|
|
< 5/21 5/22 5/23 5/24 5/25 5/26 5/27 5/28 5/29 5/30 5/31 >
|
Monday, 31 May 1999 (afflictions) 7:21am After rougly thirteen hours, I can see Phil's theory that this is IT ain't entirely accurate. I'll be back within a month or so. This is not over. 8:18am Twelve hours of Law & Order. Hell yeah. I now have the excuse to just sit back and relax I was looking for. A&E: It's Not Just World War II Documentaries Anymore. 4:11pm I did take rent over on Friday evening, shortly after The Ex arrived with the car. It was getting late and I wanted to start getting ready to go out, but her man was would be over at any time to pick her up and I was in no mood to see him. When they asked how The Ex was doing, it seemed as good a segue as any, so I told them we'd broken up and that she was going to be moving out soon. I was a little vague on the details, which is to say A) I didn't mention we broke up in January and B) I didn't come out to them. They were very understanding and asked me to wish her well. My apartment is safe; the only change in the paperwork will be removing her name. (I've got a lot of that ahead of me, since almost all the bills are under her name.) The rent remains the same. They seemed a little concerned about me handling everything myself, but I assured them I could. Of course, I neglected to mention that I've in fact been handling everything myself since September. The Ex never wanted them to know she was unemployed, and I respect that.
I didn't bring up the cat issue; everything in its own
time.
|
||
 | ||
Sunday, 30 May 1999 (obsessions) 9:17am I knew it. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it. I've been saying all along that even for summer in San Francisco it's colder than it should be, and the numbers are bearing me out. According to The Examiner yesterday was a record low for May 29, 54 degrees. And it's not going to get any better any time soon. 1999 is full of surprises.
Another story that caught my eye involves lifeguards now stationed at
Ocean Beach, where I live. The waters are
treacherous at best, and there's already lots of signs warning people to stay out.
Still, seven people drowned last year. Yeah, this is in very bad taste, but I find
it amusing that I live right next to a natural deathtrap.
Seven and a half hours of electrolysis, from 11am to 6:30pm. That's a long time, even by my standards; I think my previous record was six hours. I'd originally only intended a regular three hour session, but Phil had other ideas. He took one look at my growth and decided he was going to completely clear me today. As in everything. Since I've started seeing him again over the last few months, he hasn't touched my neck and has mostly left my sideburns alone. Fair enough, since they tend to grow in the thinnest, and my actual face is of more immediate concern. Today, however, he cleared my sideburns and neck for the first time since September. The upper lip has more of a reputation, but for my money the neck is the most harrowing part. Maybe it was because we'd already been at it for three hours and before he even started on my neck, and I was quite ready for the session to be over. Or maybe the survival instinct resents having sharp things poking around the jugular. Or maybe it was because in order to avoid the Adam's apple, which in its own way is as sensitive as the testicles, he had to pull the skin away and that can hurt enough even without zapping, and since it involved stretching skin which was practically still sizzling...there were a few moments in which I thought I might cry, and in fact my eyes got just the slightest bit teary. Not from the pain itself, actually, but because I got to thinking how absolutely wonderful it would be to go home and have The Ex hold me, and cry then, because there's simply no way to endure that much physical trauma without at least a little of it spelling over to the emotions. Absolutely no way that was going to happen, of course, and The Ex had came to mind mainly because she was the only source of genuine emotional comfort I'd ever known (with apologies to Mary's memory). Just having someone (physically, in person, in the real world) to turn to...I've been remarkably stoic lately about being lonely, and sometimes that reserve cannot help but collapse. Intense pain directed at the neck is apparently one catalyst. In any event, with the exception of about half an inch at the very top of my sideburns, all the facial hair is gone from my face and neck. Phil suggested this might be it—like, no more growth. I warned him not to tease me like that. If I've learned anything, it's that hope must remain grounded. In a few weeks I may well be as hairy as I've ever been. The possibility exists; I must be prepared for it. The swelling has already begun, particularly on my neck. He quite generously medicated my face, though, and I should be mostly healed by the end of the week. Of course, he slathered on the cream afterwards, but was a bit stingy with the topical anesthetic during the zapping, making a point of applying it to the upper lip but otherwise only using it when I seemed to be particularly hurting. If I jumped, then he'd spray it on. Did I mention Vicodin? Lots of it. I think I took 1500mg altogether. Almost every time we had a break I'd pop half a pill, just to be on the safe side. Drugs are your friend. So there I was when my brother answered his door—face lumpy and yellow from the cream with many tiny loose hairs all over, for I didn't dare try to remove them (didn't want to remove any of the cream, and besides, it hurt to touch my face), and if I looked half as dopey from the Vicodin as I felt...surely the sorriest sight since whenever the last time our brother Tom, strung out on crack and homeless, showed up at his door. (Which, I should point out, would have been at least ten years ago. Tom's doing much better now.) His apartment in Oakland was a much shorter drive than mine in San Francisco, and it was very very bright outside—my eyes are light-sensitive to begin with, and I think the Vicodin was doing funny things to them. Driving across the Bay Bridge, into the sun, would have been a fantastically bad idea. I spent most of the evening at his place, waiting for both the sun and myself to come down. Probably the wisest thing I've done in a long time. We watched MST3K, and it hit the spot perfectly. I can't remember the last time I laughed so much, and I really needed it. And, just going to show what an incredibly generous person he is, Phil was kind enough to take a check dated two weeks from now (when I get paid next). I told him up front about my financial situation, and he would have been well within his rights to refuse service. But he knows how important this is to me, and it's important to him, too. He takes pride in his work, even though a successful job means losing that client (think about it). I did tell him about Whitman, though, and he sounded intrigued...goth out, goth in...
