Archive for the ‘homosexuality’ Category

In my PJs wrapped in the softest throw known to man, given to me by my ex-mother-in-law watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Three years ago, I was watching this parade in a hotel room with my cat. The pastor had paid for my hotel room because I left my H the day before Thanksgiving. I couldn’t face the holidays with him. The Sunday before, I had told him I was thinking that there was no way the relationship could survive. We talked for like 3 hours on a walk through the woods. At the end, he gave me a hug and said, “we’ll get through this together.” I felt like he hadn’t heard a thing I had said the whole last three hours. And instead of staying and talking, I just left.

I took the most basic necessities–computer, hard drive, art supplies, cat. And I left a very hurtful note behind. I didn’t mean for it to be hurtful. I meant for it to be honest–I couldn’t stay without endangering my life. But he understandably took it very badly. I was talking to him this week and he said he still has terrible days on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.

That Wednesday I had a meeting scheduled with the Pastor to talk through the issues I had with the marriage. I listed all the problems with H and only mumbled at the very end that I was (ahem) gay. And even then I didn’t put it that way–I just said I had a crush on a friend. I cried, the cat cried (from inside his carrier). The pastor was very skeptical of my complaints, but he said that he always took a woman seriously when she made such complaints. And since I had no where to go for Thanksgiving, he put me up in a hotel room. I was just going to go to a cheap place and pay for it myself, but he insisted on a very nice place (which was good b/c they had a Thanksgiving day buffet I could eat). I watched the parade. Floated in the pool. Ate the less than inspiring buffet. And felt such relief. I was on my own for the first time in my life.

Today the relief has passed, and I’m feeling a little lonely. However, I trying to remember the awkward Thanksgivings of years past. I wish I was sharing my bed with someone special this holiday weekend, but then again I could have gone and visited my amour from this summer and fall. But living with my exH for so many years taught me that you can be lonelier in a crowd than you can be on your own. So right now the loneliness is very minor compared to that feeling of sadness and disconnection.

I’m also grateful for the parade, because it is fun and lively and has Broadway performances. I have a friend on facebook that is oogling it all in a most CAPITAL way. Facebook makes me so happy most of the time, by keeping me in touch with so many people. And hearing their funny thoughts.


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T texted me yesterday instead of swallowing massive handfuls of pills. I’ve been meaning to write a tribute to her, a la New York Times’ Modern Love column, but this has given me the impetus to do so.

T and I got to know each other on a online forum for Late in Life Lesbians, all of whom had husbands and many of whom had kids. I was attracted by her snarky wit and by her story–a black woman married to a Baptist preacher. How did she maintain her faith, I wondered? And then she posted a note about how she just wanted to have sex with a woman to find out if her desires were real. I was living with my grandmother at the time and also a woman-virgin and had the same desires. We lived most of the continent apart, but hey, I thought, might as well send her a private message through the online forum. We started talking on email.

Then the first time I talked to her on the phone, out in the garage so I wouldn’t be overheard, I went weak at the knees because of her low, sultry voice. I just kept saying, you have such a sexy voice! We started texting a ton. I went on a campus interview, and texted her about the progress in the bathroom. I got back to the posh Inn they’d put me up in, sat up on the down comforter, and we talked about life and about sex. I giggled a lot.

Yes, she was still married, and yes I was too (technically–I’d left my H nine months before). But I was so mad at the institution of marriage and at the institution of church that I no longer had respect for either.

Then I got the job and had to move my stuff and suddenly I was going to be driving through her city on the way to pick up my things. We talked and sexted and decided that yes we would meet. I asked my therapist about the safety of meeting someone to have sex. She seemed a little nervous–more nervous than I was. Because I’d been talking to T everyday for two months. Surely I knew her well enough by now.

So we met in a Panera. She shimmied, which she does when she gets nervous, and I flirted–getting those warm intense eyes when I’m interested in someone. And we decided to go ahead and go to the hotel room. I had gotten to the room early to set up candles and things. I had gotten cinnamon massage oil, thinking things would go slowly and sensuously, but instead we sat on the bed next to each other, wondering how things should go. We kissed and our lesbian natures took over for the next several hours. It was perfect. We both figured out that yes, we’re gay. And that women’s bodies are wonderful and soft. We also proved that sex could be about bodies moving in sync and about friendship, instead of being about passion. This was an essential thing to learn, because the beauty of passion had been torn asunder in our two marriages.

