05 July 2004

I am so pissed off that I may just run down to the beach and spend the day hurling rocks at the bay.

I left Binghamton so that I wouldn't ever, ever have to deal with this hypocritical bullshit ever again: that business of smiling to somebody's face and talking shit about them as soon as they're out of earshot. I really thought I left that behind me.

You can take the girl off the East Coast, but you can't keep the East Coasters from being fucked up, I guess.

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I want to know how you DARED to spend all these years thinking the things you apparently think, without having the guts to just ask me... I want to know how you can say you respect my decisions, and then bring up shit from YEARS ago as evidence that I'm making a dumb one now. I want to know how you can tell me you respect me at all, and then take the word of some fuck-up with a badge over MY word. I'm a writer, gahddammit; MY word is sacred. I mean, in addition to the fact that you really ought to know me better than that.

If you really want to disapprove and be all critical about all of this, that's your decision. I'm not going to let this turn into another war. I'm not an adolescent anymore, after all. Moreover, I know that nobody wins.

One of these days, you're going to have to get it through your head that I'm a big girl now. That I have been for much longer than you've given me credit for. And one of these days, you're going to have to understand that I'm silly and strange sometimes, but that I've got a damned good head on my shoulders. I know you've seen me fuck up a few times, but it would be nice if you could cease and desist the eyebrow-raising, at least.

And by the way, if you feel like being a bitch, please just do it, so that everybody knows where you stand. It's miserable, avoiding topics and getting all strained and awkward, because you're being all passive-aggressive and weird. Please just let everything out in the open.

I cannot believe you've spent so long believing THAT fuck over me.

You've got a good sneaking technique: I never heard you tiptoeing toward my back. Next time, though, please just use a sharper knife.

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I don't much like the Fourth of July.

Why celebrate freedom only one day of the year?

And why celebrate it with explosives designed to simulate weapons?

I don't like that kind of freedom. I prefer the kind that makes you laugh out loud at the skies during a heavy rainstorm.

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Jake said I was just "histrionic" and "hormonal," and that's why I didn't want to be around him.

The word "histrionic" really doesn't mean anything in common speech. It's rhetoric used to discredit the subject of one's conversation. The word "hormonal" is similar. It has two uses. One, it is an excuse for various afflictions, behaviors, etc., exhibited by women. And two, it is a means of discrediting a woman.

I am not histrionic. That is to say, there is reason to take me seriously.

I am hormonal. My hormones do a number of strange things to me. They make me want to eat weird things sometimes. They make me wake up every morning at 4 AM to pee. They make my belly expand. Certain parts of my body are more sensitive. They make me tired sometimes for no reason. Occasionally, when I'm tired, I get kind of bitchy.

Today, I am extremely unhappy. All weekend, I've been kind of down.

It's not because I'm "hormonal."

It's because I'm getting the real impression that people never really manage to be completely honest. Like I am being lied to. Like I am being lied about. It makes me very sad.

I think that's as valid a reason as any for feeling unhappy.

My reasons for not wanting to be around Jake are completely different. That's got nothing to do with anything.

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Fuck everything. I'm going to the beach to throw rocks.

~Helena*