|
||
| ||
Saturday, 29 May 1999 (incomes) 7:43am Chased from my bed by dreams. That's the way it feels, anyway. As though the moment I opened my eyes this morning, after sleeping for just over four hours, my subconscious was kicking me back into the real world for good. No more sleep for me. You don't want to stay here. You don't want to see what we're showing you. I don't even remember what it was, but they're right, I wasn't liking it, not one bit. Maybe that's why genuine creativity escapes me, because I seem to be afraid of my mind's natural creativity. Makes me fear I don't deserve this honor. Like, which word could possibly apply? Shrine was okay last night, aside from the events already described. The band, Seraphim Shock, was pretty fun—extremely corny in the most self-consciously cheesy way possible, and that's not meant as a critcism. They're a lot like what I imagine Marilyn Manson was like in the club days, though the technology has clearly improved and dropped in price. Speaking of such things...this is a dangerous thing for me to admit in public on many levels, but fuck it: I'm really, really digging The Long Hard Road Out of Hell. It's much more interesting and funny and oddly profound and even touching than I could have anticipated. I also find I'm identifying with him in a lot of ways. (A brief aside about my name, and this seems as good a place as any. Lest you think there's some kind of connection since it rhymes with "Marilyn," "Sherilyn" is instead rather brazenly stolen from Sherilyn Fenn. I've used it since 1993, before I'd ever heard of Manson. Besides the fact that it's a somewhat unique and beautiful name, The Ex has always been severely in love with Ms. Fenn. And what's not to love? So at the time, it was almost as much of an homage to The Ex as anything else. It's very much mine now, though. "Connelly" is my real last name, which I've decided to keep, probably to the chagrin of certain family members. I don't know who they are, but as the news spreads beyond the immediate family—and I ain't looking forward to that one bit—I'm sure someone is going to want me to disassociate myself from them, my perverted atheism not fitting in with their moral Christianity. Tough. I like the way it sounds. I recently toyed with the idea of spelling my name Sher1lyn C0nnelly, because of the vast number of people it would annoy. I decided against it, though. For now. I have no middle name.)
Long day ahead of me.
I hadn't planned on spending any money, but it never seems to work that way, does it? Actually, my purchase was very practical: a few yards of cheap black cloth for $3. It'll come in handy at work to provide the solitude I seem to desire. It's odd to think I haven't been to any of those stores in well over a year, considering that I used to go at least once a week. Guess it just shows how much can change in a year. I know I have. The evening was spent at my brother's place in Oakland. The Ex said she would be there but never showed up. If memory serves it's her guy's birthday, so I wasn't too surprised. Does make me wonder what'll happen on the Fourth of July. For the last few years we've spent the Fourth in Santa Cruz with my brother and sister-in-law; we've even found the perfect beach from which to watch the illegal fireworks. Probably she'll want to spend it with him, which makes perfect sense. There's an off chance she'll want to still do Santa Cruz with us but bring him along, in which case I'll remove myself from the proceedings. There's an even offer chance that she won't come along, and I'll have found someone new. Yeah, right. Going to get zapped tomorrow. (Quite hairy right now, in preparation.) Every time I think to myself that this might be it—that after tomorrow the shadow will be gone for good. Every time, I'm wrong. I know it'll happen eventually. But like everything else I want to happen, I absolutely must stop expecting it on any level. Openly wanting it is like a guarantee I won't get it. Watched pots and all that. I can't afford it, that's for damn sure. I'll be very broke in the near future. I'm going anyway. Sleep now.
|
||
| ||
Friday, 28 May 1999 (paranoias) 8:36am At the risk of jinxing myself, I think I'm doing better. The vinegar seems to be helping. I've reinstalled the blacklight at my desk, but it's just not the same. It has far too much competition from the overhead flouresecents, such as the ones reflected in my monitor. Oh, I hate that.
I'm also, once again, entirely too close to The Fidget Queen. This will not do.
Not looking forward to that one bit. Probably they've suspected something all along, since The Ex hasn't accompanied me in taking the rent over in several months. She never liked going to their place (what, like I do?), but when I started paying the entire rent myself I stopped trying to get her to come along. I'm not too worried about it; they have no reason to kick me out or anything like that. Obviously I can afford the place by myself because I've been doing so since September, though they don't know that. My increasingly odd appearance has never been an issue (we've always talked about my hair, but they reserved comment about the makeup, and haven't yet seen my black fingernails), and I can only hope that they'll assume the breakup is related somehow and leave it at that.
No, I haven't come out to them yet. Guess I should, and soon. For some reason,
though, it makes me very nervous. The odds of them kicking me out are extremely
slim; I have been and will continue to be a good tenant, and they aren't exactly
the most uptight people in the world. There's no reason not to let me keep the
place. Hell, in theory they might even lower the rent since it'll be one person
living there and not two. Asking if I can get a kitten will have to wait, though.