Our lives have gone in very different directions since that first encounter, but we still text everyday. She remains married and is sliding deeper into depression. Her H abuses her emotionally and physically, but she doesn’t have a job and she does have kids and she doesn’t see a way out.

Sometimes I think I’m very selfish in my relationship with T. Sometimes it feels like I don’t really experience something unless I have an audience I can tell it to. And T is my audience, but also my sounding board and a sympathetic ear. She went with me when I had to get more items from H’s apartment. I could tell he was offended that I needed to bring my tall black bodyguard, but I was so relieved to have her there. She was an emotional bulwark against his pain. Someday I will write a poem or something about how odd that encounter was. A rural parking lot, a Subway pizza, T smoking, me trying to keep everything light, the pain and anger in my H’s eyes. Then going to the apartment and taking things out. T smoking again while I said goodbye to H. She looked so cool and calm and collected, and so butch, while I felt everything inside tearing to pieces.

She has been there for me when I started to date, trying to figure out what I wanted in a woman and basically trying as many as I could to figure out what characteristics fit and which did not. Suffering inwardly when I finally told my new gay friends about T and they were affronted that I was banging a married woman (didn’t they understand how excruciating marriage had been and how we didn’t want to preserve it anymore?). And I had to figure out how to explain T to my dates–“she is my best friend, and sometimes we have sex, but depending on how this relationship goes, I won’t have sex with her again.”  And then when the relationship inevitably ended, I’d drive the four hours to see her again. But the last time I went to see her, we didn’t have sex. I worried about what it would be like. Would we be able to contain the sexual energy that always sparked between us?

We did. But the intellectual energy that flowed throughout our conversation could not be denied. I had finally started to date someone I was willing to give up sex with T for, but I couldn’t deny that conversation with T was better than conversation with this woman. And after six months of very steady dating, I finally admitted it to myself and gently, quietly ended that relationship. Moving twelve hours away didn’t hurt.

So sometimes I think I use T’s friendship selfishly. But sometimes I think that my stories help divert her depression for at least a minute or two. That’s why she texted me instead of taking those pills. Because my mundane story about making lunch pulled her out of herself for a minute long enough to reassess the anguish.

At the same time, I can share about those moments when I too felt anguish enough to end life. And I can pull out of her the stories and the emotions that she is riding that day. Sometimes. But sometimes she doesn’t want to share the emotions because she’d rather cover them over with humor. She’d rather not admit what is happening to her.

You ask why she doesn’t leave. It is not just because she doesn’t have a job or a place to stay. It is also because she has a special needs child and it’s unclear how the child custody arrangements would work with her extremely recalcitrant husband. But it is also because she feels like she must be the proper preacher’s wife. It is astounding how powerful her sense of duty is. I understand it–that’s why I was with my husband for 7+ years, but I also don’t understand it–because I did finally flout duty and leave.

T is exceptionally bright, and thinks about the world in ways I couldn’t fathom. It is a delight to hear how she expresses herself and what she is writing her papers about. The sludge of depression has so overcome her this semester that she has not been able to write those papers.

I still love hearing her low sexy voice, even though we text way more often than we talk (I’m just not much of a phone person). She called me last night after we’d exhausted our texting fingers. We talked about the new crush I was developing and what I should do about it.

Please don’t go T. Please stay with us.

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Suddenly sad

I’ve been really pretty happy–or at least mentally stable–the last two years. Maybe that’s why I haven’t posted as much. I feel driven to write when I’m feeling more depressed.
Right now I’m feeling situationally depressed. I have a butt-load of grading to do. It is all rewrites, which I can’t figure out how to grade because they aren’t true rewrites. There’s no real revision, just a few added sentences here and there. Is that because of the nature of my feedback or because the students don’t know what a rewrite is or because they are lazy? Other professors are having the same problem, so I don’t think it’s just my feedback. And then my Af Am history class is turning in papers tomorrow. And P is turning in more papers next Monday. So Thanksgiving will be all grading all the time.
I have a new direction for my research and I’m really excited about it, so I want to do that all the time instead of grading. Which is why it’s been a week and a half and I have put a number on only one paper (and read another handful).

I had a party for my birthday Friday night. I’m trying to decide how it went. I think it was fun for the people who came, which as a consummate hostess is important for me. But I was really quiet. It was funny–the couple of times I spoke the whole house got quiet to listen, as if they knew it was my party and I might say something important.

