Monday, June 27, 2005
is apologize quite sincerely for my lack of interesting things to say tonight, and perhaps in general.
Work was hell today. There were about three or four times as many people in the store today as there were yesterday. The lineup frequently stretched all the way to the other side of the store, a good twenty-five feet away. I didn't have time to eat or even get a drink of water or sit back and chill for a few seconds, and several times I was pretty sure I was going to pass out. The world started to spin and I actually had to find a solid surface to hang onto. I haven't been eating properly and I'm getting skinny in all sorts of funny places.
I did have a nice conversation with Emma after work. I finally asked her the important personal questions I've been meaning to ask her, and I concluded that she's actually a lot more like me that I realised. I'm relieved to discover that she's not the kind of lesbian who thinks of people like me as fakers or weirdos -- or worse. She too is of the opinion that some things are more powerful than gender. It was an illuminating discussion, but then I basically went home and cried.
I just watched In Good Company and I feel pretty cynical about it. It definitely contained the least impressive performances of Topher Grace and Scarlett Johansson's careers to date. This bugged me. That Scarlett was luminous and understated and wonderful in Lost in Translation, but this film made her look so caged and she sounded so very, very canned. But then it was a bad day for me to be seeing a movie about the evils of the corporate world.
Last year for Halloween I dressed up as an angel. Now the white skirt I wore then doesn't fit me anymore and this makes me sad. It just barely sits on my hips, which are still pretty much the right size for childbearing. I wish I could sew because I'd alter it for myself. Ah, for the days when tailors were for ordinary people and not just celebrities.
Yes, the new me. She is skinnier and sadder and her purple hair is fading.
I think I need a change from my change. My mother has decided I need counselling. I think I just need to dye my hair and get laid once in a while. I would make a poor spokesperson for a psychiatric institution.
Jack's new book just came out. He writes YA lit and this book is rated 15+ because of what he referred to as "a bit of smut," plus the sporadic use of the word "fuck." I have one of two advance copies. It's something about vampires and werewolves, admittedly not the sort of thing I'd read if I didn't know the author. He has an unusual writing style, full of sentences like these:
"As she walked down the aisle a sensation began in the back of her mind as if someone had set a fire. Slowly, as it engulfed her entire spirit, the sensation made the journey feel as if a magical whirlwind had trapped her in another era of time. She closed her eyes to shake this unnatural feeling from her soul but was unable to do so."
Yeah. It's not how I would write it, but not only am I not a published author, I can't for the life of me even write a piece of creative writing longer than a few lines without wanting to curl up into a little ball and quietly expire.
So I salute Jack for his effort, and for his accomplishments. I'd also like to find that funny dark place inside him that makes him want to write about violent supernatural beings. It's certainly intriguing.
Really, really have to go to bed now.
I'm actually glad that tomorrow is Monday. I sincerely hope for the sake of my sanity that nary a soul in the whole city feels like buying children's books tomorrow.
A bientot and all that jazz.