Gotta keep the bombshells down to a minimum.
Awaiting me in my mailbox when I got home was probably the very last thing I could have expected: a self-addressed manila envelope containing the 1998-'99 Submission Guidelines for Star Trek: Voyager. If I may be redundant, I was NOT expecting this. Yes, it's clearly my handwriting on the envelope. However, I sent away for the information when I was still in college, and I graduated almost precisely two years ago. Near as I can remember, I last harbored the fantasy of selling them a script...must have been the spring semester of '96, at the latest. Three, count 'em, THREE years ago. This isn't a case of them simply taking forever to respond. They did respond—and relatively promptly, all things considered. I still have the submission guidelines for the '96-'97 season in a box somewhere. And the '98-'99 season ended on Wednesday night, I should point out. I can only assume that I'd sent them two SASEs rather than one. Probably the submissions line I'd originally called said to do as much. Makes sense. So what gives? Why now? It's astonishing to think that my envelope collected dust in the Script Coordinator's office at Paramount for three years, until either A) someone decided to stuff and send it earlier this week, or B) someone decided to stuff and send it last year when it would have been more relevant (since the season in question is over) but it for whatever reason didn't make it into the mail until now. It's postmarked 26 May 1999, so I know it was at least mailed this week. Just one of those odd little things, I guess. Unfortunately, in the ensuing years I'm no closer to developing a decent story than I was back then, and in fact the one concept I seemed to be making progress with was essentially done earlier this season in an episode called "Bliss." Done well, too. It's a source of endless frustration for me, my apparent inability to make stuff up. I can't generate story ideas to save my life. Rest assured if I could I'd actually be writing real stories, not blathering on about my own damn life as though it mattered.
Now that I think about it, Sara and I had briefly talked about writing a Star
Trek script together (during that period you always seem to go through
with new friends where you seem to make vague plans to do everything short
of starting a new religion). Ironically, she's out of town this weekend, in
Las Vegas, as much to see the Star Trek thing at the Hilton as anything else.
So she mentioned in her brief note to me earlier this week, the one where she
forgot to apologize for completely flaking on me last weekend. (I can appreciate
that she couldn't make it to gothnic, but since we'd planned to meet at my
place first, a phone call at the time would have been really nice. But
I digress.) I'll have to try not to forget to mention this to her.
The white facial powder I've been using. I fully admit, I love the stuff. $8 for a compact from Hot Topic, which has lasted for over two months now. It's basically just talc with some extra stuff thrown to for bonding and to give it a very slight sparkle. Of all the powders I've tried, it works best on me. Perhaps the most "unnatural," but I don't care. I like the way it looks. Reapplying it as soon as I arrive at the club has become as much a part of the ritual as going over the eyeliner. Neither is necessary, but it makes me feel better. Don't knock the power of primping until you've made it work for you. I was sitting in one of the booths in the bar at Shrine. I started out alone, but the booth quickly filled up with people I sorta kinda knew, but not really. At least one of them recognized me from Bound a couple months back. *shrug* People know who I am. Anyway, I was paying closer attention to a guy (I keep wanting to call him "a kid" but he was at least my age), a Normal who was walking around nervously clutching a notebook, occasionally writing in it. I considered going up to him and asking what he was writing, though I decided it would be unfair to put him on the spot. Still, looking at him, I got a sense that I was looking at what could have been my destiny. I made a point of keeping my place at the edge of the booth so I could bolt if need be, and it meant standing up every now and then to let people in and out. One of those times I did something wrong, though. I was holding my jacket, the powder fell out of the inside pocket, the otherwise stubborn latching mechanism of the compact opened, and the powder splattered. It apparently bounced out of the container as a solid mass, then disintegrated when it hit the ground. Wasn't a goddamn thing I could do about it. I don't know when I'll be by a Hot Topic again, and I'm so close to broke (or will be after seeing Phil on Sunday) that it's a very difficult financial decision to justify, even for all of $8. As it happens I went into Hot Topic in the Serramonte Mall on Wednesday as I was waiting for my prescriptions, because I knew I'd be needing to buy more powder very soon and decided to get it over with. They were out of it. Had plenty of blue-glitter type stuff, and all forms of glitter, but plain ol' basic white they didn't keep in stock. Oh well. I can live without it for as long as I need to.
|
||
| ||
8:08am So I'm here, like the good little soldier I am. 11:38am I just met the potential intern. He's a little...older than I was expecting. Then again, considering my former supervisor is a year younger than I am, I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised. Still, though, at least my former supervisor looked somewhat professional. Me, not so much. 4:08pm Bah. I am so done here today it isn't even funny. Slammed through most of the week's work, and now I'm getting the hell out. Something tells me the voluntary 12-hour days, which were often largely out of having nothing better to do, may be a thing of the past. Is it just me, or is it colder than it should be right now? (Outside, silly.) Yes, I know it's late May in San Francisco so subzero temperatures are to be expected, and yet it still seems worse than usual. Summer made the same observation earlier. Of course, we're both in mopey mode today, so that may have something to do with it.
Whatever. I'm gone.
I just gargled with apple cider vinegar, based on a tip scrawled
on a note which was tied to a brick tossed through my window.
(Okay, that's not true, it was actually from a very kind email.)