I miss my gay friends from my last state. I have no gay friends here, partly because it is a small town and partly because I haven’t found the gay community yet. There were a couple of gay guys I really liked in the beginning, but they never came to any of my invitations, so I stopped inviting them. Yet, when I was with my gay friends in that other state, I felt awkward too. Maybe I’m just awkward. But being gay doesn’t mean you have other things in common. So with gay folks, you end up talking relationships most of the time, and I have a hard time discussing on-going relationships (though less so with past relationships). And with academics, you discuss the nature of world events or gripe about teaching. I wish there was some way to meld the two. To have more things in common with gay folks or find gay academics. I’m thinking about going to the Berkshire Conference, which I’ve heard has a lot of gay girl hooking up in addition to the conferences. I wish I was more compelling looking so that I could actually participate in a hook-up culture. Anywho. Guess I should go back to grading.

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Hey AJers!

I posted this site on the closed fb group for AJers (they’ll know what that means). So I’m getting more site views than normal (normal being 1 or 2 a day, today = 40), which is encouraging me to post more than normal.
I haven’t written about my love life here, practically ever. My coming-out-crush was a reader of the blog way-back-when, so I certainly couldn’t confess to those feelings. And every so often my H and my Mom read the blog, so that constrained some of the things I could say…….But it’s been two years since I updated, so I think I’ve lost all those original readers and now I can post whatever I want, without fear of consequences. Hah! As if I’d ever not fear consequences………Well, I’ll have to figure out how open I feel like I can be here.

I’ve had several brief relationships since I left my H (though mostly not until after I divorced). None really clicked. Right now, I’ve transitioned my longest relationship yet (April to August) into just a friendship. She drove 12 hours out here to see me and I realized I just wasn’t feeling it as strongly as I needed to be in order to maintain a long distance relationship. I had a terrible time owning up to my feelings, because I was afraid of hurting her (and I have a hard time with honesty in difficult situations, as mentioned here).
So that’s it in a nutshell, but without really explaining anything interesting. I’ll have to work on that.

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I found this post in my draft folder from 2010. I guess it felt too raw to post it then, but I find it kind of interesting now. So here it is.

I went to see a phenomenal play tonight. It was “The Wake” at the Kirk Douglass Theater. It lasts another week, so if you are in the LA area, go see it!

This is the second time in six months where my life has been only exactly portrayed on stage. Not sure what that is about. The first was “Next to Normal,” a broadway musical about a woman with bipolar and the way her illness controls her family. She had this beautiful sweet husband who tried to take care of her, but couldn’t.

Tonight’s play was about Ellen, a journalist in New York City, totally passionate about politics. She and her family and friends debate the Bush years as they passed by (media images were projected onto a white frame around the front of the stage. At the same time, Ellen is going through a crisis in her personal life. She’s living with a charming junior high teacher, brother of her best friend. There is a ton of affection between the two, but the love and attraction is more on his side. He helps her “tone down the intensity” so she can fit into family situations. Then she meets a woman totally captivated by her intensity. They experience this huge emotional/intellectual connection. Ellen tells Danny about Amy and for awhile she lives with Danny and sees Amy, but eventually she has to choose.

A subplot centers around Judy, a fifty year old Humanitarian worker who grew up poor in Kentucky and is having her own conflict with her family. She shows up on Thanksgiving from Sierra Leone and Ellen’s family moans b/c she is such a bummer. At the end of the play she talks about how frustrated she gets that all Americans think that life should be fair and that things will turn out for the good. I have heard the latter so much when I talk about my job situation that I just want to scream. There are no guarantees in this life.

I really don’t want to spoil the end of the play but because I don’t think I actually have any readers in LA, I will. Ellen ends up alone. I sobbed. Again I sobbed. Happens a lot these days. [I cried on the phone to my advisor today–so embarrassing. He called to say they were thinking about asking me to teach next year at my soon-to-be alma mater and he had told them of course I wouldn’t want it b/c it was too paltry a sum. Well, I said, paltry is more than 0.]

I got dolled up to go to the play because I was so hoping to meet and chat about the play afterwards with folks. The website for the theater mentioned expressly their Friday night dj, bar, and mingling with the actors time. Before the show, I watched everybody come in–all already in groups. Almost everybody was heterosexual couples. A few parents with a daughter trailing behind. A few middle-aged lesbian couples. A few friends. Almost everybody a couple of decades older than me. I sat with a slight smile on my face b/c I was just so happy to be there and anticipated discussing the play afterwards with someone. I was alone but filled with quiet happiness.

