11 October 2000 ~ Pierogies and cramps...

It's National Coming Out Day, and I don't feel a bit like coming out. Or going out. Or moving.

Last night, my notebook went AWOL. This is the SECOND time a notebook has simply disappeared out of my bookbag. One minute it was there, the next minute it was gone. The first one was chock full of incriminating things I didn't want anyone to know: love letters I never planned on sending, things of that nature. THIS notebook had almost nothing in it. An unfinished letter to Neil. A couple of things I was going to type up as journal entries, and a letter to David which described a small coffeeshop in Syracuse and said, "I miss you." Why the fuck would anybody WANT this? WHY is my notebook, which was in my bookbag last night, be GONE this morning when I checked. I am so angry; nothing of mine is worth more than my notebooks. Go ahead and steal my fucking Lynch videos and my Tom Robbins books. Go ahead and steal my BED, for gahd's sake, but my NOTEBOOKS??? How much more violated could I BE? Fucking, RAPE me if you want to violate me. Don't take my notebooks.

(It should be noted that this is not a case of setting something down and forgetting where I put it amidst my clutter... That notebook was in my bookbag at 11 last night, and at noon today, it wasn't. I had no reason to take it out of my bookbag last night; I had no opportunity to take it out of my bag last night; I have searched the entire house and it is GONE. Besides, a week ago, I covered the entire thing with blue-and-green stickers that proclaim, "FISH-AND-BATTER!" and it's sort of hard to miss. The first one disappeared sometime within the span of a two-day period, and I MAY have misplaced that one, but this is really getting fucked up.)

I'm downloading songs from Napster. My soundcard is broken, and I can't listen to them, so I'm not sure what the point is, except that I expect to buy a new soundcard before I expect to buy 30 new CD's.

Fuck. I have cramps, my house smells like pierogies (which I don't even LIKE), and Peter had me watch "The Next Best Thing" with him last night -- one more movie about a conniving faghag who apparently reminded him of me. ("...Except you don't do yoga...") It's one of those times where I'm desperately trying to convince myself that, of course, everything could be MUCH worse -- my phone line could get disconnected, but it isn't; I could be starving, but I'm not; my kitchen could be on fire, but it isn't -- and I'm not really very convinced that I have any reason to feel overjoyed at being alive right now.

I DON'T like cramps.

I DON'T like pierogies.

I am NOT a conniving faghag, and I am DAMNED sick of trying to convince people of that, particularly Peter, who STILL seems to have it in his head that my world revolves around him and I'd do anything to ATTAIN him. Besides, I'm beginning to think Peter only hangs around me so he can continuously tell me how much I remind him of David -- (perhaps I do take a David-approach to Peter... It seems safest.) Oh yes, and so he can run up my long-distance bill and download stuff onto my computer. Yet, I am the one with the problems? I do not want to ATTAIN Peter. I do not want to live with him. I do not want to sleep with him. I do not want to "hang out" when all it involves is veiled insults and this SWEET nostalgia of things that weren't sweet at all. It's over. It's all over. Sign the damned papers and let me get on with my life.

Fuck, it's not been a good day. And I've only been awake for two hours.

~Helena*