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09.21.02 - 11:50 p.m. damn. my mom is pissing me off. and im 13 years old again. so bad that while she was talking to me i went into the laundry room and shut the door and i heard her voice, muffled on the other side still talking. I stood there and watched my towels in the basket and i fought feeling guilty and did anyway. We are on eggshells right now. Nothing i say is good enough and everything she says annoys me. Yuk. Still havent written a short story. Stagnant comes to mind. In addition im doing that thing were i disappear. Ill reappear in about a week and be pissed that so much time has gotten away. Why cant i dedicate myself to writing? Why cant i seem to carry on a normal conversation with anyone? Weeks will go by where i dont feel the need to speak to anyone, like im the only person in the world that exists. Im tired now though, and frustrated. To my bed, where things are easy am already dreading tomorrow which is the day before work. Im ready for school. And a boyfriend. I have this pain in my back that no one loves enough to rub out. Is it bad that i only want a boyfriend so that he can rub the kinks out. Lines i have been thinking about obsessively: 1. "i think you underestimate the proclivity of 23 year olds." 2. "Sometimes i just sit in my office and cry i miss her so much." 3. "Haircuts, Bongs and Threesomes. Cant be a good idea." I am feeling very naive and protective. I think i am going through a growth spurt, only in the opposite direction. I have this need to be taken care of but in a innocent way which may account for the distress over linda. With these men...its frustration and fear. I want to remain with them but am distressed by their lack of formality and want it back the way it was before i knew the lists of things i know now. I am thinking much about the loss of them, about their pedastals and their falls; simultaneously. All three on my doorstep with bloody changelings that i had never imagined. And for them to think id accept it...what does that make me? My idealism is a surprise to even me. Everyone accuses me of cynicasm but that cynacism is nothing more than an extension of my humor, like the ability to make my mother from brooklyn and fit my fist in my mouth. Truly, underneath everything else, i am much younger than i should be. Things scare me. Keep me up at night. I want people to fulfill their roles, i want them to be good and true. Recently i have gone away because i am disenchanted. Im sorry. I think this is 23 year old me though. Do you ever feel like inside, underneath comforters and heating pads, is the "real you" but there is someone else on the outside that takes blows and moves through the world and makes phone calls? For me, every now and then, i bemoan the discrepancy between those two people. I shoulder much more than i feel im capable of and its truly not much. This worries me. More about my weirdo dreams tomorrow No catharsis and too much wine � 
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