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2001-01-10 || six-ten || why i wanted to skin my cat, or, norma made gumbo last night: a critical study of why i am such a bloomin idiot. || curses on diaryland, which won't let me write, turns me in circles, has outlined the perimeter of its stony limits with an electric fence. but i finally finally just got in. oh, silly. i started my new job. i type up applications all day on a nice electric typewriter. i sit with middle aged ladies who inevitably speak of the following things on a daily basis: a. the medication they are taking. b. various health problems, ranging from heart burn to mammograms, tagged with a charming personal story that ties itself nicely to point a. c. their children's car/school/health problems. d. shopping (easy spirit shoes are on sale at macy's!) e. what's for dinner (last night was gumbo.) and then there's one man who talks about this: a. little league. b. the prodigal son. (his.) he reminds me a bit of ned flanders. but they are nice. but i brought a walkman in today. i hope they are not offended. mmmm. temping. holy holy is it ever raining. i've been wearing michael's parka (that's what made me think of the last silly entry.) and i like it. it's a little big but i feel like an eskimo. a fashionable eskimo. and i want to give high fives to the kids that pass me on the street with the same kind of parka on.. that army issue kind of parka, teh blue kind with the orange insides? the only problem is i feel very very self conscious with it on because it has a fur lined hood. real fur. and i'm so good about not wearing leather or stuff that used to have a soul. holy moly am i ever a fuckin hypocrite. i just remembered i have leather boots. and leather clarks. but let's pretend i don't for just a minute, that i am a compassionate conscientious (how do you spell that?) hell no that was a sweet animal kind of young lady who rilly is irked by this fur thing. that i am wearing fur. it makes me not want to sit next to anybody on the bus because i'm afraid they'll point out what a terrible person i am. but i guess it isn't worse than wearing leather, is it? or the fact that i have a not-so-secret yearning for sausage on hangover mornings? but this is what i was thinking: when my sweety cat minnie died (minnie was nineteen. i was twenty-one. she was my catmom. she's the closest person to me to ever die.) i for a little bit thought about how nice it would be to either get her stuffed.. or better yet, skin her (ack. i know. just hear me out for just a second.) so that i could have a coat or a sweater or a wee throw blanket of her to wear. because that was the closest way i could think of to be with her. be kind of inside her. it's like that feeling i get with certain boys i have been in love with-- that i want to be so close to them, inside them, seated in their ribcage because being on the outside just isn't good enough. but that's not an excuse or anything. should i shave it off? but the ghost would still be there, chasing after me in the dark. a poor naked fox with its head chopped off. oy. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |