things i won't admit to myself, september 2015 edition
iterating the drama of my own incompetence did not magically resolve it. dealing with this issue is going to take more work than writing clever things about it in my paper journal. fuck.
dot dot dot
increasingly certain i am drowning in myself.
increasingly apathetic about this possibility.
hello, apathetic stranger! the original occupant of this body is named judith. and you are?
i seem to be deeply traumatizing myself with hunger. (see points 4 and 5)
money is a problem.
my deep-seated belief that people fundamentally do not like me is causing problems in the basic formation and maintenance of potentially beneficial social relationships. and when i say “people,” i mean everybody. i mean eeeeverybody. my witches. my closest friends. my partner. my parents. why would anybody want to spend time with me, i think. why would anyone want to get letters from me, i think.
DOT DOT DOT
methods i have tried to fix the ‘k’ key on ben’s fancy ergonomic keyboard that have not been successful: ignoring the problem, swearing at the problem, pleading with the problem, learning to work around the problem, rebooting the problem, attempting to faith-heal the problem. methods that would successfully fix the problem: buying ben a new fancy ergonomic keyboard. (see point 7)
i wanted to love you, rose perfume balm. i wanted you to smell as heady and carnal as everyone in the smelly things forum that recommended you in 2011 said you would. instead, every time that i've tried you these entire four years that i've had you, you've combined with my chemistry to reek of scented feminine hygiene products from the early nineties. also, you do not scrub off, not even after four tries. rose perfume balm, i want to admit that you make me very sad, but instead i will put you back in my wounding perfumes box and repeat this depressing ordeal the next time i start to hope that maybe, someday, i'll be able to pull off a straight-up rose.