Though still sore, my throat definitely feels better. I can swallow
without my entire body convulsing, and that qualifies as progress.
A few more garglethons throughout the course of the evening are in
order, I think. (Sometimes my life is so damn glamorous I can hardly
stand it.) And I'm particularly amused by the label on the bottle;
under "apple cider vinegar," it reads, "ideal for food!" Complete
with the exclamation mark, I might add. Whoever came up with that one
deserves a raise.
The first one was for her sixteenth birthday, in 1990, using the Personics system at Tower. For whatever reason, those didn't seem to last beyond the early 90s, probably because their selection was only slightly broader and hipper than a karoake playlist. Still, though, it was a fairly inexpensive way to make semi-professional-looking personalized tapes, and she seemed moved by the gesture. I made many, many more for her over the years we were together, from my own stuff at home of course. I tried to strike a balance between music I knew she liked, favorite things of mine, and experimental stuff which she'd either love or hate. I established a few ground rules for myself. The same artist was never on the same side of a tape more than once, and Neil Young always received his own collections. The name of the tape was one of the song titles, usually whichever one had the most significance. I usually pretended there wasn't any, but of course there was. Be My Wife, named for the Bowie song, meant what it said. Each side was labeled with my particular favorite lyric from a song on that side, a conceit I completely stole from my brother. Like everything else, though, it started to go bad towards the end. The first thing that went wrong was out of our control: the car got broken into over Thanksgiving weekend '97, and the box of tapes was stolen. Obviously they had no resale value to speak of, but the gangbanging crackhead in question (it happened in Fresno, so odds are one if not both of those words is accurate) wouldn't have realized that until they'd gotten a little distance, at which point they probably dumped the box either in the nearest garbage can or just on the side of the road. Wherever it was, they're gone forever. Even then, however, The Ex was developing an unfortunate tendency to read meaning in the wrong places. I put "Lovefool" by the Cardigans on what I didn't realize was be a tape that would get stolen very quickly because it's a fun, bouncy song, much needed on a tape which also had "hurt (quiet)" by Nine Inch Nails, "Cryptorchid" by Marilyn Manson and "Last Night" by Sedan Delivery. A lot of dark stuff, to put it mildly. She interpreted "Lovefool" as being directed at her and a sign that I wanted to break up with her. Uh, no. I'll admit, we were both still dealing with Louise's rather ugly exit from our lives, so our collective nerves were a little frayed. I'd kept setlists for all the tapes (about twenty), so I know what was on each one, and remaking them was a daunting task I never quite started. Part of the problem was, much of the source material is lost forever. The tapes were very much about where I was at the time it was made. There's not much chance of getting another copy of the Earth and Sky broadcast from that particular summer night of '93, particularly with the timberwolves mixed into the background so brilliantly by Paul Caetano on KFSR. Just ain't going to happen. Sometime last fall, a year after they'd been stolen I finally got the impulse to make a new one, so I did. As usual, it started with one song (in this case, Patti Smith's "Horses," admittedly a longer song than usual) and went from there. Unfortunately, she interpreted Madonna's "The Power of Goodbye" and Marilyn Manson's "The Speed of Pain" to mean I wanted to break up with her. Uh, NO, they were on there because I liked them both and I think they flow very well together. (Put them back to back, you'll see.) For that matter, she seemed to completely miss Pete Townshend's "I Am Afraid," also the name of the tape. Quite annoyed, I immediately made another one, this time designed to be utterly beyond interpretation, just big and dumb and loud. Indeed, the only song with any particular message was "Juke Box Music" by The Kinks, about a woman who takes song lyrics way too seriously. The rest of it was stuff I'd wanted to put on other tapes but never could never bring myself to, like "Television, The Drug of a Nation" by The Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy, "Old World" by The Modern Lovers, "Southside" by Tin Machine, and "Selling Jesus" by Skunk Anasie. "Do You Remember Rock'n'Roll Radio?" by The Ramones was the first song, and yeah, I'll admit, that *was* meant to be significant. She hated it. I decided that I wasn't going to make tapes for her anymore. A few months later we broke up. Last night she said that she'd love it if I could make more for her, that even the ones she didn't like at first invariably grew on her. I suppose I could do that.
|
||
| ||
Wednesday, 26 May 1999 (condemnations) 7:25am Okay, I am clearly not doing any better. It hurts as much as ever to swallow, and a projectile—er, let's just say my sinuses aren't happy at all. What bothers me most about missing a second day of work is it coinciding with moving into the new building. It was no secret that I was unhappy with the prospect; now I'm suddenly calling in sick? Seems a little suspicious, don't you think?
On the other hand, this should teach them a lesson about the strategic
placement of their programming eggs. Depending on how much work I miss,
there's a lot of stuff needing to get done that won't be, since they
never bothered to hire anyone else to help me out. And pardon the hell
out of me for being human, okay? If it was up to me I'd always be
perfectly healthy (and don't think the irony of Miss Non-smoking
Teetotaling Pseudo-Veg getting sick as the proverbial dog hasn't struck
me), but it apparently it isn't up to me.
Now I'm off to see my doctor to hopefully expedite the process.