During the intermission, I actually stood at the very edge of the street corner while a taxi flashed by and thought “I don’t want to do that to some poor car driver.” The play had accessed that pain that is so close to the surface these days. So much for making new friends.

What affected me so? Ellen speaks to the audience upon occasion and explains that she goes back over and over the events leading up to the division of her family looking for her blind spot, but she cannot find it. This is the era when she bemoaned Bush’s blindness and yet cannot find her own. She tried so hard to do the right things and cannot.

The authenticity of her passion is questioned personally and politically in a very nuanced way (authenticity can be used as a blunt sledgehammer, but not so here). She rants and raves about her anger over the political situation and how Bush was using the fear of 9-11 to manipulate the country, hurting two people who expressed the “real” fear they had had at 9-11. Someone questions whether her “intellectual” anger is the same as someone who feels anger and fear everyday going to work near Ground Zero.

She and her best friend both want to be authors. Only Ellen is able to make a career out of it. Her best friend has to “settle” with a business job and asks Ellen not to make her feel guilty for it. It is heart-wrenching enough not to define herself as a writer anymore.

There is no real hope at the end of the play. Ellen and Judy discuss Ellen’s heartbreak. She asks when she will ever find the bottom of her hurt. Judy replies that it is such an American thing to say, because it comes from someone who never expected to fall in the first place. Judy worked as a security agent in refuge camps, where it was her job to try to distribute food and shelter “fairly” to people who did not expect fairness. In the United States, fairness is expected. Judy and Ellen, too, talk about whether or not American democracy works, whether it is a system designed to always protect the rich, or whether it’s structures are good and it is improving, despite the problems it has. Judy says that Americans always think life will work out for the good.

I sat in the lobby and cried a bit more. Almost everyone was leaving fairly quickly. I saw the one guy in the play catch up with two very pretty young women who were there to meet him. I stayed a little longer. The DJ I learned was out sick and soon I was the only person in the lobby. I got to talk to the three of the actresses. I was animated and excited and they seemed to appreciate my different comments. I was able to comment on a particular acting choice I’d noticed that I thought was quite nice. Yet, they soon turned away and it was time for me to go off on my own. I wandered down to the associated restaurant/bar and went in. But the bar was mobbed and everyone was in clusters and the women were all tall, in high heels, and hanging on men’s words and I just couldn’t face it. I didn’t know how to break in.

So I went and laid in the car seat and thought about why we still live when things will not necessarily work out for the good. I thought about this deep and consuming well of loneliness that I have had for so long and how it can be covered with certain moments but never for long. I wondered if I would have felt more or less lonely if people I knew had gone with me to the play. I had warned my parents and gma away b/c there was supposed to be a “hot seduction scene” (it was in fact intellectually hot and gorgeous, but I don’t think it was anything they would have been disturbed by–that is, if they could handle such love between two women). Some of the greatest periods of loneliness I’ve felt is going to something like that and then not being able to discuss it with the people I am with. What if others had been with me, who I knew could have discussed it? Then I feared not being able to keep up with their insights or make my own comments as profound as I knew theirs would be. Though that fear is so much less important than the juggernaut of loneliness.

What is this loneliness???? As a kid in a super-rural place in a family that was independent and fighting, I felt so isolated and like no one really knew me. I still remember how I hid myself at school, like I felt the personal details of my life were too precious to be just shared willy-nilly. And then I started to open up…and nobody noticed and yet it felt better. I had to teach myself to be less serious at school (school was always to work and playtime was after) so I could make friends. I did make friends, yet I was always the third or fifth wheel.  And even so, I held people at arms length who might have become closer friends.

At the end of high school, I left behind everyone. I sort of presumed that folks didn’t want me around or want to keep in touch. True? Or my own self-absorption? At the end of undergrad, I left behind almost everyone. I wonder what will happen at the end of graduate school. There wasn’t all this social media when I finished undergrad.

There have been many times I’ve been alone and completely satisfied and happy. Yet there is this particularly artistic loneliness–when I have seen a great play or movie and it touches me deeply–that I do not know how to soothe.

It is a saying in Women’s studies that the personal is political. I never understood it so well as this week. I’m trying to figure out my sexuality, which involves this very intimate part of myself that I am not used to exploring nor am I used to giving it freedom to range. So this very private part of me pokes around trying to figure things out, but when my parents figure it out, they are so shocked and horrified. I keep thinking it is just about the direction of my love, and yet it is so much more than that. Marriage is a huge social convention. Never has this become more obvious than when I begun to try to dissolve one.

