February 16, 2003
this is not a love song *
I think all but one of the coded entries have uncapped titles. Wonder why that is.
Maybe I feel small and defenseless when I write these kinds of entries, and using small letters is a roundabout way of expressing it. Or maybe the terrible weight of emotional turmoil causes me to slur my typing to miss the Shift key. Or maybe, just maybe, I get a kick out of mock-analyzing myself.
Such small moments of humor are what my sanity is built on.
Came out to Bridget. Online, yet again, as the restaurant Plan fell through with a resounding thump. She suspected, yet again. What it is with me and my leaky closet, I don't know. Although in all fairness, I'd be surprised myself if the truth hurts entry hasn't pretty much outed me anyway, at least to those who know me. To those who don't, they probably just think I'm a heroin addict or that I sleep around with random guys or something like that. (I find this amusing.)
Nora actually came out as bisexual in her journal this week. This brings the number of bis that I know of to a grand total of, including myself, four. Apparently we're everywhere. Like Starbucks, but less socially acceptable.
I briefly contemplated just throwing open some of these coded entries and doing it that way, but... yeah, see, I know that random acquaintances visit my site from time to time, and you know, word gets around that way. So I'm keeping these shut for a while longer.
So all of this basically combined to give me about a day of good moodiness today. I think feeling much better afterwards is compensation for feeling like I'm about to die in the space between hitting the enter key and getting the reply.
And I had bells this morning, playing the prelude in the early service only. I could've waited for breakfast, but there was nothing to eat-- not even The Casserole! Horrors!-- so I just went home and chilled for awhile, curled up with a big bowl of warm popcorn and a new novel.
Went back for bells practice this afternoon. It was cold and wet and my windshield wipers still sucked. I'm beginning to think this is some kind of really bizarre omen. "Sucky windshield wipers mean that the driver shall angst later."
And angst I shall. Dare I make an omen meaningless?
Y'see, I started noticing myself doing this kind of thing a couple of weeks back. I always wonder where Estella, who plays the bells right across the corner and down the octave from mine, is when she doesn't show up at bells. And when she walks in the room from wherever it is she comes from, there's this irrational sense of relief. And when she mentions her boyfriend, I really don't want to hear about him, like he's not there if he's not talked about.
And when she jokes around during bell choir and makes mock-sexual overtures towards me, because she has a dirty sense of humor and gayness is funny to her that way, because, as she said to me once, "I just don't think I'd make a good lesbian. I don't like girls," and just doesn't know what effect that has on me. That maybe I'm laughing a little bit uneasily, like maybe it's not really that funny to me, maybe it has a totally different meaning for me.
And when Estella gets online later and asks me about the four different types of love for an essay she's writing for Wuthering Heights, I get a little charge out of correctly spelling and explaining the differences between the three I know of, and that I've never heard of a different category for parental love, she might want to look that up, but agape is religious, philios is brotherly/friendly, and eros is sexual/romantic. And then she mentions her boyfriend again, and I just feel my heart sink a little.
Yes, this means exactly like what it sounds like. Damn, damn, and double damn. Damn to the infinite power, even.
What makes it even worse, I think, is... well, I've been friends with Estella since second grade. Up until high school, we were best friends. We joked about having a psychic bond; we could read each others' minds. (Obviously we didn't, otherwise she could have told me some things I refused to think about myself... moving on.) For a while I was practically a fixture at her house. When I switched high schools we drew apart, diverging interests and schedules, but I kept contact with her, usually managed to keep a handle on who the Boyfriend of the Month was.
And now... this. I don't need this, want this, not now. Not ever, for that matter. Not that it seems to matter as far as my heart is concerned. Damn heart with its stupid choices and dull aches.
Maybe I feel small and defenseless when I write these kinds of entries, and using small letters is a roundabout way of expressing it. Or maybe the terrible weight of emotional turmoil causes me to slur my typing to miss the Shift key. Or maybe, just maybe, I get a kick out of mock-analyzing myself.
Such small moments of humor are what my sanity is built on.
Came out to Bridget. Online, yet again, as the restaurant Plan fell through with a resounding thump. She suspected, yet again. What it is with me and my leaky closet, I don't know. Although in all fairness, I'd be surprised myself if the truth hurts entry hasn't pretty much outed me anyway, at least to those who know me. To those who don't, they probably just think I'm a heroin addict or that I sleep around with random guys or something like that. (I find this amusing.)
Nora actually came out as bisexual in her journal this week. This brings the number of bis that I know of to a grand total of, including myself, four. Apparently we're everywhere. Like Starbucks, but less socially acceptable.
I briefly contemplated just throwing open some of these coded entries and doing it that way, but... yeah, see, I know that random acquaintances visit my site from time to time, and you know, word gets around that way. So I'm keeping these shut for a while longer.
So all of this basically combined to give me about a day of good moodiness today. I think feeling much better afterwards is compensation for feeling like I'm about to die in the space between hitting the enter key and getting the reply.
And I had bells this morning, playing the prelude in the early service only. I could've waited for breakfast, but there was nothing to eat-- not even The Casserole! Horrors!-- so I just went home and chilled for awhile, curled up with a big bowl of warm popcorn and a new novel.
Went back for bells practice this afternoon. It was cold and wet and my windshield wipers still sucked. I'm beginning to think this is some kind of really bizarre omen. "Sucky windshield wipers mean that the driver shall angst later."
And angst I shall. Dare I make an omen meaningless?
Y'see, I started noticing myself doing this kind of thing a couple of weeks back. I always wonder where Estella, who plays the bells right across the corner and down the octave from mine, is when she doesn't show up at bells. And when she walks in the room from wherever it is she comes from, there's this irrational sense of relief. And when she mentions her boyfriend, I really don't want to hear about him, like he's not there if he's not talked about.
And when she jokes around during bell choir and makes mock-sexual overtures towards me, because she has a dirty sense of humor and gayness is funny to her that way, because, as she said to me once, "I just don't think I'd make a good lesbian. I don't like girls," and just doesn't know what effect that has on me. That maybe I'm laughing a little bit uneasily, like maybe it's not really that funny to me, maybe it has a totally different meaning for me.
And when Estella gets online later and asks me about the four different types of love for an essay she's writing for Wuthering Heights, I get a little charge out of correctly spelling and explaining the differences between the three I know of, and that I've never heard of a different category for parental love, she might want to look that up, but agape is religious, philios is brotherly/friendly, and eros is sexual/romantic. And then she mentions her boyfriend again, and I just feel my heart sink a little.
Yes, this means exactly like what it sounds like. Damn, damn, and double damn. Damn to the infinite power, even.
What makes it even worse, I think, is... well, I've been friends with Estella since second grade. Up until high school, we were best friends. We joked about having a psychic bond; we could read each others' minds. (Obviously we didn't, otherwise she could have told me some things I refused to think about myself... moving on.) For a while I was practically a fixture at her house. When I switched high schools we drew apart, diverging interests and schedules, but I kept contact with her, usually managed to keep a handle on who the Boyfriend of the Month was.
And now... this. I don't need this, want this, not now. Not ever, for that matter. Not that it seems to matter as far as my heart is concerned. Damn heart with its stupid choices and dull aches.
Labels: depression, friends, Teh Gay
# posted by Liadan @ 11:50 PM 