Guy goes to his doctor and says, "Doc, it hurts when I bend my arm!" Ba-da-boom! Good night! Tip your waitress! I'm being facetious, of course. What she actually said was, "Okay, you're ugly, too." ...no, wait, that's not it, either. Put simply, my doctor couldn't have been less interested in my throat, which was naturally consuming my thoughts. In her defense, it's not quite her field, that being endocrinology and metabolic diseases. For chrissakes, though, I'm pretty sure the damn Hippocratic Oath implies that she should at least take a look. When she finally did, she repeated what she'd been saying all along, that some viral thing is going around and she can't prescribe anything for it. Her advice? Try not to talk (duh, since it hurts, hence the joke), and even better, gargle with Listerine. Gargle with Listerine. Of course. Silly me for not having thought of that before. It wasn't all bad, though. She seemed concerned that after upping my Meridia dosage from 5mg to 10mg in March, it's now May and my weight has gone from 180 to 182. I tried pointing out the flaw in their methodology, that being I'm put on a different scale every time and no two scales are calibrated exactly the same. Besides, weight can fluctuate; in a couple days I may well be at 180. As usual she didn't seem to pay my theories much mind and starting telling me about yet another new weight-loss drug called Xenical. Near as I can tell, it's the equivalent of the morning-after pill; you take it with a meal, and it blocks a third of the fat from being digested. This presupposes that you're eating much fat to begin with, and I don't. She agreed that it's designed for the more typical American fat-laden diet, and hence might not be quite as appopriate for me. She wrote me a prescription just in case, though I doubt I'll use it. If nothing else, my insurance won't cover it. Still, she felt something needed to be done chemically about my weight gain (my observation that once I start working out again my weight is certain to drop given a nod then disregarded) and mentioned that Meridia is also available in 15 mg doses. That, I leapt upon. Up the Meridia dosage? Yeah, absolutely. My appetite could certainly stand to be slashed a bit more. Most importantly, she finally agreed to put me on an androgen blocker, aldactone. Since I've essentially been taking estrogen for eight damn months there's something vaguely counterintuitive about only now starting to reduce the testosterone production. Then again, it depends on who you ask. Most endocrinologists prescribe antiandrogens *before* estrogens. Not mine. She seems to believe the estrogens do the job just fine. Maybe they do and maybe they don't, but I still have a lot of body hair which tells me they need help. I'm willing to admit it may have no more chemical value than a placebo. Psychologically, it's quite potent. I very much like the idea of suppressing whatever's left of my testosterone. I neither want nor need it anymore. It'll be the death knell for whatever's left of my male sex drive, of course (and I'm certainly sterile by now—either the next Hitler or the next Christ has been denied existence, I suppose we'll never know). Y'know what? I haven't had any use for it since The Ex and I broke up, and even before then it was largely neglected. Sorry, world. If you had any desire to be penetrated by me, you had the last five months to let it be known. I do miss making love to The Ex, and I never slept with another woman—nine years and the opportunity never once presented itself. Which is probably just as well. It's like a purity of memory. For however many people she may have been with before me or since me, for me there has only ever been her.
That was as a boi, though. The rules are changing.
The Ex was just by to pick up the car, and when she left, we hugged goodbye. First time we've done in that in longer than I can remember.
It was nice, though.
|
||
| ||
Tuesday, 25 May 1999 (emotions) 6:30am I made it as far as the bus stop (about a ten minute walk) before I wised the hell up, came back home, and emailed sick into work. A day of minimal activity is really what I need right now. So now it becomes a matter of avoiding the temptation of the car, which I actually have until tomorrow night. There's almost no chance of me being well enough to go Roderick's tonight, however. Ain't that always the way? 1:03pm Sleep, read, write. Not a bad way to live, all things considered. I wonder why I can't bring myself to do this on the weekends. (Indeed, I'll probably be just as anxious, fucked-up and uncertain what to do with myself during the upcoming three-day weekend as I usually am on the two-day ones.) My throat's feeling a little better, at least. Finished the Courtney Love book, and I really liked it. From that I immediately launched into Marilyn Manson's The Long Hard Road Out of Hell. Seemed like an oddly appropriate followup. I do find it disturbing that I'm reading so many rock-star bios, but sometimes a little fluff is good for the soul.
Going to my old video store is very tempting. Besides the possibility of seeing
Pandora (I'm hardly at my best right now, though whatever my best may be she saw it
that night at Roderick's), I'm
jonesing to watch
Nick Broomfield's Kurt & Courtney and Todd Haynes' Safe. This would require money, though, about which I
need to start being very careful. Many big and ugly bills coming up,
and (altogether now!) I have to see Phil soon. Gonna call and try to make
an appointment for Sunday. Letting my face heal is as good a way as any
to spend Monday. Unless I get a better offer, in which case I'll face the world
red and puffy. I've done it before, and I'll do it again.
Haven't left the house today, although the Ex left the car so I could go
to Roderick's tonight (that was the original plan, at least), and I'll have it tomorrow
for my running around.
Can actually head straight to the pharmacy after seeing my doctor,
then go the fook home. No work for me tomorrow unless I feel a whole hell
of a lot better when I wake up, which seems unlikely.
I wonder how I'll react when she moves out for real.
