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2006-11-11 @ 10:11 p.m.
at the mercy of a crazy writer it seems

Dear Diary:
This week I achieved unprecedented levels of unverifiable productivity.

I’d love to take credit for that line, but I actually saw it on a Dilbert calendar today when I was at the mall today. It just seemed to fit.

Now that my two art shows are over and my job interview is history, the only blips on the horizon are DVDs from Netflixs, my art class down at the community center, my appointments with “A” and an extraordinary amount of anger at stupid people.

No not you guys....unless you were that idiot talking on your cell phone at the gas pump today. Didn’t you see that warning sticker on the gas pump? No cell phone talking while pumping. Sparks from your cell phone could ignite gas fumes. It says it right there. Didn’t you see it? Well, you probably couldn’t since you were looking through the haze of your fucking...


Jesus Christ, why do they let people with lobotomys drive cars, huh? Because I think possibly for the first time since I escaped Catholic School in 1972, I was saying an Act of Contrition as he was standing there squirting that last dollar’s worth into his Ford Taurus, going... Squirt. Puff. Squirt. Puff. Squirt. Pufffff!

I was already in a bad mood anyways. I hadn’t gone to our big mall in quite a while and today I remembered why....

  • 1) I had at least 8 people bash into me or whack me with their bags and not say excuse me or sorry.
  • 2) I had a kid stomp on my foot and then the mother glared at me like I was in her kid’s way.
  • 3) I had to listen to “Frosty the Snowman” 34 times in a single hour and its only November 11th.
  • 4) I asked for a crunchy taco and got a soft one and then the teenager behind me tsked really loudly when I asked for the correct order. I mean, I outweighed that twit by at least 45 pounds and could have easily crushed her tiny spine but I chose the high road thanks to the miracles of modern medicine.
  • 5) Getting into a small glass elevator in the center of the mall with about 12 people and an extremely heavy woman on a scooter and thinking the elevator was going to snap a cable and we were going to plunge down to the basement level crushing Auntie Susie’s Pretzel Cart and all those waiting for her pretzels and their salty goodness.
  • 6) And what is with all these people wearing flannel pajama bottoms to the mall? What happened? Did you lose your public outdoor pants at the laundry? Are your jeans being held hostage by a terrorist sect? Or are you just too damn lazy to get dressed to go shopping? Put your pants on you nitwit...this ain’t your bedroom over the garage.

    I was actually at the mall to see that new movie “Stranger Than Fiction”. And I actually loved it. Totally loved it...even with Will Ferrell in it. I guess I liked the whole concept that somebody’s life might just be the figment of some writer’s imagination and that their fate, might be affected by a writer’s mental condition.

    Because the writer in the movie, played by the wonderful Emma Thompson, is terribly depressed and seemingly thrills at seeking out new and hideous ways to kill her unsuspectingly nice characters...that is until she inexplicably meets one.

    I started to wonder what MY writer has in mind for me. She certainly has put a lot of her own angst and neurosis into me....her main character. Why are you laughing? Of course, I’m her main character. Anyhoo, in the movie, the plot of the book seemingly changes when Will meets someone he falls in love with. So will the book be a comedy or a tragedy? Will he die an imminent death like all of Emma’s characters or will he live happily ever after? She is kinda unstable in the movie, so its hard to tell until the end.

    But that’s what I’d like to ask MY writer is...Imminent death? Like some guy smoking a cigarette at a gas pump? Or possible happiness with this new person I’ve met. I mean, I have no feelings for him yet. He’s just someone I’ve been writing e-mails to and have seen twice. We’re about to go on our third date. He’ll be coming to my apartment for the first time shortly, which has sent me into a major cleaning spasm. I live alone. I have no company. So what if I have a year’s worth of dust on my computer desk and TV? Just as long as I don’t disturb it, right?

    But there IS this really weird connecting fiber between us. If I told my friend “J” at my old job, he’d get all excited and say, “That’s synchronicity, witty!! Its synchronicity!!!”. I can’t reveal it here, of course and its probably purely coincidental, but I am taking it somewhat seriously which, in turn, has been making me a nervous wreck.

    The new guy had given me two choices of when to meet. Today in a two hour time slot when he was leaving his daughter off somewhere or Tuesday night when he’s free for the whole evening. I chose Tuesday night of course. He’s coming to take me to dinner AND look at my artwork. Yeah, I know...the old, “come to my apartment and look at my etchings” ploy. But he actually is. And that’s actually a little awkward for me. He’s in the market for some artwork (he’s already bought stuff from one of my art buddies) and if he likes something...I guess its okay to do a transaction with him, if we’re not too deep into dating yet. Right?

    Arghhh! I’m so confused.

    So, I guess this will truly be up to whoever’s writing my story. I just hope they don’t choose the imminent death scenario...because that would really suck, if I didn't get at least one really good love scene under my belt.

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  • Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty