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Friday, 30 June 2000 (never is a promise) 7:22am Oh, you have got to be kidding me. There's still hair on my upper lip. Six hours of electro in the last week, and there's still hair on my upper lip. That's very wrong. It's at least a few days old, and it should be gone by now. My entire face should be clear, but particularly that area, which is easily the most noticeable.
I'm wondering if it isn't time to find a new electrologist. I don't want to.
I really, really don't want to. But I'm requiring a bit more reliability.
This is too important. I can't just settle. This is, however pathetic,
my life.
Duck and cover.
I also keep forgetting that Monday is a holiday for a lot of people.
The Den Mother called a little after six; the DSL has been down, so I was using the rabbit ears didn't even get the message until just now. Seems the office's fire sprinklers went off near Leigh's desk, which is right next to mine. She didn't say why, but I turned off all my lights before I left (including the blacklights, which run very hot) so I'm fairly confident it wasn't anything in my area that caused it. That's assuming the sprinklers were even set off by a fire, and there's no reason to assume that. Anyway...apparently many things are now drenched, and IS is on its way to salvage what can be salvaged. According to the TDM my desk wasn't right in the middle of it so it didn't get quite as hard as some others, but still, I have three computers, all of which may be soggy toast now. Even without that, my cubicle is a complete and utter mess, and I am at this moment profoundly embarrassed by that fact. It's just going to make their jobs harder. Aside from the usual clutter, the boxes and shipping material the Atari 800XL came packed in are still piled on the ground. It makes me wish I didn't have such a strong tendency to nest—which, of course, is a cop-out. It's not nesting, it's sloppiness, plain and simple. She says there's really no point for me to come in unless there's something in particular I want to get. There isn't. I have all my CDs, and most everything else is just stuff, and it won't make any difference if I tried to get it now or next week. At least the various action figures (Scully from the X-Files movie, The Crow and the Betty Page figure Dana gave me) are still in their boxes, though the boxes are surely soaked. Bam. Zoom. In an instant, everything can go away. That's why it's best not to get too attached.
This has been a profoundly bad day.
A few friends have extended their sympathy. I don't feel I deserve it. I'm hurting,
but so is she.
here comes that awful feeling again
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Thursday, 29 June 2000 (home) 6:35am It's easy enough, isn't it? Let it slide, everything seems fine, then without warning they're not so fine, and you realize something has to be done, but you're stoic so you live through it, and then everything seems fine again, and...
Meanwhile, the scars keep growing. But no matter, because it'll never
happen again, right? Things will be different. Sure. Just gotta
have a little faith. And patience. Besides, this is what you asked
for, right? Right. You had your chance. You blew it. So shut up.
Shut the fuck up.
nobody is forever, the prophet said. the world is not yours to save. 10:58am Fuck. He's back. After all of two days, he's back. He went to Los Angeles (did I want to hear about his trip? no. did I have any choice? no), didn't like it, and came back. And I had to be gone on one of those days. Who made this fucking planet, and what were they thinking?
I felt so relaxed yesterday, I really did. The firecrackers weren't constantly going off,
and I traversed the distance between my desk and Brian's office without putting on my sunglasses,
which I otherwise do so I don't have to risk looking at him. Believe me, I'm well aware of
how pathetic that sounds. I really wish my sense of loathing wasn't as strong as it is,
because it serves no purpose, none whatsoever...
It wasn't so bad tonight, really. He's almost completely out of both the spray stuff and EMLA, so there wasn't much between me and the needle. However, an undetermined number of vicodin, walgreen's brand Green Death, Fiona Apple's When the Pawn hits the conflicts he thinks like a king What he knows throws the blows when he goes to the fight And he'll win the whole thing 'fore he enters the ring There's no body to batter when your mind is your might So when you go solo, you hold your own hand And remember that depth is the greatest of heights And if you know where you stand, then you know where to land And if you fall it won't matter, cuz you’ll know that you’re right and Neil Young's Freedom got me through. He wasn't in a particularly chatty mood, which also helped. For a while, it was like I was somewhere else entirely, somewhere which I could simply be...