I have a poor sense of my own voice, and I'm the kind of person who's always surprised to hear it on tape. I really have no idea if it's already particularly feminine or not; nobody's said anything about it one way or the other, but I'm guessing not. It's like the picture at the top of this page. I don't know what people see when upon first glance (click for detail, by the way): boi, grrl or something else. Certainly I'd be happy with either of the last two, but I'm not even sure what my answer is. Guess it's impossible for me to be objective, understandably enough. Anyway, the voice is one of those things which neither hormones nor surgery will affect; it must be retrained. I have some materials on the subject, including a rather comprehensive videotape (there's a lot out there if you know where to look), but I haven't put too much energy into it yet. I should start doing so, and soon. Not right now, though. Right now is for sleep.
|
||
| ||
Monday, 24 May 1999 (successes) 8:24am Hell. Tiled ceilings with those buzzing flourescent lights. My retinas are alredy burning. And the big window in my peripheral vision to the left. The sun hasn't really come out yet but it will soon enough. Naturally, my throat is still in agony. That won't change anytime soon, for I can already tell this place has a major case of Sick Building Syndrome. When I was growing up, at least from age 10 onwards, my mother and I moved constantly. Always within Fresno (until I turned 21 and escaped), but never in one place for more than a year or two, often not even that long. Some places I really liked, some I couldn't wait to get away from. So this is nothing new, a forced move from a place where I was inherently comfortable to a place which will require no small amount of terraforming.
So fookin' be it.
I'm seriously considering calling in sick tomorrow. I'm really not particuarly well, nor do I fancy the idea of getting
anyone else ill. My symptoms aren't much more severe than a sore throat, but frankly, that's more than enough. Indeed,
this is the first time in forever that a day at home hasn't sounded completely horrid. *spritz* I've been going
through the damn Chloraseptic like it's heroin or something. (Maybe the reason it hasn't been working is because I'm shooting
it up rather than spraying it on my throat?) Worst-case scenario is strep, which wouldn't surprise me too much. The Ex's man is among the few people I know who seems at a loss as to what to make of me. (I sense confusion from strangers all the time, but, well, I don't know them, now do I?) He called me by my boi name just now, which is no big deal since I'm in boi mode; he did the same on Friday night, when I most certainly wasn't. And I know The Ex's brought him up to speed. The most obvious out in these situations is not to actually call me by any name at all, yet he insists on doing so. The temptation to which I referred is to ask her if he said anything about me on Friday, as I'll be alone with her for a little while later on and will have a perfect opportunity. I won't, of course. And, in all honesty, the name issue is not a big deal to me. I just can't help but find it amusing where he's involved. Maybe it's because Summer's boifriend Ash handles it so well. I hadn't expected them to show up at gothnic; as of Friday afternoon Summer wasn't sure if they'd make it, but she didn't think it too likely. It was a thoroughly enjoyable event, and I had a great time. Getting out there was bad; I've already hinted at the events of the morning, and making it from my place to Golden Gate Park on foot in 70 mph winds (well, it sure seemed that way) was extremely demoralizing. After a few blocks I wised up and caught a bus. Ably survived my first time taking the bus in grrl mode during the day, I might add. Not as many odd looks as you might expect; when all is said and done, it takes a lot to faze San Franciscans. There's a temptation to interpret is as successfully passing on my part, but I'm not quite prepared to make that statement. Anyway, it couldn't have gone better. Got to meet people I've only corresponded or chatted with (trust me, kiddo, you sell yourself even shorter than I do). Such a curious phenomenon, one for which I've been trying to figure out if there's an older equivalent or if it's a modern thing. People have carried on relationships over the mail without ever meeting for at least as long as there's been mail, I'm sure, and often do they eventually meet; or, for that matter, during the CB craze it was probably a similar trip to meet those people in real life. But at least then you have some idea going into it what their voice sounds like. (I've never tried to hide the fact that I'm a tranny, and surely there can't be any doubt when I'm seen in person, yet I still can't help wondering how many people lose the the will to suspend their disbelief when I open my mouth. But I digress.) So it was a pleasant surprise when Summer arrived with Ash in tow. Summer and I hugged, and though I expected nothing more than a handshake or a nod, Ash and I did the same. He didn't seem remotely hesitant or put off by the idea. Indeed, it became obvious quite quickly that I was one of the few aspects of the event that didn't make him nervous; I suppose I keep forgetting how intimidating a large group of people dressed mostly in black can be, in spite of Summer's quite accurate assurances that they're harmless. This was very much outside his experience. He was so self-conscious that he couldn't even bring himself to demonstrate what they'd been learning in their frequent tango lessons. Well, okay, they danced a little, and I'm pretty sure it's on film somewhere... Summer wanted to explore the food table and tried to drag him along. Nothing doing. It was maybe 20 feet away, but deeper into the crowd, and up to that point we'd been on the edge. He elected to stay, thank you very much, and to make his point he took my arm in a very gentlemanly manner. It was oddly touching, and certainly spoke to how nervous he was that he'd rather stand there looking like I was his prom date than venture farther in. I imagine that would be a very difficult decision for most men, but he made it with great aplomb. Summer has described him as being traditional (a word which usually makes me itch), and in this case it meant he knew what to do when I was in grrl mode. It was rather nice, really. Certainly beat having a drunk-ass businessmen vividly describe his sexual fantasies and be disappointed that I wasn't taking notes. We talked about the Fun Day investigation, of all things, and I'm always happy to go against the weasel's strict orders not to talk about it. Summer had gone in the day before and put her legal training (sheesh, of COURSE she had legal training, nothing surprises me anymore) to good use and aggravated him thoroughly. Couldn't have been happier to hear that. Eventually Terminal came over and replaced me as official safe person. Summer introduced Ash to Krycek, one of the more tense moments I've experienced lately even taking the investigations into account. Krycek wasn't wearing a lick of makeup, very unusual for him (granted, I've only ever seen him at Shrine, but he always struck me as the 24/7 type). *cough* He should have been.
