Fuck. I have the worst love/hate relationship with other people's blogs. I guess, with representations of other people on the internet, period, if my dalliances with MySpace back in the day are anything to go on. Everything just comes out so perfect and enviable. I told Shirine last night my purest loves were ones gone unnoticed. It scared me how true it sounded. And all these—tumblr, wordpress, blogspot, whatever—just kill me. There's a word that fits perfectly but I'll never (redolent) remember what it is.
Note: It was not redolent, after all. Maybe there wasn't a word. Who knows.
I wonder how much of this is that I'm a guy. I got my new copy of the Atlantic in the mail today. They still think I'm Alexander Hanley. The main article so far as I can tell (at least the first of the main ones, pagination-wise) was about gender dysphoria in children. It was a real pleasure to read. Obviously, my problem is not even remotely on the level of a seven-year old boy saying, "Look, Mommy, I'm a girl!" with his penis tucked between his legs. But there's an issue, obviously. I guess at the heart of it it might just be my "grass is greener" fetishization of the Other. If I was a girl I would envy the shit out of guys. It's funny how things work, like that, in my head. God knows there's a lot more separating me from Ian MacKaye than 26 years of age.
Another part of it, though, is my constant envy. Ugh. I'm such a head case. I wish I could just be content as me. I wish I could be a better me in order to be content. At the end of the day, I just wish I was someone else. I told myself I'd go to bed at 10. Then 11, then 12, then 1, then 2. It's almost 3. I have shit I need to do and no inclination to do it. It's murderous.
Then I sit back and laugh at myself because even all the other perfect dolled up undolled up unextravagantly beautiful wreckful girls in the world could read this and not get the same feeling I get out of reading through a year or two of some other stranger's life, some whoever whatever chick who always never manages to mention me (especially when mentioning specifically not me, all the things right around me i couldashoulda been couldashoulda been a part of)
and it fucks me up something special
and to boot i'm not even nano-rhyming. fuckkkkkkkkkk.
(park that car, drop that bomb
sleep on the floor,
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5 comments:
well yeah, sometimes i do envy the shit out of guys. and today i am making a pie for an election party partly in an effort to assert my stereotypical femininity to myself. it's really fucked up.
will it be apple pie, though?
no, blueberry and raspberry with whipped cream. america, duh.
btw, your blog introduces more questions than it answers. i don't understand probably 30% of this entry, but i did get your nanowrimo pun, so i'm okay with that.
you're right. i realized that as i was writing it. in my defense, it was like 4:30 am at the time.
i don't even remember the mental connection that lead me to mention ian mackaye. i'd been watching an interview with him earlier in the night, but... who knows.
ever since you mentioned how non-fact-based my blog is, i've come to be a lot more aware of that. it's strange, because i don't feel it until i'm done and re-reading it. i guess i kind of like this. it keeps me from having any possibility of awkward discussions if ever anyone that i don't expect reads it?
blurgh. i'm going to bed.
that's funny because all three people i gave the link to my blog actually read it and one of them even questioned me last night about something she assumes i wrote about her. she then proceeded to tell me that i am an amazing writer and that i should never give up on my apparent gift. LOLZ. anyway my point was that i successfully deflected this awkward conversation by telling her that i only ever write about petty things in my blog (untrue) and that in the future, i would do as she requested and tell her about things that bother me, instead of writing about them (also untrue).
it is rather ironic that the girl who professes some deep admiration for my "artistic gift" would prefer me to write less and instead have those pseduo-profound conversations that can only take place between two girls and which always end in a hug.
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