hand down, that was a blow job

Tuesday, February 20, 1996
8:15am, train

So everything was well redeemed last night once Ted and I had a conversation. No big hairy deals, no tears or fighting. Ted said he felt mad that I wouldn’t let myself enjoy our time together but I think he was mad I was making him feel guilty. I said a million times that I had to get work done. But we went for sushi and a movie and then he played guitar for an hour and a half while I paid bills, did yoga on the floor.

Virulent thoughts about the kiss off letter to Jackson, which I want to fire off by tomorrow. What do I want to happen then? I don’t think I really want or need or fortunately expect an apology from him. I’m ready to just not care and I want him to just buzz off. Sure, it’s sad that things end badly. But it’s so overwhelmingly good that they end.

My mom is one of those women with just a little more lipstick than lip. She just kept getting married. After a while, she didn’t even say “I do,” she just said “Yeah, whatever.”

My greatest fear is that I will die before either of my parents. My greatest fear is that I will never get to write my smash hit autobiography because I will never get one minute, not one unsuffocated second without them on this planet. Sometimes I just want to scream, “Die, die, die! I promise to feel very guilty and responsible for the rest of my life afterwards if only you’ll agree to die.” But they never do, thank God, because God knows I’m only kidding. God is in on all the better jokes.

Tonight is is my last performance. I can’t give anymore. I’m old and I’m tired and I’ve fucked everybody already anyway. How many people in this audience have I fucked? Get your hand down, that was a blow job. Get your hand up. He couldn’t get it up then either.

All kinds of patter and shtick. What should I wear? If I’m doing the drunk, whoreish washed-up lounge thing I could go with the red dress and wig thing again but I’d like to make it different somehow. Of course I don’t know how to make a life so relentlessly the same look any different.

9:10am, desk

A Tuesday morning at work. Going to see my shrink at lunch today. Making funny little comments to Maddy. We’re so wry and above it all. That’s what irony gets you, it’s like being too tall.

Had a nice image last night, walking past a brownstone lit deep blue from the inside like an evening sky emanating from a TV. The sky is the color of a TV in a cold room. Who even has time to feel angry or overcrowded?

My mother this weekend saying she didn’t want to rent to minorities. How the hell am I supposed to react to that? Why does she refuse to acknowledge that I disagree with her racism? That I’m offended and grossed out by her beliefs? Partially because I don’t express it. Also because she’s incapable.

There’s no way she should be allowed to raise a kid. The whole six cats thing really bugs the shit out of me too. Why the hell does she have to act that way? Why does she get to have a kid?

God, I just can’t stand her. It’s true, all the jokes about how I wish she was dead. It’s so bad and painful and uncomfortable and creepy. Sometimes it feels like the only hope. How would I feel if she was gone? It’s so hard to… interrupted.

It’s so hard not to say to Maddy candidly, I am disgusted and appalled by how fucking stupid you are. Man, I can really get myself worked up, can’t I? It’s probably a great skill like for acting or causing spontaneous ulcers.

I don’t want to see my shrink today. I don’t want to come up against rampant emotions and hatred. I don’t want to keep my angre buried. Nice spelling of anger, a-n-g-r-e. The office is filling up, I don’t cry the way I used to. All my shirts shrink in the dryer. I didn’t want to spend the night with Ted last night. I need to be alone sometimes.

Ooh, I feel childish and freaky now, all the drama for nothing. The truth is that I’m angry. I’m angry and I don’t expect much to change. So it just looks like I’m going to be angry for a while.

I want more to say, I want to keep writing to myself. I want constant reassurance that I’m here, I’m here for me, I’m looking out for me, I want good things for me. I am most interested in what’s good for me and how I can help myself and I’m never leaving me. I will always be here for myself and stick up for myself and for what I want, whatever that may be.

It’ll be OK. I’m not overwhelmed anymore. Sometimes I do feel whelmed as hell though. But oh man, so much less than the old days.

So there’s my new sport, comparing how good I am now to how bad I was then. Oh, it just doesn’t quit, there’s so much that still isn’t right. So much work to do with my shrink and it’s not easy either.