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Wednesday, 28 June 2000 (curve) 8:26am Back. I'm only a little less foggy in the brain than I was yesterday, but functional enough. Besides, I'd hate to miss TFQ's vacation. The fact that I'm here now will probably mean that he's not actually gone, irony being the guiding force of the universe.
Things are on the verge of happening.
Which brings to mind my favorite scene from Paul Thomas Anderson's brilliant Boogie Nights. Three characters are about
to attempt an ill-advised robbery of a coke dealer, in his own home with a very beefy and well-armed
security guard
present. They're nervous and strung out enough as it is, and not helping matters is the dealer's lover,
a lithe Chinese boy who does nothing but wander about aimlessly and toss firecrackers. Every time a firecracker
goes off, they jump like it's a gunshot. It perfectly illustrates the effect The Fidget Queen has on my nerves.
i've got to let it go and leave it gone 12:14pm Figures that on the one day in recent memory in which I don't drive to work, the Atari 800XL I "won" on eBay arrived. The box itself has water damage, but the machine itself is in styrofoam and appears to be in good shape. Much better than my old machine, naked in my mother's storage shed back in Fresno. ("Naked in my mother's storage shed." I just wanted to say that again.) Ah, 1984. 64K was a big deal at the time, as evidenced by the slogan on the box: "What Will You Do With All This Extra Memory?" Nothing at all, if I can't figure out how to hooked it up to my TV, which is too advanced for switchboxes but too primitive for S-VHS. The awkwardness of transitional technology. 4:05pm Is it ever too late to start over? Or too soon? 8:33pm My current computer now has 192 MB of RAM. Because there's no shame in taking solace in your toys. Like cats or the appeasement of vanity, sometimes it's all you have. Speaking of having things, I have a moustache right now. There's really no getting around it. Enough hair escaped getting zapped on Monday night to make me look like a teenage boy desperately trying to look more mature by growing facial hair. I suppose it goes without saying that it's the farthest thing from how I could possibly want to look, yet there it is, and I have to live with it until tomorrow night. I must admit that it's kind of ironic, considering that in my mid-twenties I've looked younger than I ever did as a teenager. But these little setbacks will happen. Not much I can do but lick my wounds, no matter how much they hurt, and move on.
And move on.
The price is the most obvious one, of course. But I'm still in the initial dreaming stage, so I'll save the scary reality for another time.
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Tuesday, 27 June 2000 (a daisy through concrete) 8:04am Have I mentioned how tired I'm getting of it all? Big huge black hairs on my upper lip. I guess he missed them last night, or he figured that he could get them when I go back on Thursday, or maybe it was time to call it quits because I was obviously starting to squirm in a big way. We were reaching the three and a half hour mark, and I'd been barely hanging on for the last hour. Not physically, but emotionally. I'm never sure if he's aware when I start to cry; probably he is, although he doesn't comment on upon it, a display of tact for which I'm very grateful. The mind just starts wandering. If you're lucky. If not, you're aware of everything that's going on, and that's bad. At first I thought it was going to be a bad one, that I hadn't taken enough vicodin (or of the Walgreen's brand Green Death), but I settled in eventually. Even, towards the end, became not entirely aware of what was going on. But I was thinking of other things, bad things, scary things, things I'm able to keep out of my head during most other times because I wouldn't be able to function otherwise. Realizations and truths and angles and perspectives which, when not reined in, can drive me to my knees. They wanted to last night, but they didn't. A few tears escpaed down the side of my face, but mostly they remained welled up in my rather deep ocular cavities. Opening my eyes just upset the balance, so I did so only when absolutely necessary. Instead of keeping the bad things out, closing my eyes kept the bad things in, where they belonged. Outside, they might raise questions, questions that I don't dare answer. The bad things revisited me in my dreams, where they knew they could do as they pleased. All I really remember for certain was that my mother was involved somehow, and in my dreams, that's never a good thing. She functions like a greek chorus, making sure I understand that I've been a disappointment not just to her, but to anyone who's ever tried to get close to me, and more importantly, that it's my own damn fault if nobody seems to understand me, I shouldn't expect anything else, that if I feel trapped and beaten and abbreviated then it's what I deserve for all the bad