Saturday, August 14, 2004

So James and I had another fight. I'm not proud of that. I still obviously don't know how to communicate with other human beings in a sane and rational manner. I just wanted him to write the note neatly and in straight lines that ran parallel to the top and bottom of the page that said he gave me permission to pick up his paycheck for the tightasses he works for, this way they wouldn't have any reason to kick it back to me. Of course, he didn't think it was necessary, and when I asked him to write it neatly, he just kept saying no no no, that's all I was going to get, that any more wasn't necessary. Which is so infuriating. I get so mad when he won't even discuss things with me. And of course, the madder I get, and the more personally I take it, the more stubborn he gets. He's still doing that apologising for me being mad and me being crazy instead of apologizing for his behavior. I should start saying "i'm sorry you're an asshole" instead of apologising for blowing up at him, and see how that makes him feel. He won't feel very good, I'm sure.

On a seperate, and somewhat more exciting note, I burned my hand last night with boiling oil. I have this one blister that's really deep and large. it almost looks like an enormous wart.

I'm still bitter about the schedule at work thing. Ted thinks I have like no right to be bitter. I really hate it and take it personally when decisions are taking away from me, and I'm just handed mandates as to when I will work and when I will see my husband, when I will sleep and when I will eat. I especially become bitter when I have to spend 18-20 weeks on a schedule whereby I lose Sundays, which are usually the only days we have off together. That only having two days off together a month is unexciting to me. Gee wiz, I wonder why.

Three more years, right? That's how long it's going to take for him to finish his undergrad and for me to finish my grad. I'm crossing my fingers that I can handle doing full time grad and full time work. Sleep's for sissies and shit. Just like undergrad. I did undergrad 24, sometimes 28 credits a semester and just ran like a bat out of hell for 3 years. Of course, I wasn't trying to maintain anything resembling a personal relationship with anyone at that point in time. Saying hello to people in the morning was slightly more than I was capable of handling socially. Now I have this fricking job where I'm expected to talk to people and be civil, and I'm sure my husband would like it if I was capable of not being a psychopath while I was around him. I guess I should give up hope of getting that novel written while I'm in school. Or figure I have till April to finish the thing.

Maybe I should give up hope of ever finishing anything I ever start writing. I'm not exactly sure what my problem is. I'm sure part of it is psyching myself out. I think that it has to be perfect and I obsess so much about making it perfect, I never start. And I feel like I never have any worthy ideas.

I started reading this book about performance anxiety and quelling the inner judges that freeze us up and stuff. I'm not sure if that necessarily applys to my singing all the time (though I know there're times that it does) I think it applies more to my writing. It's like the act of writing is somehow a performance for me. You know, like that Monty Python skit where the novelist sits down in the arena to write and the commentators are going on and on about his first sentences and his first word, and how he backs up, etc. I have some ideas in my head, images really, and I dont think I'll ever actually get them on paper.

Ever notice how this blog is mostly just a bitchfest? All I do is bitch and moan how I'm turning into my mother and can't seem to stop it, and how life is cruel at best, torturous most of the rest of the time.

I need to think up something good and decent to say.

Ok. Decent things in my life:

I made some really good scones with fresh ginger (yaay on that coordination of having both the ginger and something to grind it with in my posession all at the same time) and James' friend (I think his name was John) really liked them.

Harry Potter rocks and no one can take that away from me (And if i ever get up the nerve, I'll finish that HP/Titans crossover I started ages go... probably not).

Um... the place is clean and there're frozen pizzas in the fridge. That's a good thing.


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