Sometimes I know I’m not quite right because coffee, the slightest amount, can send me into a manic whirlwind, or trap me under a manic avalanche, heavy on my brittle little spine, and I forget about appointments, papers, even the silent passing of time itself. Do I have an exoskeleton, I wonder idly while thinking of my brittle spine. No, I imagine not.

My mother. 51. Blonde and big-haired, trapped still in the 80s. Pleasantly plump in the way that middle-aged women are sometimes plump. Frequent laugher. Quietly homophobic. Still blithely proud of my academic achievements, etc., yet so dreadfully unacquainted with me. It’s been nearly two years and she still doesn’t know that I’m in a relationship with a girl.

I think everyone here journals for the comments. What’s the point in posting, if not? We could all save these little entries in a Word document in some hidden folder on our computers if we didn’t want people to read them, like them, say something about them. I don’t know; it’s possible this is a projection, but this time I really don’t think so.

From my actual journal:

Second week into summer courses. Prating of the rain on my gray bedroom window, the smell of worms and stagnant puddles seeping in. I’ve been considering the Sex and the City movie, and a week-old chocolate chip cookie and what it might do for my taste buds.

How to be honest:

My title refers to a phone call, actually. Equivocation is the stuff of titles. :)

My brain has unexpectedly decided it no longer needs healthy quantities of sleep, and apparently wishes to run on an erratic, inconsistent sleep schedule. It insists on using an oblong sleep-wake cycle with small bursts of rest, and long, dragging stretches of tired consciousness.

(Something I wrote some time ago.)

blue
like the shrill siren of failure

o summer dont breathe hot hate on fall
just let him lie in his spilled colors and growing blue cold

o winter dont ask spring to remember for you how it felt to be lonely
how it was when the sun couldnt touch you
how the days passed by fat and slow as continents

Big wonderful party Saturday night; I’ve not had so much fun since summer swooped in and stripped me of college for awhile. There was much dancing and drinking and playing Monkey Hut and laughing so hard the face goes livid and the room goes blurry with tears. I knew I missed people. I knew I wasn’t a complete misanthrope.

A slow dismal day begets slow dismal thoughts.

Friends are slowly growing furious. They have become undeniably two-dimensional to me, and what’s worse: they know it. Intuitively, they know.

You know, I used to journal religiously. I mean, not on Oasis (I’m more active here lately than I have been in the past two years of my Oasis membership combined), but in an actual notebook made out of trees and blue ink with “Mead” in the corner.

I am working with a boil on the ass of humanity.

What is more tedious than midday loneliness? Nothing, I think; yet I wade through it and record it faithfully, such that it would be easy to mistake it for something idyllic or at the very least subtly dyed with the dazzling colors of significance.