I've done...everything you feel is wrong, don't you know that? listen to us. we know what's right for you... and she'd read my journal, and was not happy with me, not at all. There are things I'm not supposed to talk about, to even hint at, and I'd done just that. if you just smile and pretend everything's fine, then everything's fine. i'm counting on you. don't fuck this up for me. It didn't really hit me until I was in the shower this morning. I woke up feeling disoriented—well, I woke up several times feeling disoriented, eventually getting out of bed—but, as usual, didn't remember just what I'd been dreaming about. When it hit, it hit hard. I seldom do the full-on cry anymore, but rather the occasional squeak comes through as my face seems to try to force it back in. It's not healthy, not healthy at all, but sometimes catharsis seems a thing of the past. I'm lucky if I can get anything out before the exposed nerves start to burn. I don't call in sick to work very often, and only when I'm genuinely not up for it. Today, I am not up for it. There's a little guilt because it's not like I'm puking my guts out, but I would be useless all the same. Still, I was feeling a burst of self-destructive adventurousness, so I opened up my computer. One of Maddy's coworkers had suggested that the hard drive had become disconnected from the motherboard, and after R'ing TFM to figure out exactly where the twain meet, I discovered that yeah, it was a bit loose. That did the trick. My computer's happy again. That's one of us, anyway. And, by some miracle, the landlords called to say they'd be coming by this morning with a plumber. Convenient timing, to say the least. They cleaned out a big huge hunk o' hair from the upstairs neighbor's plumbing, and the theory is that the pressure from the clog was causing the leak. Now, we wait and see. My head is pounding, and my face is turning red and welty. I think it waits until first thing the following morning, because when I glanced in the mirror before getting in the shower my face looked comparatively clear except for the remaning upper lip hair. Now the bumps are showing, and I can feel each and every one of them... Over. Just, over. I'm so through. Please. No more.
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Monday, 26 June 2000 (idiot wind) 8:54am What happened is, while the new memory I bought and installed in the morning seems to be working fine, the computer now seems to have lost track of the hard drive. Whoops. Not good. I'm thinking something might have been jostled loose during the installation. This error has actually occured before, but usually rebooting will do the trick. Not so now. I didn't have much of a chance to fiddle with it further yesterday, as we went out for sushi with Dana and Costanza, who gave me a very neat Betty Page Action Figure for my birthday. She says she saw it and thought of me. (Too kind, as always.) More cubicle food! Indeed, it's already up on the shelf next to the dead roses. (Speaking of such things, whaddayaknow, it's June 26, the day we're all supposed to be moved. Funny how everything still looks the same, even down to my new "office" still being used as a storage room. No doubt, The Den Mother is going to be making some very angry phone calls.)
I'm getting zapped this evening, and as such haven't shaved since Saturday afternoon. It was
very tempting yesterday morning, but I didn't. Figures, though: every time I've seen Dana
in the last six months, I think I've either just gotten zapped or am about to, meaning I've
looked like hell. I wonder if she even remembers what I look like when I'm not hairy or still sizzling...
Mustn't get my hopes up...
Again. Egads, not this again. I'm so tired of it. Of every part. The current anticipation, the experience itself (particularly when I'm overly aware, and I can only hope that my relative lack of sleep last night will kick in), the eternal recovery period, that realization that I'm far from done and need to go back in again...and again...and again. And again. And then again a few zillion more times for good measure. Who knows, when all is said and done, I might not even have too much scarring, even though I'll still get called "sir" more often than not. It's gotta be done, so I do it. I must have faith, and so I am faithful. Kinda typical for my life, being in an unpleasant situation which I must not only tolerate but give the outward impression of being content, lest I be accused of being otherwise. I shouldn't give a damn, but I guess I tend to be overly sensitive to these things. Maybe that's why I insisted so much to my mother last year that I couldn't have been happier when in fact I was experiencing levels of misery I hadn't previously suspected existed. If I'd even hinted at that, however, it would have vindicated her belief that I was doing everything wrong. I was pretty well convinced of that myself, but she had her own reasons for wanting me to feel that way. Anything to get me to cut my hair.
