I awoke today in a foul mood. I was cold, Norman was tapping something in the next room, I was out of cigarettes, and most importantly, I was cold.
I left, intending to get some cigarettes and go home to bed. But I can't go to bed here -- there's a realtor coming to check out my house soon, and I hardly want to be in sweats and nasty hair while there are strangers stomping through my house. Oh, yeah, and I can't smoke here anyway if my freaking landlord is going to be here with the realtors.
Welcome, my son, welcome to the machine.
(Am well aware that the above statement made absolutely no sense, contextually speaking... If you have a problem with that, fuck yourself rectally with a blackberry bramble.)
Found a website last night on my computer belonging to The Church of Euthanasia. In order to restore peace to the planet, they advocate population reduction through suicide, abortion, and refusing to have intercourse that could result in conception. Some pretty fucking weird stuff, if you ask me, although they seem to feel they know what they're talking about. I spent a good hour leafing through their materials, and felt quite a bit like reducing the population afterwards, specifically beginning with my neighbors.
Thought Aaron would particularly enjoy this site, but he signed off just as I was about to send him the link. Sometimes, I'd give anything to wake up and not be in Binghamton. Just for a day. Or two days.
Have a strange mole on my left shoulder. It's probably a tumor.
Was listening to a tape Susan made me yesterday of the bands Velvet Chain and Solar Twins. It's pretty cool, except for the horrendous covers of Portishead's "Sour Times" and The Clash's "Rock the Casbah." And a song called "Don't Leave a Diva." This last reminds me of a song Peter might perform in drag. Yes, the word "diva" always reminds me of Peter, mainly because Peter fancies himself the only gay man on earth ever to have titled himself a "diva," and anytime the word is mentioned in his presence, he begins to glow, as if you're talking about him. Truly, I find it sort of nauseating to witness an intelligent person becoming so flattered by a trite word likening him to a bitch. I think I'll lend him the tape for awhile.
Gahd, I'm in a shitty mood.
As of late, an unexpected phenomenon continues to catch me off-guard. Everywhere I go, it seems, some dirty old man comes onto me. He's not even necessarily old, just dirty. During the four-block walk to my house from Norman's, a stranger gave me a leer and said something like, "hey hey HEY, baby, what's going on?" I told him to fuck off. I haven't brushed my hair yet and it's sticking up everywhere; I'm wearing old jeans and a ratty sweater; and this guy acts like he wants to eat me up, starting below the waist? Same thing last night -- a guy came into the bar, where I was working, and stared at my chest the ENTIRE night. I didn't feel good; my clothes were dirty and smelled like fishsticks from the kitchen; and I was HARDLY in the mood to try looking seductive. Eventually, I started sucking vigorously on my pen to tease the guy at the bar; as repulsive as he was, I couldn't help but amuse myself through knowing I had only to wear nasty clothes and suck on a pen to frustrate the hell out of some nasty jerk. Later, I heard him asking around what my name was.
What's the fascination!? It's not as though I do ANYTHING to provoke stares and comments! I'm currently wearing a sweater that most closely resembles a paper bag, not a leather miniskirt. As of late, I hardly dare wear a tee-shirt that exposes too much WRIST, for fear it will turn some creep on and he'll rape me. The comments happen EVERY time I leave this house: "hey baby" "wanna come party?" "whatcha doing, pretty lady?" "where's your boyfriend? Pretty girl like you ought to have her boyfriend around. You need somebody to take care of you?" "you swallow?" Not that I consider myself UGLY, but I don't see anything in the mirror that ought to make strangers turn their heads my way and make shitty comments to me. I prefer not to be noticed at all. So much for Aaron's theory that only feminine women with big boobs get hit on.
What the hell ever. I'm going to run a bath and wait for the realtor-people. If they're early, maybe I'll tell them to jump in with me, and see how fast they bolt. At least then I'll get a nap and a cigarette.
~Helena*
"I feel like shit..." --Limp Bizkit (don't ask)