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I tried to post this comment on Studio 360’s website, but it was too long.

I read this book last year when you first suggested it. At that point I was on the cusp of coming out to myself, but wasn’t there yet. I’ve also been drenched in conservative Christianity since birth. And I wrote my dissertation on African American history. So I was very eager to read this book, but it just didn’t click for me. The faith aspect didn’t work. I didn’t recognize the Christians I knew in the main character. He was so ambivalent about faith and yet controlled by it. The folks in Christian circles I know are so much more passionate about faith and gripped by this desire to be close to God.

But when I started thinking about writing this comment, I realized nine months of being out to myself might just have changed my perspective on this. I’m starting to realize how entrenched my own internal homophobia has been. I don’t care any more what the Bible says about stuff, but I do care immensely that I maintain a good relationship with my mom. How does one do both, when my wonderful mom believes that faith in God is the most meaningful thing in life, and indeed the only way to have meaning in life. She is more willing to accept my homosexuality as long as it doesn’t alienate me from God. Well, I’ve been alienated from a didactic God far longer than I’ve been aware of my own sexuality, and for many reasons other than sexuality (though that is a major piece).

So I guess I can understand better how the main character could basically be alienated from his faith in high school, but continue to feel controlled by it–something I couldn’t understand when I read the book initially.

I do think one of the reasons I had such a hard time with the book is that so many of my own objections to Christianity are rooted in my identification as a thinking woman. The kind of Baptist church I was raised in praised schoolwork, introduced me to the possibilities of literary criticism and multiple translations, and yet I walked away with this idea that becoming a scholar was one of the most demeaning of life choices. Really, an arm-chair intellectual, when I could be a missionary? (African American history has in some ways continued this line of thought–though replacing missionary with activist). It is hard for me to believe that my thirsty mind is the sign of health instead of latent wickedness that needs to be curbed.

But the main character in this book does not seek an intellectual understanding of Christianity, nor does his problems or wrestling with faith really arise from his mind. So I had a hard time relating to him, when I thought that I would perfectly relate to the book based on your interview. Maybe that is an indication of the success of the author in achieving this very particular narrator, who is not very smart–and how rarely, really, we read a novel written from that perspective.

But my biggest frustration was that I did not come away from the book with new insights into this thing that is such a close and yet often hated aspect of myself. I thought perhaps as an outsider, he would be able to introduce me to new aspects of the faith, particularly as it is explored in the South (I’m from the West).

I’m still not sure whether my frustration with the book is either the author’s fault of writing or my fault in imagination.

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Tattoos have become the ubiquitous cliché of subversive cool. Like kooky eyeglasses and statement haircuts, they are props for people who would like to announce to the world that they are interesting. But in the vocabulary of personal style, there is something jarringly inarticulate about a tattoo.

I feel all of a jangle these days trying to craft my new self while emerging out of 29-almost-30 years of experience of being half me and half someone else masquerading as all the stuff I thought I should be.

I want to be outre and cool and a hipster and have kooky eyeglasses and a statement haircut and a tattoo. I’ve tried to get the statement haircut twice now and failed–once because the Mandarin speaking hairdresser did not believe me, despite the fact that I brought in pictures. The second time I didn’t bring in pictures, relying upon going to an English speaking hairstylist. I told her I wanted an asymetrical cut, but instead she just straightened out the bob the previous guy had given me.

I want cool clothes, but nothing feels cool on this chunky, muscular body of mine. I got all these shirts with wild patterns and interesting cuts, so why do I still feel so dowdy?

I wouldn’t mind being a hipster, but I’ve never seen a large hipster. It seems they all are straight up and down, like modern day flappers.

I want to look gay and I’m terrified to look gay. I don’t know what fits me better–skirts and heels or more masculine clothes. Part of me would also love to be a crunchy granola type (I am, after all, relying entirely on bike, foot, and bus transportation!). But again, there are few XLs in that style and even fewer that look decent. Unfortunately, XL just needs a lot more structure to the top than organic cotton usually comes in.

And then I want to do and do and do, but I’m also pretty darn exhausted these days. From not eating well enough? From biking everywhere? From working longer hours and at a faster pace than usual? Is my body slowly beginning to release tensions that I have carried around for years?