Still, who can tell their mother the truth? Even now, I can't. Oh, I'm out to her, but
beyond that, there ain't much that can be shared. Sometimes she knows
when I'm lying, but as I've pointed out to her, she doesn't always like the truth, either.
loyalty?
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Sunday, 25 June 2000 (cancer of everything) 8:59am It's Pride Weekend, and the parade starts in a couple hours. We'd considered going, but the logistics are all wrong, largely because we had such a late night. eels played three encores before the house lights came up. Then, maybe ten minutes later (we were still there, waiting for the crowd to thin out), they came back out and played another song before calling it quits for good. The rewards of perserverance. I'm still probably going to regret not having talked to Lisa, though.
Anyway, I couldn't help noticing that the San Francisco Examiner's sunday magaine
is doing their annual "Weddings" issue. Wait a minute! It's Pride weekend! One of the
recurring arguments against gay marriage is that it somehow threatens straight marriage
(hence legislation like The Defense of Marriage Act, discrimination
and bigotry under the banner of "traditional values"), so
surely if all those gay people are out there flaunting themselves then the concept of
straight marriage must be mortally wounded, right? Isn't that in the Bible or something?
They played at least five songs I didn't recognize last night, pretty gutsy considered there have
only been three albums and the new one hasn't been selling for shit. The set began with a medley
from the first two albums, before frontman E even came on stage. How ballsy is that? It was probably
the loosest, most spontaneous-feeling show I've yet seen, even moreso than Lou. Nine Inch Nails and
Alanis were by comparison much mroe polished, if not necessarily any less heartfelt. (if it moves you...)
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Saturday, 24 June 2000 (flyswatter) 6:10pm So I'm washing the dishes, since it's Saturday morning, and I realize that water is hitting my arm. The top of my arm. Physics implies that the water splashing in the sink isn't going to hit the top of it with that much force, so I look up, fearing the worst. And I get it: the ceiling is leaking. The leak is directly over the sink, at least. Hooray for small miracles. I immediately call the landlord, which I was planning on doing anyway since the rent is due. He arrives within fifteen minutes. I hadn't yet changed, so he gets his first look at me in stripeys. Didn't say a word, naturally. Anyway, it's coming from the shower upstairs, and the only way to directly access the pipe would be to tear into the ceiling. Neither of us much care for the idea, so he says he's going to try to, like, use some kind of weird solution that's supposed to seal up the pipe without directly accessing it. Or something. I still don't understand, but he says it's worked before, and it beats tearing into the ceiling. Sure. Okay. Whatever.
eels is tonight. Lisa Germano is definitely not the opener—apparently it's some
group called Spider—but I'm holding out that the rumors of her playing with them
during their set are true. Even if not, I'm sure it's still going to be a great show.
I bought the eels album the day it came out and tickets for the show the second day they were on sale, so I thought it only right to buy as much merchandise as I could. Which amounted to two t-shirts (including the legendary monkey tee, my new proudest possession) and a set of stickers. Gotta support the artist however you can. I used the women's restroom at the Great American Music Hall tonight, and I did the same at the Fillmore earlier this week. If I'm ever going to get over my nervousness, I gotta just do it. Being in full battle gear at a concert made it feel a little safer, but I know that Maggie uses the women's room at Chevy's (to name but one example), and if she can get away with it, then so can I. So that's all four of the June concerts now, plus the fashion show and my birthday. I'm getting that sinking feeling of having opened all my presents and having nothing left to look forward to. if it moves you, it moves you. that's all that matters. that's all that can ever possibly matter. don't deny me that right, because i would never deny it to you. and if you find your pride or your fear won't allow you to see me for me, then i'm sorry i ever wasted your time to begin with. good luck, and i hope someday you'll realize why you always feel so alone.
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Friday, 23 June 2000 (force majeure) 7:08am So halfway through "Ironic," a song which I've never cared for though I knew was inevitable as an encore (one of my personal favorites, "Joining You," was dispatched early on), I suddenly realize, i get this song. i never did before, but now i do.
