"He cut a sliver of cheese from a wheel and held it out to me on the knife blade.
"You've given me something to think about in a sneaking kind of way."
"I thought you gave it to me.""
I'm not sure if I'm going to publish this post.
I normally try to blog about things of little...consequence. That don't risk [meaningful] judgment. That I can go back and read and think about how fucking undeniably clever I was in that moment (did you catch how my last entry's title was an 'American Psycho' reference and then I did one of those anecdotes on BSpears just like Patrick Bateman did on late 80s pop? DID YOU? I didn't until afterward and then I was like, 'this shit is made of GLORY.'). That's a good feeling, let me tell you. Not great, but good. Mais, maintenant I am choosing to exploit blogger.com and your attentions and instead this post will serve mainly cathartic means. Or it will propel me into a darker place that I will have to climb out of once again. I'm not too worried about it. Whenever I think of black abysses (abyssi?), I only think of that emo kid in his sister's pants. Puts things into perspective.
I talked to my mom for the first time in a while on Skype today. I acknowledge that this isn't suitable blog material, but I refuse to keep a diary. After we said our goodbyes I found myself wanting to call her again and to stare at her face until I felt some vestige of...emotion. Almost of simple recognition. While the topic at hand was tearing her apart, the only thoughts I was truly contemplating were the selfish ones concerning my own robotic-ness. She even commented on how I seemed so removed from the situation and I unhesitatingly agreed. I didn't know how to hide it. If I had, I'm not sure I would've bothered. I don't know if it has more to do with the fact that I am unphased about losing the house or if it alludes to my unrelenting disregard for my mother's emotion. I suppose the fact that I phrased it that way answers the question. Maybe it's both. She then elaborated with how I have changed and how I am "now so..." "--hardened?", I cut her off with. She disagreed and said 'matured' and 'realistic'. I don't know if I agree with that. I feel very nihilistic a lot, but I don't know why and I don't know when that happened. The things I was feeling (or not feeling) and the things I was saying were sort of surprising me. Not in the sense that when they came out of my mouth I didn't realize I was thinking them, but in the sense that I didn't realize how I actually believed the words I was saying. I've felt robotic before, but not to this level. I've never felt so robotic that I couldn't muster a twinge of emotion at seeing my own mother's face, unbridled with emotion. So unattached that I want to sell all my possessions in exchange for plane tickets. Maybe I
did bring my French copy of Harry Potter; I'll have to go check. I hope so.
The alternate point to this post poses the question: is this indeed a construct of my dissociation or am I just awesome? Let's pretend, for just a moment (as any longer would instill fear in the masses), that the word 'awesome' does not exist. Then, I would have to rephrase my sentence to something like, "or am I just...now able to shed the trivialities that once made me so worrisome and materialistic, now able to see the nuances and subjective meaning of the word 'home'?" That was difficult and, unfortunately, not completely in the same traincar as my thoughts actually and inexplicably are. Which is why 'awesome' is so useful and so used. There's a quote floating out there about how no one can truly influence us to do something that we wouldn't've done of our own volition anyway, and I wonder how much of that is true. Is this actually a niche my personality has been waiting to settle into, is this actually a reflection of who I am--or is this simply a reflection of my circumstances and purely a coping mechanism? There's downward intonation at the end of that question. I know, I know, you can argue this for all circumstances. No one is without the effect of their environment and there is no 'you'. But there's a 'you' you can try to be--an adapted version of 'you'--and a 'you' you are effortlessly and I'm struggling with that line. If you want it, is it 'you'? Do I want it? I want parts of it. Like a cake. I really like cake, but I could pass up a corner piece. Depends on how crusty it is. I suppose I feel that way about a lot of things.
The other day a bunch of people from ILA went to this orphanage in Cu Chi and we painted their kindergarten room. Within ten minutes of my being there, my lips felt dry. I was hankering for some cherry chapstick, but, alas, I only had my Sephora lipgloss with me. Staring at these handicapped children in this 3rd world orphanage, I lined my lips with an expensive gelatinous glitter that never before made me want to vom. If I refound Jesus and wanted to give reconciliation another go, that deed would top my list. Note: I did not throw it out and have used it a couple times since, vomit-free. Maybe that's the deed I should be reconciling.
I didn't bring my French Harry Potter book. Pity.
Sometimes I see people and think, 'that's the person I could've been'. In some situations it gets as intense as 'the person I was going to be'. Maybe even 'wanted to be'. Surprisingly easily (and with an agility that even amazes me) I can pick up that hat again. I wore said hat the other night when I
(wait for it)
(wait for it)
(wait a little longer)
(I know I'm pushing it now)
(your irritation may be building)
(but you'll read on anyway)
drank Bailey's out of this Australian guy's shoe.
In my defense, he claimed to only have worn it 4 or 5 times. Consider it a challenge for my immune system (that's what she said). I'm pretty certain it was my idea. I came straight from work and did not look good. I wonder if I would've looked better if I would've done that. Am I making up for feeling ugly by being ridiculous? More women should not straighten their hair, only put mascara on in the morning, and then analyze their behavior. I didn't feel ugly consciously; I'm simply considering that it's an option. I did feel dressed like a librarian, though. Are all these questions irritating you? They're starting to irritate me. And now I have more. Was I being ridiculous because I did not want to be there and was saying 'fuck it' in the grandest way I could muster? Was I displaying my alphaness in the most unfeminine way I could think of?
Either way, bucket list? Check.
I realized tonight that I'm not as robotic as I previously thought. I've been writing this post for a matter of weeks. While I honestly feel I've mastered the ability to shut off a few emotions, there are still several running rampant in my dendrites. The worst ones, if you ask me. I thought this knowledge would grant me a subdued form of solace; instead, it irritates me and fills me with self-doubt. It's the little things that get me. The things that I have no right to feel. By 'right', I mean a lack of logic or rationality.
I've caught myself a handful of times in the past few days being surprised as to my surroundings. Sometimes I get this flash of sight that I'm me, that this is for real, and that this reality is unrelenting. I don't know what that means.
There's a cockroach under my bed. I feel like this is a fantastic metaphor for a lot of things in life. You know it's there. When you didn't know it was there, you slept fine at night. But now you know and there's no going back until you stick your heel through those beady little eyes or until you find a big man to do it for you.