And I’ve only been here a couple of weeks–why does it bother me that I haven’t plunked on down in a community yet? I mean, last weekend I went to three things (a gallery opening/cocktail hour, an outdoor play, and a minor league baseball game). Yesterday I went to a dance club (which was a big downer–probably at least part of the reason for my mood. The same group of gals I met online is going to a movie tonight and I just don’t think I have the energy to bike downtown again. I just got home from some afternoon errands/ finding a better web connection to watch my first hour of tv in almost 3 weeks).

And what do I want? Do I want to spend my off hours reading harmless lesbian fiction that makes me feel more connected to the lesbian identity that sometimes feels rock solid and sometimes feels very shaky? Is fluff harmless? Or reading something more in-depth, like the history books I don’t have time for in my job right now? Do I want to spend the off hours working on polishing chunks of the dissertation into publishable articles? Do I have any brain left after working all day? Or do I want to do art? All of these things are lonely activities. What about finding a tennis club, or a dance club, or something else to do with folks? Or go to movies by myself? Or get my library card and new license and sign up for the gym and find the rest of the furniture I “need” and all that house-setting up I need to do? What about spending time with my cat, who is lonely without someone home with him all day (either me, or E, or Grandma, as has been the case for the past 2 years) and who doesn’t yet have a good scratching post because I can’t find one. I went in search of a petstore supposedly downtown, but couldn’t find it. Should have called first before riding my bike all the way over there!

Why do I feel like I have to do all these things at once? Oh, and I also want to write–write for this blog, and for my professional blog, and in my journal, and maybe on the couple of pieces of non-history fiction and non-fiction in my brain, as well as polishing diss stuff. And I’d love to work on some kind of a comedy show or something to get me back on stage. The only thing I’ve watched this summer is Last Comic Standing and I’m starting to think a minor career as a comedian wouldn’t be so bad. Actually it’d be very fun. I love to make folks laugh and sometimes i can be the life of the party. But I need to start writing down my observations in a humorous way.

And then there’s stuff like just figuring out where to put all the clothes currently in some state of dissaray between my closet and the floor and my suitcases. For awhile I ran out of hangers and I don’t have a dresser, so suitcases it is.

All this anxiety about who I am is driving me back to images of self-harm. I thought I was done with those. I’ve also been feeling my heart in my throat–because I’m back on caffeine or am I having panic attacks? They don’t normally happen when I am any more or less anxious, but then I am riding on anxiety these days. I saw a psychiatrist here (took 9 miles of riding–which doesn’t seem a lot compared to the 42 miles in 2 hours my friend rode the other day, but I do have a comfort bike and she has a road bike!) But therapy doesn’t really start helping until you’ve established a relationship with someone–and the psychiatrist wants to know all about me, but he only prescribes medicine. I have to wait almost a month to see my new therapist (would have been even longer–almost 2 months, but I requested someone comfortable with LGBT folk and that person had an earlier opening). I was great, I thought, when I left CA. Why am I falling to bits now?

And who the fuck am I? And why can’t I meditate? Is it because I feel like I “should?”

And again I forgot to go to the store (stopped at the farm stand for fresh peaches and blueberries and ivy for my porch), so i can’t make more coffee b/c I have no filters. Tomorrow it is a must, because I’m out of two meds and will need to get refills. I hope the Kroger down the street has $4 generics! Maybe I should call ahead of time? Yathink?

I’m sorry I only seem to write here when I’m anxious or frustrated or angry.

By the way, I started this article off with the tattoo reference because it is another place where I feel jangly. I want a tatto0, but I’m too nervous to even go into a tattoo parlor. All these different places I think I’ll be laughed out of–bike stores for being too chubby, hiking stores for being too urban and chubby, boutique clothing stores for being too chubby, gay places for only having just come out and being too chubby and also kinda boring.

But I’m not boring! And I’m cute in my own way! But it is a sign of a depressive funk for me to have lost all my self-esteem. Gone. Out the window.

Which brings up another pet peeve and then I’m done. Folks my age and older complain about this generation of undergrads for having too strong a self esteem. Ummm, isn’t that we wanted out of the 80s? Isn’t it better to have self-esteem than this tearing apart of myself, ice-pick and butcher knife at the ready, that seems to happen to me? Is it because academics are usually on that precipice of insecurity/arrogance so they dislike someone who is just stably self-assured? let’s try to figure out a way to work with these kids as they are instead of change them into insecure manic producers like ourselves? ‘K?

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