September 23, 2001
In the short three hours
In the short three hours that I've been blogging, I've been checking out the other blogs of the world. How bizarre is this? I mean, the whole idea of putting your diary (in essence) on the Internet for all of [insert the possessive form of your religious icon here] creatures to see. I think it's cool for me, because I am only doing this in the hopes of finding other people who might possibly think the way I do.
For a very long time, I have had trouble communicating with other people. No silly, I speak English (et français pour tous les francophones qui puissent possiblement lire cela), and I use my mouth and teeth and tongue just like you do. It's just that I form my sentences and thoughts a little more differently than most of the populous. Often while speaking, I feel like I am speaking an alien tongue, for I see more blank stares looking back at me than I would, perhaps, like to see. It's as if they're all saying: "What the f*ck are you talking about? Please try, darling, try, to make some sense. Please."
It's especially troublesome when I am talking to someone that I have just met or whom I don't know well. Take for instance, K [see earlier today]. I was trying to express my extreme, colossal, titanic adoration for Tori Amos and Isabelle Boulay (among others), and some of the emotions came out as emotions instead of words. See, I'm doing it again. Sometimes I wish I was Vulcan. It would be so much easier to mindmeld with someone to convey the messages that I seek to convey. And the whole control of the emotions thing is definitely cool, too. I've tried to read a book that X, the other housemate, has on the coffee table: An Introduction to Logic, written possibly before any of us were even born. It's a tricky thing, logic, but it's something I aspire to.
I do it to myself. What the f#ck am I talking about?
Oh yes, the need to pour our souls out on to the World Wide World. I guess I don't remember what it was like to be a troubled teenager with loves and losts and longings. All I do remember was hiding the fact that I loved Mike Finn because he was sooooooo cute, and I loved the way his mouth puckered when he played the trumpet, but then, I guess your mouth is supposed to pucker when you play the trumpet. I never learned. Oh, but he hated me openly. And I dealt with it. I actually used to fantasize singing "Dress You Up" to him. It was just about silly. Maybe that's how I dealt. I don't know.
Yeah, growing up sucked. I graduated high school in 1989. The year before (1988), an openly gay schoolmate committed suicide because he wrote a love letter to a guy on whom he had a crush, and the guy threatened to beat the living bejeezus out of him for doing so. Two years after I graduated (1991), my high school opened their Gay-Lesbian-Bisexual Student Association something-or-other. My band teacher came out of the closet, divorced his wife, died his hair an unbecoming shade of...rust, I suppose you could call it. So, three years after Jim killed himself because of his own internal torment...sorry, strike that...I never really understood why he did it. I always assumed that because I had some sort of internal fortitude to live with and love myself for who I was, everyone else should, too, right? Anyway, three years after Jim killed himself, the same school that ridiculed him for being openly gay made some kind of safe haven for other students and faculty going through the same thing we were. What am I getting at here?
Oh right, the whole diary thing. I know what some of these people are going through, and it brings back painful memories of abadonment and rejection, but I know that you will all get through it. We all will. We grow up, move on, meet people who matter to us and to whom we matter, and we will forget about the boy/girlfriends that stomped on our hearts and made us cry. We will find happiness even if it takes 30 years! I am proof to that. It has taken 30 years for me to realize that I like everything about me and my body. I love my green eyes. I love my combination Irish/Scottish/Polish nose. I love my smile and my hands and my butt. It's a little plump and comfortable to sit on. The only thing I have to complain about is my lack of coherency when I try to speak. I get all muffled up by the pure emotion and words fail me. But only when I talk. Thank goodness for computers with delete keys and spell checkers. And thank my stars for my beautiful grape iMac. Love that.
But more importantly, it has taken me 30 years to realize that I don't need a man to make me happy or to feel special. And there's no real reason why it had to take 30 years, either. I am just stubborn that way. So buck up little campers, it's only going to get better. And don't, please don't waste your youth and your prime pining for a guy or even a girl. If they don't treat you right, move on. Dionne said it best: If you see me walking down the street/And I start to cry/Each time we meet/Walk on by. Ok, not exactly the message I wanted. This is how you do it: put one hand on your hip, the other hold up as if to say "stop," but instead, wave him on by, hence the "walk on by" part.
This blog should be titled "Tome Time." Meowie.