I mostly hung out with Tania and Whitman, as well as Lee and Seven.
I almost left with Tania, in fact, but I found myself swept in another direction...
I'm not as untouchable or unlovable as she suggested that night. Yes, she bailed. She was unwilling to ride out the rough patch. I may have actually been the one to suggest we break up, but by her own admission she'd been unhappy for a long time and would have done it herself soon enough. As usual, I just took the step she was afraid to, and she ran with it. It makes a certain degree of sense with her. Sad but true. If I may be extremely obvious (what can I say? I'm really digging Poppy's book), she wasn't willing to live through this with me, so I won't swear that I will die for her. Someone who will is out there, though. This I know to be true.
|
||
| ||
Sunday, 23 May 1999 (indignities) 8:36am When I got home from Dana's last night, I found The Ex had brought the car back for me, as well as a container of miso salad dressing from our mutual favorite sushi place in Santa Cruz (trust me, this stuff rawks in the biggest way possible)...and a check. Not a huge amount, necessarily, but I know she can't afford a lot on her own, and it'll relieve quite a bit of the pressure from the upcoming bills, and rent is due this week. (And, of course, it's high time for me to see Phil again. Tania said she couldn't see my shadow at all yesterday at gothnic, but by the end of the day I was more than aware of it.) Makes me feel all the guiltier for how angry I was with her earlier in the day.
Sara never showed up. Ohwellwhatevernevermind.
Yeah, I admit, to me too. I went, after all. If there was really anything more to it than having a large dance floor—though not much bigger than Roderick's—I don't know what that might have been. The $2 coat check, maybe (the weekly clubs are usually $1), or $2.75 for a tiny bottle of water when the weeklies give it to you in a cup for free. The little things, you undersand. And I fookin' paid the $2.75 because the smoke seemed to be irritated my already tender throat and pushing it into all-out soreness, which it was in by Saturday morning and continues to right now. It still hurts to swallow. (No spitting jokes, please.) So I'd seen the grrl around. At Shrine, certainly, and probably Roderick's once or twice. There was also the possibility it was a boi; I couldn't tell for sure and didn't care. (If so I doubt they get "sir"-ed as much as I do, but I digress.) Her makeup had always intrigued me, being far more elaborate than even Summer at her most adventurous, and more often that not she'd be holding an object of some sort. Oftentimes it was a fan, though tonight it was a hat which sometimes she wore and sometimes she held, revealing her half-shaven head. Not my favorite look, yet this time it worked for me. I'd decided I was going to introduce myself to her. Just exchange names, and whatever happened after that would happen, if anything. Probably nothing, but you know. Can't hurt to try. I waited for what I thought was the perfect moment. It hadn't arrived but I could tell it was getting close when her boifriend arrived and they hugged tight on the middle of the dance floor for what seemed like an eternity, then launching into one of the most intense PD's of A I've seen outside The Power Exchange. Well, that certainly settled that. Discovering my body's meager ability to recgonize a rhythm, or at least move in a fluid manner resembling dancing had for some reason all but evaporated, I left the dance floor and sat down. I knew there was no connection or relationship between the two events, yet I found something The Ex had said to me that awful night last week was haunting me, had been for a day or two. She'd said she didn't think I was too likely to get involved with anyone in the foreseeable future because of the hormones, that nobody would want to take a chance on me. At the time she'd made it sound almost sweet and loving. That I'm on hormones is, of course, utterly irrelevant to that person having a boifriend. And yet. It still seemed to be fitting together: everyone's already involved with someone else. If they aren't, they don't want to be. And I'm not a contender in any event because I'm so screwed up. I sat there for some time, lost in the catacombs of my own thoughts. A couple different people asked if I was all right; I suppose I was fairly obvious. Wasn't intentional, though. I wasn't looking for attention. I've been accused of being the drama queen before (and even of trolling on my own page, which I don't pretend to understand at all), and while I suppose I have my moments, it's not something I do on anything resembling a regular basis, or even really consciously. Around 1:45am I decided to leave. More and more Shrine regulars were showing up, and it seemed only right to even things out. So I went to Shrine. By then they'd stopped charging, which made me feel a little better on a personal financial level considering the $17.75 total I plunked down for Catacombs (the most I've ever spent at a club, including the admission, coat check, water and the membership I for some reason bought). The place really was quite dead, no great shock. I saw Tiff in a booth at the bar, however, and joined her and a few others. This was much, much more like it. This was home. I got to talk to Imani briefly, whom I'd hadn't seen since Roderick's some weeks back. She said she'd looked at my page and that it reminded her of JenniCam, just in words rather than images. A very nice thing of her to say, though I don't quite agree with her. Does raise some interesting possibilities...naaaah. Did I say that men never comment on my appearance? Not quite true. I talked a bit with a very nice boi who was accompanying his grrlfriend (who had also brought her pet rat along--just another night at Shrine) about haircolor. He said he liked my hair alot and had been considering dying his, though wasn't sure to what. His natural color was similar to mine...I think. Hell, it's been over a year since I've gotten a good look at my actual color. (I should also point out that my old friend Orky, with whom I went to the movie today, hasn't seen me all year long, and the very first thing he did upon seeing me was comment on the pigtails and eyeliner, then on my weight. Some bois are more enlightened than others, I suppose.) By 2:30am I ended up on the dance floor with Perki DJ'ing. I can only conclude that he had been in very bad mood last week, because this time he seemed fine. That short time dancing made up for Roderick's and Trannyshack and Catacombs and everything else that hadn't really worked that week. All was well. Then I went home after Shrine closed at 3 (Catacombs was open until 4 and I briefly considered going back but didn't), went to bed and woke up on Saturday morning. Shoulda known better.
