new shit or no shit

Tuesday, April 9, 1996
8:15am, train

Having some morning trouble, as in hate waking up, getting up, going to work. But like pathologically miserable. If I quit pot, after three weeks I bet it’d be easier to wake up. I’m on the S coming from Ted’s and hardly get any writing time. Did two paragraphs last night.

Got a very nice rejection letter from Paper saying they’d be interested in other story ideas, i.e., puff profiles, et cetera. Who cares, really?

Ted wants to have sex every night and every morning and I’m often too tired, too cranky, and not feeling well. My stomach and back have been killing me lately. Thank god it’s almost the weekend and I have no plans. I did my laundry and my stomach hurts. I guess writing this is better than writing nothing.

I really am not going to get to be a child ever. Unless I allow myself to be responsibly. I want an adult to look after me so I don’t have to. I want to lay around in a bed with Ted all day like last Sunday morning. Use down time at work to make notes on possible poetry awards.

Friday, April 12, 1996

Last night on the phone with Jordan Clemons, he said Ava told him a while ago that she and I weren’t speaking. I didn’t totally freak out. But obviously was upset and let Jordan in on more of it than I probably should have. Calmer about it this morning.

No doubt I did the right thing at the right time by sending her that postcard. Of course a little worried. What’ll I say if I do get the chance to confront her? Don’t want to go too far overboard, too far afield. Telling Jordan that people treat me differently and I’m afraid I’ve got this bad rap with segments of the poetry scene. Not that I give a fuck.

So it’s Friday and I hope I hear about the Pseudo job. So much rejection lately. Didn’t see Ian at all yesterday after saying hi on Wednesday. That little fuck. Really hurt by his suggestion that I quit.

I’m angry at just about everyone. At myself for not giving myself the creative time and space I need and want. At my house for being spontaneously messy after I clean and clean it.

I’m out of pot except a few roaches. When am I going to stop smoking? Same shit, different day. I want new shit, or no shit. New shit or no shit.

I don’t have to see my mom this weekend or next if, I don’t want to. And we both know, I don’t. I feel very different. Different than yesterday, no, different than other people.

Haven’t written any jokes in a few days, not conscious ones anyway. It’s totally okay to sit in the corner at work and write in my notebook. It’s probably more permissible than socializing.

Sunday, April 13, 1996
3pm, home

I am so not enamored of doing this now today anymore. Lay around most of the weekend stoned into a coma and cranky. I’m glad I asked Ted to take me home this morning. We spent the bulk of the day apart. I just felt so crowded and cranky and bored.

I’m glad I’m switching jobs, but a little afraid I won’t like it, will want to leave in six months. Wonder if Ava called on Friday or Saturday morning while the answering machine was fucked up. What is the sound of a phone not ringing?

I had some ideas for the book yesterday but lay there with a towel under my neck and my eyes closed rather than write them down. What’s the point of forcing myself to write? But I like having these little notebooks around all the time, like ashes, or patches of dried cum on the sheets.

I’m so sick of smoking pot and feeling burnt. No comedy club, but I better call and find out when the show is. Will I call my dad tonight? Oh fuck him. I hope he chokes. Same old. I have to find myself to write something new.

Ted gets all in my face. Sometimes it drives me nuts. His sexual drive seems to have so much to do with him, so little to do with me. I’m sick of putting up with it. It made me mad enough almost to cry on Friday. No wonder I don’t want to write.