blackbird.jpg (30437 bytes)

2005-10-31 @ 10:31 p.m.
hey, hey , hee, hee, get off of my cloud

I just got through walking around the Village amongst all the trick or treaters. Its really pretty decent out...around 55 degrees. Its been so decent in the last two days, that all the damn spiders that had gone into premature winter hibernation or whatever the hell spiders go into when it gets cold, have suddenly reappeared along the apartment walkway, looking all appropriately creepy and fugly.

It was fun, however, to walk and listen to all the little kids play ďtrick or treatĒ. They seemed to be divided into two distinct categories. Six year olds dressed like angels and princesses if they were girls or batman and spiderman if they were boys and roving packs of 12 year old girl who were either dressed up like slutty angels or the ever popular gee, lets not get dressed up at all, and lets just go ring door bells and get candy.

I thought it was kind of funny how the little kids costumes were so totally traditional. About the only variation was a little sister and brother who both wore Superman costumes. Now thatís equality. When I was a kid, other than one pre-made witch costume when I was about 6...

I always created my own costumes. And they were never traditional girlie costumes. I was always weird things like a World War I Flying Ace (I won a prize with that one) and a Hula Girl with a real Hawaiian grass skirt (I got really bad chaffed thighs with that one). I was always really good at hiding in plain sight. Kind of like this diary. Iíve always been kind of flashy, putting all these pictures in and being all specific about things and then sitting back, all self satisfied thinking, aww, nobody will ever see it. Iím invisible... just like in real life. Unfortunately, thatís not true, especially now.

When I first started writing this diary, I was just vaguely aware that people were reading it. I didnít even really realize people were adding me as their favorites for about 3-4 months. And then I started getting notes and then I started getting regular people communicating with me and then everything started to snowball. And then I even started writing for an audience like I used to when I wrote columns for newspapers, and then it kind of became a kind of hybrid...a columiary. I canít say I didnít like it. Because hey, I love to write. I liked the daily structure. It kept my mind active. I liked the attention. It even helped me to hone my writing skills. It was a win-win situation. Except for the extreme anxiety I felt about if anyone in my life ever found my diary. Because I have never told anyone that I write this. No one. Well, except for maybe Guardcat, but sheís pretty good with secrets.

I also use this for therapy. I donít have a whole slew of friends to commiserate with, so I use this to blow off steam about real matters, imagined matters, things Iím angry about, things I have no control over (which is practically everything). And its been a HUGE help. Its like getting to see "A" every day.

But I also do something Iím kind of ashamed of. I make fun of people here. It was something that was done to me my whole life and I always felt powerless to defend myself, especially when I was a little kid. My mom always teased me about everything I did and made fun of the way I looked. After a while, I donít even think she realized she was doing it. It was just second nature to her. So I was constantly off balance, feeling insecure about virtually everything I did.

So what happened was, I basically became my mother in print. A Snark-o-saurus. And I feel really bad about it. Because I realize that Iím taking a lot of free flowing anger in my life (like about my car and about poverty and about being alone) and directing it at people in my life (namely at work), who have nothing to do with anything, and Iím nailing them. Just because theyíre easy targets. How brave of me, huh? Wow!

Like for instance, the Lesbian Chick. Its true, I donít care for her, sheís not my cup of tea and I do avoid her, but she certainly doesnít deserve all the flack I throw at her. Sheís just a little mentally slow and I shouldnít make fun of anyone like that. Its mean. Iím sorry.

The Boring Story Woman. I donít like her either. I think sheís insecure and needs a lot of reassurance that sheís one of the gang. I think if she didnít try so hard, people would like her a little more. This one may be a little harder.

Charlemagne the Obnoxious French Guy. I think heís a doll. I really like him and look forward to seeing him when I do. I know he prefers all those younger women, but meh, heís just a typical mid 40ís guy.

Married anger far outweighed the crime. He was sarcastic and snotty in our last communication, but then again I was being snarky about his wifie. By and large though, throughout our friendship, he was a pretty darn, decent guy, and I always admired his fathering skills.

I guess, really the thing to remember is that Iím writing this diary. Iím putting MY spin on every story. Do you think, if Iím in a bad mood, Iím going to make THEM look good? Heck no. Because, after all, arenít we all the stars of our own diaries? Its really the only place I GET to be a star, because Iím certainly not a star in real life. Iím overweight. I havenít had a new piece of clothing in about 5 years. Iím insecure. I donít make eye contact. I have bad posture. I have trouble forming relationships. I have that whole invisible thing going....still. Usually always at least once during my appointment with ďAĒ, I will quote ďWayneís WorldĒ saying, ďIím not worthy.Ē

But in the world that is the Diary 'de awittykitty, I am all powerful. I can make or break all plot points. I can make myself sound funny or sexy or competent. I can make myself appear like I really have things together or that Iím smarter than my doctor, or that all the guys down at the yuppie store are turning their heads as I walk by. But the truth is, its all writing my friends. And its all based on how Iím feeling. And now it appears that someone has found my diary. Possibly several people.

The strange part of that is, how people tip toe around that information. They talk to you at work and verbally drop a line or distinct word from your diary, like you wonít notice it. Its all very tricky. Do you call them on it or do you just pretend not to notice. I go with, pretend not to notice. Because really, a diary is none of their damn business. Yes, its true, its right out there on the big olí internet, but dang, ya know what? A diary is also kinda private. What if I came over to your house when you werenít home and looked at your private thoughts? Or looked up on the internet to see if you had ever been arrested for a crime? Or if you had ever filed for bankruptcy? Or any other personal, possibly incriminating information? How would you feel about that? Kind of irate? Kind of violated?

yeah, me too.

I donít want people I know in person, to read about me using my vibrator. Especially, say, a male co-worker. How embarrassing is that? But take that stuff out of my diary? Why should I? Its my diary. Its part of the daily record of my life. Iím not writing it to scintillate some college boy in Omaha. Iím writing it because this may be the only record that I ever existed. I have no husband. I have no children. Once Iím gone, this little electronic data gunk floating around in cyberspace, may be the only thing left that verifies that I ever existed.

Its funny, when I used to write for newspapers, I thought THAT was going to be my legacy...the newspaper stories I wrote for a small weekly newspaper, but then I realized, heh, nobody really keeps those old yellowed newspaper film reviews except your Dad, witty and then I felt really depressed.

And fellow co-workers? Are you getting a kick reading me bitch about people? Are you trying to guess who they are? Am I pissing you off if theyíre your friends? Well, let me ask you this? How many of you have ever gossiped about co-workers in some back hallway? Or at lunch? Or made fun of someone you both mutually dislike? Iím trying to figure out how much different this is from that. Not much really. Its just a different format and I actually think this is less damaging because the people reading this have no idea who I'm writing this about, but you are walking by the person you are badmouthing and smiling like you like them. That's kinda straight outta "Mean Girls" if you ask me.

Last week, for instance, my boss just happened to see me walking out of our building on a Thursday and asked me why I wasnít at our Empowerment planning meeting. Empowerment Planning Meeting? Oh, you mean the one my two co-facilitators keep changing and not telling me about. The one that is starting to make me feel kinda like the retard girl everyone is making fun of behind their back. Oh yeah, THAT Empowerment Meeting.

So now that you know that my nearly daily missives here on d-land, along my artwork and pictures, is really the only thing left that I have even a modicum of control over, do you suppose you can do me a favor and maybe click to another location? Because I really really need something I can comfortably call my own. Thanks.

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Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty