I am who I think you think I am.
February 13, 2002 @ 5:41 p.m.
I had changed the previous entry, and then Diaryland hated me and decided not to change it. Seems about right. And I don't recall what I said, and I'm sure it was nothing timeless.
Therefore I won't try to reproduce.
There's this guy named Jarod in my sociology class who's been in another class of mine last from last semester. He never fails to smile and wave at me whenever he sees me.
Part of me knows he's just teasing me with his derision, like the jock who always waved at the fat girl so the fat girl would fall in love with him.
And it always worked.
And that's the reason I always smile and wave back.
But as much as he might laugh and mock me, when he walks away, I always get to stare at his fine ass.
So there.
And you shed your tears and walk away/Leave me here, shedding the skin/that had covered the wounds until now/And you said maybe you'd care someday/but lying here by myself, so cold/it makes me wish you'd care now...
Lyrics are ringing through my head like birdsong until I nearly want to scream them out. I have so much to say -- I can feel it brewing within me -- but it's very anti-climactic. They all turn out empty, or not worthwhile. Cover up just a little bit of reality.
I want to talk about my childhood. I am not looking for pity. I just want you to know.
My childhood was not happy. I never remember my parents being happy. I've blocked most of my childhood out of my mind so to maintain sanity. I do remember my eighth and ninth summers, spent in the basement of my father's house. My brother was across the street at the babysitter's, safe. I was silently supporting my father from my domain downstairs while he sat upstairs and drank himself into oblivion.
During these two summers, I began to entertain myself and learn to shape my imagination. I played with Barbies, read three books a day (Little House on the Prairie books nonetheless -- those suckers are thick books for a nine-year-old), played dress up by myself, looked at my father's porn with innocent eyes and learned what a woman's perfectness was, watched "Top Gun" and "Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves" and learned what a real man was.
Why I locked myself down in that basement, crept around quietly to steal Oatmeal Creme Pies and Schwan's sundae cones without waking my father, I still don't know. To let him know in my own way that someone was there, that not everyone had forgotten about him.
I still recall these summers with a kind of melancholy fondness. It has shaped me more than even I know, even today.
Perhaps this helps explain this diary more. Why my relationships with people, especially men, are so damn complicated.
Why I want to scream more oftentimes than not.
<< | >>
- - March 22, 2010
always the same - July 01, 2008
b-a-n-a-n-a-s! - December 25, 2006
elementary again - October 29, 2006
I don't like you, but I love you - October 03, 2006