outer-jessie's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- unjointed double joints Do you know what I just realized? The Harry Potter movie is going to be one of those things whose every detail will be picked apart and obsessed over, like Star Wars episodes. I know, this is dawning a bit late on me. But the girls here in the office are discussing the color of a sweater and the color of the actor's eyes. Both were supposed to be green, yet were blue. Gasp! Oh horror! I can't tolerate that I may have to use my imagination with a medium that is meant to atrophy my brain! Hey, you know those "exercise" pad thingies that you can supposedly put on your muscles to make them twitch and give them a good workout? Movies are kind of like that, for your mental processes. Well not all of them. Damn. This all turned out to be a lot more harsh and sarcastic than I thought it would. I can't very well complain about there being no updates on my buddy list if I don't update myself, right? I should at least attempt to entertain you if I'm expecting to be entertained *by* you. So voila, folks, here she is, the tit for the tat. *giggle* Ok, I know I'm just horny because I'm bored and frustrated and sleepy. If there was sex on a silver platter before me, I'd turn it away in favor of a nap. But while sex is far away and getting farther, it will be my entree of choice. To me it feels like Christmas has already come and gone. I look so forward to it, and prepare so hard for the moment when it's over and I have to cope with the let-down, that it feels as though I've already lived it. And that is really how my whole life feels. Like the now is my looking back on the then. My life is today is just the memory of the me in the future. I had this paragraph all outlined in my head last night, and it was a hell of a lot more poetic than this. But I wonder if any of you guys know what I mean anyway. Have you projected your career, your marriage, your body years into the future, do you know how everything will feel, are you unable to enjoy your youth and energy and happiness because you await the moment when it's all taken away? It's incredibly foolish, I know that. Pessimistic, and counter-productive, and self-fulfilling, and all around bad. But I look at my hands and my face and think, look how young they are (were). And I know I'm dying. * * * change topic * * * I'm sick of being angry. I'm sick of being annoyed. I'm sick of being overwhelmed and flabbergasted by how rude and self-absorbed people can be. I think I'm just overwhelmed by people. Too many people, too many trains of thought, not enough room on the sidewalk. And that's why it's so good to be leaving the city. I was thinking of summer time, and how pervasive and unescapable it was for me this year, and then I had a lovely thought: I won't be here next summer. I don't know where I will be, but it will be somewhere where you can smell summer, walk through summer, grow it in your backyard and bring it into your kitchen. I lived in Amherst last summer, amongst Massachusetts' Five Colleges, and one thing I remember well of it was sitting on my "patio" (a patch of sidewalk poured outside the sliding door) and looking at the summer moon through my binoculars. That has become my icon for the perfect atmosphere. I want to live somewhere where I can smell grass and have ants cautiously walking over me while I tip my head up at the sky and be amazed again. And air conditioning wouldn't hurt. If there could be just one thing to be glad of, it would be this: that I have never stopped appreciating how beautiful sunsets are. Awww, wasn't that so adorably meaningful of me^? Ooh, question: where are they reviewing sites? Are we all reviewed? Are we all being talked about in places we can't see? I feel bad for my poor disjointed entries, don't you? I picture them as these little crooked figures with broken bones looking mournfully up from the floor. I just want to put them in a cast and tell them to get lots of bed rest. Poor maimed entries. You never looked like this when I wrote you on paper. 3:37 p.m. - 2001-11-26 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||