I'm still not sure what "getting it" implies, but I figure I'm halfway there.
Our future "office" is still being used as a storage room, and the move is supposed to happen on Monday. In all likelihood, it hasn't occured to The Den Mother that physics will require that stuff to be moved elsewhere first. Or she just figures that Facilities will take care of it, since That's Their Job. Where will it all go? No idea, and I doubt she cares or has even bothered to inform them that the room is already full. That's Their Job, Not Hers. My, that was deep. There's more to say about the show last night, but I don't have the slightest idea how to say it.
do you feel noble yet? that's supposed to be one of the side benefits, right? wasn't that mother theresa's line of bullshit? Revlon is clearly skimping on the Street Wear line now, even though the price is the same. The new eyeliner I got recently is clumping like crazy, and I know it didn't used to do that.
it gets easier with time, they say. at least you're getting practice. this is the way it works everywhere, kiddo. lack of irony, thousand-yard stare, no self-consciousness, three chords and a cloud of dust, idolatry, the sin of earnestness
you can't go back to that place. but you can find another. what matters, will always exist. it will not be taken from you.
Would "Still" have been too much to ask, though?
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Thursday, 22 June 2000 (causal synchronicity) 5:57am Among the men and women, the multitude, 8:36am The annual company picnic is today. I played hooky last year and went to Belladonna Arcana instead, purchasing both my first pair of velvet leggings and my first bottle of violet foundation, thus substantially altering my overall appearance. Belladonna of course closed a few months after and broke my heart in the process, and I've yet to fully recover from the loss. I don't use the violet foundation anymore, but the few pairs of leggings I bought are nearly threadbare from daily wear. My attempts to get in touch with the owner of Belladonna have failed miserably (unlike Lee, her hermit mode is total), although Rae has graciously offered to make me some. Anyway, although Belladonna is obviously not an option this year, I still have no desire to go. The deciding factor will probably be whether or not Maddy is able to get out of it. I know Brian doesn't give a shit one way or the other, and The Den Mother isn't around to corral us. I wouldn't be surprised, though, if she wrote and declared our workload is too heavy and that she doesn't want any of us to go.
Alanis is tonight. I can say without embarrassment that I'm excited. The Fillmore is sold out
so it'll be packed, but I don't care. I'm gonna try to dance.
It was nothing of the sort; indeed, they were very pleased with my job performance and said I was was surpassing their original expectations, and it wasn't a business-related lunch anyway. They just wanted to hang out, that's all. Apparently this sort of thing happens all the time, and I was just imagining the axe I felt was waiting to descend upon my neck. At one point or another, I made a passing reference to my then-recent breakup with The Ex. They were flabbergasted—I was kidding, right? There was no way I could have just come out of an eight and a half year relationship and be so...well, undramatic about it and able to focus on my work without being distracted. If I hadn't told them, they never would have guessed anything was wrong. I felt rather proud. (I was also happy they didn't ask if the fact that I was now wearing pigtails and eyeliner had anything to do with why we broke up.) I'd always been a firm believer in keeping my personal life from adversely affecting my professional life, such as it is. Even if it weren't for my desire to keep my personal drama reined in—this may seem counterintuitive at best and an outright lie at worst, but I'm actually a private person—I still would have felt compelled to keep quiet simply because of how incredibly loud The Fidget Queen was being and how much of his relationship trauma I was being forced to endure. He sat six or seven feet away without even so much as a cubicle wall between us, so I was in the front row for his hand-stapling theatrics whether I wanted it or not. During my first week he acquired a telephone headset, which I mistakenly assumed meant his job required him to be on the phone a lot. Nope. It was just so he wouldn't hurt his precious little neck while gossiping and/or fighting with his boyfriend. But I digress. I suppose it's easier when one has a job one can burrow into and hide from the world. It was easy not to think about what was happening at home when I was working long hours to make sure the fucking E-Business site went live, lest the sky really begin falling. (Hell hath no fury like the Marketing department scorned. Although it can be fun to scorn them anyway.) No matter how fucked up I was last year, work was always a solace, which is probably why I came in on so many weekends and holidays. Sometimes working can be the absolute worst thing, though, depending on the job. Saturday, August 