So I've been slacking. So what?
"Helena, when're you going to UPDATE!?"
Helena is going to update when she damn well feels like it. Helena is going to ENJOY updating when she ceases to feel the burden of the less-desirable portion of her audience asking her stupid questions.
A few thoughts and updates, as I don't really have any special topic in mind:
Finally purchased my plane tickets to Seattle this week. It's exciting, but it's also sort of a letdown. Now that I've got those plane tickets stashed away in my apartment, I have to wait another four months to use them, and in those four months, there will be no more travel arrangements to worry about, no more crazy tension about the money secreted inside my favorite hiding spot... Seems like something's ended, and nothing new will begin for what seems like forever.
Things are stagnant. Work's fine, leisure's fine, love-life's fine, friends are fine. I'm on a plateau, and while nothing's actually unpleasant, I'm beginning to feel as though daily life has taken on a certain stench: a stench of mildew and old basements. And fishsticks. The wafting smell of fishsticks pervades my entire existence. Not all that pleasant, really.
Have sort of given up on this journal as a place for my deepest darkest secrets. It's just not safe anymore. It might feel safer if middle-aged strangers didn't wink at me on the street and yell, "nice journal." It also might feel safer if my dad hadn't found it. Not that I REALLY care what he thinks of me, but it's a little unsettling to be writing about some episode of passionate love-making, or going home from work with "girl trouble," knowing my freaking father might be reading. It's safest to scatter the secrets. Thus, I've acquired a number of penpals lately, and have been pouring out to them the things I might have once written about here. Penpals are fantastic. It's a silly little hobby, I guess, but you can't imagine the sort of intimacy you can have with a sheet of paper when you know it's going to some faceless foreign person you'll never meet. A little like a real journal: one nobody will ever find and use against you, one that's being read but not taken as a personal attack or a suggestive wink. Meanwhile, Wet Cleanup still amuses me, but it's ceased to be a real outlet.
I have been emailing fairly regularly with Brian lately. I never in my life expected to meet someone like him. Now, I never expect to lose the incredible warmth I feel for him. With every email, I find myself wishing back time. I would give anything -- almost anything -- to be stranded in the middle of the desert with him again, right now... To witness the sun rise and hear him mumbling about the fucken scorpions and jaguars in the freaking desert. It won't be long until I see him again, but it feels like forever. WHY did I ever lose touch with one of the closest friends I've ever had?
My hands are shrivelled up like an old lady's. They've become extremely sensitive lately to the latex gloves at work, and I've been scratching at them incessantly. Really, to look at my hands now, they look like they've gone through menopause already, leaving the rest of me behind. I thought maybe the blue nailpolish would improve matters, but it just makes my hands look like those of the world's weirdest grandmother.
Am going to sign off here... Bedtime.
~Helena*
"I like to eat dessert first. You never know what might happen before you get to the end of your meal. You should take advantage of the present. Tell people you love them."
"I love you."
"I love you too. Let's go out drinking!"
--Java conversation.