|
||
| ||
Saturday, 22 May 1999 (outcomes) 12:57pm About to head off on foot to gothnic, and whether or not I could be in a fouler mood is open to question. The reason being The Ex just left with her man, taking the car I'm paying for (which she's now started referring to as "The Neon," for it's a Plymouth Neon, as a means of avoiding the ugly possessive pronoun issue) and leaving HIS car here. And then, and then, and then she actually had the gall to want to know why when I asked when the next time would be that I could use it again. She doesn't know. Awfully fucking busy schuedule no doubt. My hand my very well bruise from where I hit the wall a few minutes ago, and... well, that blood on my knuckle, while it's obviously fresh, could be from something else entirely. Ever noticed a cut or scrape on your body and not know where it came from? Same kinda thing. No reason to assume the anger and frustration welling up inside me has any connection to it. Oh, and she's now officially pleaded poverty on behalf of her parents, so they won't be assisting in repaying the consider monetary debt she owes me. And, of course, she has a bunch of bills coming up (pobrecito!) and is trying to find a new place to live, so I can't rightfully expect much coming directly from her. Tough. That's just what I get. calm. calm. belong. At least she's not going to be there. She can no longer pretend she was ever in the scene for any reason other than cruising.
Must relax.
After that, it was a perfect day.
|
||
| ||
Friday, 21 May 1999 (rejections) 9:22am Pain. Intense pain. Physical, that is. My left leg is killing me. Cramping up, or something. Maybe I slept on it wrong, or my body's atrophy since I've stopped working out is accelerating, or (as Summer theorized) it's an effect of the hormones. If it's that last, they took long enough to present itself.
But why the hell not right now? Makes perfect sense. Catacombs tonight, and gothnic
tomorrow, what better time for my body to cripple itself? As it is, I feel a cold coming
on, which seems to happen without fail when I'm getting to know somone. My body, as I've
mentioned before, hates me. I'll probably be completely incapacitated by tomorrow. These are the times that I wish I was able to actually derive more pleasure from controlled substances. I don't like alcohol, and grass is very dodgy; if I smoke when I'm depressed, or have the slightest potential of being depressed, I'm in deep trouble. I love acid and mushrooms, but it's nowhere to be found. Huxley had the right idea, cautionary or otherwise. What a wonderful thought, to be able to drop some soma and just chill the fuck out. Never tried ecstasy. Want to, though.
If I was going to commit suicide, I'd want to OD on pure heroin. From what I've read, that's the way to go. (And
no, it has nothing to do with the Courtney Love book.) We discussed the Fun Day-related interrogations (naturally going against the little weasel's strict orders not to discuss it with anyone else). Nobody's happy about what's going on, not in the slightest. I'm not the only one who feels like they've been violated. Summer has to talk to him today, and she plans to have an HR representative present. That'll piss him off no end, I hope.
Anyway, I got to see exactly where my new desk is located, and oh lord, does it need work. (Here's where I am right now, more or less.) The space is overall bigger, but there will be other people closer, and they're
almost certainly going to complain about my music. (I've fallen out of the habit of using headphones.)
So I have to block out light and keep sound in. The ironic part is, I almost have carte blanche at this
point; everyone's expecting me to do something strange. I wonder how much cheap black lace costs by the
yard...
And, better yet, The Ex left a message saying she'd be late dropping off the car,
to the effect that her boifriend will likely get here before she does. Her
advice? "Just stay cool." Thanks, thanks a lot. I'll keep that in mind.
I told her I liked it. (Without having to be prompted, I might add.) That's the sort of thing you say in these situations, regardless of however you might really feel. I was in full grrl mode when her guy arrived. He didn't comment. ("Hi, Jeff" and "Bye, Jeff" was all he said.) Men never do. I considered teasing him good-naturedly about the fact that he didn't say anything, though I wisely decided against it. That's the sort of thing which is interpreted as hostility. Anything other than her party line is. The temptation to ask her tomorrow what he said about me is very strong (for surely he said something when they were outside) but I'd best not. I've long since lost the right to ask such things.
Off to Catacombs. Guess Sara will be there. When I mentioned to Summer
that it was tonight, she seemed surprised and a little disappointed that
it had come around without her realizing it. It was gratifying seeing the
spark is still in her somewhere.
Sleep now.
|
||
| ||