. It wasn't happening for me. Anyway, he stood up and started walking towards the door. In a burst which was more agitated than even my gnarliest mood swing, he said it was still a more intelligent conversation than most you'll find on "that fucking list." Referring, of course, to the sfgoth-junkies mailing list, which I'll fully admit is 90% useless. But I subscribe willingly, so I can't complain about it too much. "And yet," I replied, "You still read it." Without looking at me, he said, "No, I just delete everything." "That's odd," I pointed out, "because you post a lot." He mumbled something and stormed out of the room. Ah, the love.
|
||
| ||