11, 1990 comes to mind. After becoming official on June 17, The Ex dumped me on Sunday, July 22. After holding it together for a few days, I came apart in a big way after an unexpected late night phone call and spent most of the following week or two on Jonco's couch. Tom was also hanging out there, and we spent our time boozing and generally wallowing in our collective misery. (How much were we wallowing? We watched Bergman's Cries and Whispers for fun. That's how much.) By my math he was also into the powdery white stuff at the time, but he was discrete about it, and I wasn't interested. I didn't even smoke grass, although it was available. I was 17, young enough not to know that I wouldn't find any comfort in alcohol, so I tried my best. I still went to work at Video Zone, but afterwards would return to Jonco's, my little sanctuary. Around that time someone asked me if I could work for them on an upcoming Saturday night in August. Like most retail jobs, if you want time off, you needed to cajole someone else into covering your shift. I didn't like working Saturday nights any more than anyone else did, and I'd only been off Saturdays for a while (hello seniority), but for karmic reasons I accepted. Besides, I figured, what the hell else did I have to do? Ooooooh, that turned out to be such the wrong question... Over the next few weeks, The Ex and I began to reconcile. We talked on the phone, hung out some, and so on. (After the first few times I was even able to keep from crying.) Getting back together was starting to look like a possibility; one of her ostensible reasons for breaking up with me in the first place was pressure from her ex-boyfriend, and that failed miserably when she realized that he was just the same as he ever was and ever would be, and she was right to have left him in the first place. Indeed, after her and I got together he never made it a secret that he still had intentions on her. He was not exactly healthy relationship material, since as far as he was concerned, gawd had endowed him with too much—ahem—love to just give to one girl. (To her credit, The Ex has always said that dumping me was one of the biggest mistakes of her life, and certainly her deepest regret, something she wished she could go back and change. As such, I've never held it against her. If nothing else, she was 16. We all did things at 16 we're not proud of.) Then, somehow, she stumbled upon a pair of tickets to see Robert Plant, a concert which I hadn't even been aware was coming up. As a rule, misfit teenagers in Fresno in 1990 were total Zep freaks, and we were no exception. She wanted me to go with her, and I wanted to go, except... ...it was on August 11, the night I'd agreed to work. Shit. Shit shit shit. Just for kicks, I asked the person I was covering for what they were going to be doing that night. Three guesses as to their answer. So I worked that night, and she went to the concert with her ex-boyfriend, who insinuated that he was the logical choice to begin with. Being Himself, and all. He got a lot of mileage out of the notion that his large penis really did make him special. My sense of dread leading up to that night was so thick I could taste it. On my way to the store, I knew it was going to be bad. I knew nothing good could come from it. I knew I'd have to be working on a busy Saturday night, the longest eight hours of my life, dealing with moronic customers while trying not to think about where The Ex was, who she was with, what he would almost certainly be trying... Until I got there, I'd forgotten about the clown. I hate clowns. With a passion. Clowns suck. Clowns are scary and stupid and insulting and improper from an evolutionary standpoint. I could probably get into Fellini's movies more if he didn't have such a clown fetish. He even made a fucking documentary about clowns, and I suppose I should be grateful that he didn't try to slip them into 8 1/2. The only good film involving clowns would have to be Bobcat Goldthwait's Shakes the Clown, because real clowns protested the film. Anything that pisses off clowns is okay in my book. (The Day the Clown Cried is probably even better in that regard, but we'll never know.) When I see a clown walking towards me, I cross the street. Wanna see Willard Scott as the original Ronald McDonald? Pure nightmare fuel. Click on the link only if you're brave of heart and strong of stomach. I repeat: Willard Scott as Ronald McDonald. I'm not making this stuff up. My imagination is not fertile enough to match the horrors wrought by real-life clowning. And there was a clown at the store that night. It was the owner's brilliant plan to drum up business. How it was supposed to do so is a mystery to me, but I'm sure they thought it was a swell idea. All I knew was that I was the wrong night for me to have to deal with a clown, even if it was keeping near the children's section. Take injury, add insult, then stuff every available orifice full of clownshit and you'll have some idea of how I felt that night. I think its name was...Boppo? Zoppo? Something like that. It was an unpleasant wretch, even by clown standards.
