Date: 17 Feb 93 22:04:20 GMT
and everything is falling in on top of my head. i awoke this morning with self-disgust thick in my mouth, sleepscum of the mind.
i took a shower, standing on cold porcelain with water streaming down, over my breasts, down my stomach, dripping into streams that flow around my feet. so much flesh, so much body, so corporeal. it poisons me, this flesh. i hate the way it's arranged itself, feeling lumpen, feeling stolid. i can feel my collarbones hard under my fingertips, slight hollows beneath them, but this accomplishment doesn't mean anything anymore -- what good are visible bones when i can see the swell of my stomach?
i went home with a stranger saturday night, a black man, a civil engineer. he was nice to me on a sad night, and his hands on my back were like melted wax, warm and smooth, like softly tanned leather. my skin flowed under his touch. i should regret it, but i don't actually feel much of anything about the experience. i am an evil woman.
i don't believe in love anymore, given that i ever did. i believe in glands, in chemicals squirting through ducts into blood into soft gray mushy brain and causing short-circuits, shorting out decency and friendship in favor of lust. i believe in self-interest, enlightened and otherwise. i believe in perverse synchronicity, a world in which things work together to make it difficult.
i am wearing a man's dress shirt, white with blue stripes, oversized. some people might say this is related to my lack of a father. i say some people are full of shit.
there's a guy who hangs out at the lab a lot. he has a skin condition and scratches ceaselessly, rasping sound like sandpaper as his nails flake the scales off. or so i imagine -- i've never looked closely. just listened to the noise, creating things worse than reality. like when i used to lie awake, 3 am, listening to the house settle and each new noise was a person coming to shoot me in my sleep, my blood would splatter the white walls and stain my lilac sheets, soak into the futon.
sometimes i have an urge to make a database of exlovers, classify them by age, profession, type. maybe add a section on dick size, one on technique. rankings, ratings. on cold nights, call them up, flip through memories, cybernetic assist to fantasy. but how do i classify the ones i never knew? the man who disappeared with me from a party for half an hour one night, whose calls i never returned? where does he go?
five minutes now until i have to leave.
so today i loathe my existence, the sickness filling my stomach, making me want to heave. tears are trapped inside my chest, achingly locked in my throat, wanting to come out. i yawn instead. too simple. and the prince comes and kisses her and everything is all better. only in realife the kiss is the beginning not the end and it's a descent. things get worse, not better, fueled by drugs or sex or television. everyone has a jones. i like to feel virtuous for being honest about mine, but it's a sham. i don't know what it is i'm addicted to, except attention. i guess that's enough.
i don't know whether to laugh or cry. i think i'll yawn again.