Eventually the night ended. I think. I'd descended into my own unique hell, and part of me is probably
still there, trapped in the worst possible circumstances I could imagine at that time. (Those particular
horizons have since broadened considerably.)
But The Ex and I got back together a few days later, and the center of my consciousness is here now, ten years gone. And, for the most part, no clowns in sight.
we were together during a very tumultuous time in our lives
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Wednesday, 21 June 2000 (most of the time) 6:27am The shadow has returned, as have my roots. I feel like I'm slumming. Maybe that's why I've been so uncomfortable in my skin the last few days...at least I'm getting zapped next week. I suppose I should make an appointment with Miguel to get my hair colored, though there's still the possibility of having Anodyne do my hair. Except for the impulsive bang-trimming last week, it's been a minor detail to which I simply haven't been able to devote much mental energy. As always, one of the nice things about being tall is that I can get away with roots for a while before too many people notice... 9:21am According to Magenta, pictures from the fashion show should be available next week. While I'm definitely curious to see how it looked from the outside, I find I'm mostly just apprehensive about seeing the pictures of myself—if any of them even turned out, that is. They may not have. Regardless, I just know I'm not going to like them, since I almost never like pictures of myself.
For that matter, I still haven't seen the pictures Paige took during
the photo shoot last month, and I find I'm in no rush to do so. She said that by and large they turned
out very nicely except for some red-eye problems, which comes as no suprise. That's one of the reasons
why b&w film
is my friend. Seriously, though, I've seen pictures of myself with red-eye while pictures taken
of other people in the same place with the same lighting and the same camera are just fine. The
"red-eye reduction" feature doesn't do a damn bit of good, either. Must
be these hazel eyes—or maybe they really are windows, and bad things are happening
on the other side.
Exactly seven months later, The Ex and I broke up, though the two events resist any form of causal synchronization in my mind. It's as if they're not only unrelated, but from different lives entirely, like something changed so fundamentally between points A and B that the original journey was never completed, and the destination which was reached was of a journey which had started from another point entirely. Or the beginning and the end are the same as they ever were or ever might have been, but from the perspective of the traveller everything's different. (Confused yet? Yeah, me too. And though it's tempting, I'm not going to drag Relativity into this. That would be cheating. Beyond the simple fact that I don't understand it well enough) It's somewhere between changing horses in midstream and waking up in unfamiliar surroundings.
That I started on hormones halfway through may have
something to do with it. It was impossible to quantify at the time what impact
they had, and I wouldn't have even if I could because of the level of my denial
necessary to keep the guilt and shame and embarrassment at bay. I'm more willing
to accept the role of my transitioning in our breakup than I once was (tragedy
plus time, y'know?), but I'll never really know the full extent. That's probably
for the best.answer me a question i can't itemize
i can't think clear you look to me for reason
it's not there
For the wedding, and surely other things, I'm getting a black satin back-laced victorian corset.
Sans the lace trim and with plastic rather than steel boning, for those playing along at
home. If I like
it—hell, if I even think the company is reasonably competent—then I'm probably going to
splurge a second time and get one of their Dead Tech corsets, quite possibly one of the coolest designs ever. (Now
that I think about it, it won't be splurging a second time, since the first one isn't technically
a splurge. It's a proud obligation, damnit.) There is, let's face it, nothing sexier than the semi-Borg
look. Well, I like it, anyway. I like the sense that it gives of the body being reshaped, especially
by metal and technolofy. (Odd for someone who who doesn't want piercings?) It's one
of the reasons I like my buetz so much, the way they determine how that part of my body is shaped,
and as far as I'm concerned it can't be slimmed down enough. Does the world need another tranny with
a constriction/technology fetish? Not particularly, but we seem to keep cropping up...
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