Okay, I'm working my ass off today, to put it mildly. I've been running around since I got in at 7:30 this morning, and will most likely be typing this up in snatches during the day.
I feel so horrible, because Dirk apparently tried to call me last night while I was online, just to say he loves me. This is a pretty good indication that I need to find a more productive use of my utterly free time than talking to people online. Perhaps I could practice bass more than an hour a night, so I'll learn the songs faster....
(12:35 a.m.) Okay, fuck it, I'm taking a break to write some more of this. Alex saw fit to take this afternoon off, after spending the entire morning in training. On the busiest fucking day of the year. I'm going to give him chocolates laced with laxatives. I have recieved over 200 applications just this morning, and have every expectation of recieving more. Add this to the fact that I'm supposed to process these applications, as well as complete revisions on all the chapters I typed up last week, and you've got one psycho girl.
And my old friend, the fatigue headache, is back with me again. God, how I've missed it. The claws digging in behind my eyes, the knowledge that if I only sit still long enough, I will fall asleep where I sit. These are well-known companions to me.
What I feel these days is not so much depression as desperation. Everything's teetering on the brink of being either the realization of my dreams, or a worse nightmare than I've ever before endured. I'd like nothing more than to escape, run away. Leave all these problems and past behind.
And I'm so very tired.
(5:00 pm) Mailing this to myself
(Wednesday, 7:15 pm)Well, that was a fairly stupid move. Thanks to all the idiots who decided to turn in their applications yesterday, I got no time to write anymore, and I started getting a horrible headache. It only got worse as the day wore on, and as soon as I got home, I went to bed. I don't usually get headaches. I always assumed they were reserved for other people. I've certainly never gotten one like this, that was made worse by light and sound.
I ended up sleeping through the night, despite my intentions to wait to talk to C--, and do a couple other things, like post up yesterday's entry.
This morning, as usual, I picked up Dirk, and spent the entire day in bed. I had a lot of strange dreams.
The first one I had before I picked Dirk up from work. It was so interesting that I almost didn't wake up in time to get Dirk.
Dirk and I were living in our own appartment. We were talking to our next door neighbors, who had a young child and a black cat. For some reason, the cat took a huge disliking to me, and demonstrated this by biting me and hissing at me continuously. The cat also made the oddest faces, as though it were part dog and part comedian. Our neighbors, though wary of any newcomers, especially ones their cat didn't like, still came out to our car with us.
Instead of going anywhere in our car, however, we just sat there, talking. Suddenly, Roachboy was there, and he was about to sing a song. The consuming thought in my mind was that I definitely did not want Roachboy to sing (if you'd ever heard his singing, you'd sympathize). Just as suddenly, Roachboy and the other couple were gone, and it was just Dirk and I sitting along the sidelines at a major media event. In fact, we were apparently people of note, because the announcer pointed us out and we waved to the audience. It quickly became apparent that this was no run-of-the mill media event, however. There were the bodies of famous dead people all over the stage, and the pieces being acted were all horror scenes.
Just when I thought things could get no stranger, the announcer introduced Pat Robertson and Bob Dole, sitting in the back row. Pat Robertson looked fine, but Bob Dole looked as though he'd died and the doctors had waited a couple days before bringing him back to life. He was horribly thin and drawn, and his skin had a nasty green tinge. They both stood up and waved. Then, in a gesture that would have put any man from a trashy romance novel to shame, Bob Dole swept Pat Robertson into his arms and kissed him passionately. For a long, long time. No detail of this stunning moment was spared, and I could even see the muscles in Bob Dole's neck working as he made out with Pat Robertson.
Then, I woke up. Dirk thought this dream was hilarious. I'm not too sure who Pat Robertson is, so I don't get the joke.
Alex is probably spending today logging in all the applications we got in yesterday. We got over 300, so he's got his work cut out for him. Good.
I also had another dream about a magical giant squid that lived in an underwater house, and the children it had rescued that lived with him. Don't ask.
I'll write more later. Check back.
(8:45 p.m.)We may not have a Christmas tree this year, because my mother does not want to go into the attic, my father is too large to go into the attic, and I am too scared to go into the attic.
Isn't that funny? I fear no man, but the products of my beleaguered little mind can keep me paralyzed.
Our house is oddly designed. The part that has my room and most of the kitchen was added on to one of the cookie-cutter modular homes that make up the entirety of my neighborhood. The attic above my room attaches to the main attic via a very small sort of passage, about 3 feet high. I have never been through that passage. There is an entrance to the attic above my room in my closet, but it is never used. The first time I peered through the passageway into my attic from the main attic, I could have sworn I saw a little girl, dressed in white, looking at me from the other end of the passage. to this day I do not know if the vision was a dream, a ghost, or a hallucination. All I know is that I have never, from that day forward, been comfortable in our attic.
Strange, the things that come to haunt you. I turned on all the lights downstairs as I wrote that description.
I quite nearly forgot to mention that my friend, Cathy, gave me a siamese fighting fish for Christmas. She even included a small tank, specifically designed for fighting fish, and a bottle of food. It's blue with red undertones. I love Cathy.
I am looking for a song done by "The Highwaymen". It was called, fittingly, "The Highwaymam". Lyrics.ch, of course, doesn't have it. Stupid lyrics server. Honestly, though, finding lyrics to one stupid country song is proving to be nearly impossible.
(10:15 pm)After much searching, I finally found it. I thought I was going to have to start pestering people again.
The Highwayman
I was a highwayman. Along the coach roads I did ride
With sword and pistol by my side
Many a young maid lost her baubles to my trade
Many a soldier shed his lifeblood on my blade
The bastards hung me in the spring of twenty-five
But I am still alive.I was a sailor. I was born upon the tide
And with the sea I did abide.
I sailed a schooner round the Horn to Mexico
I went aloft and furled the mainsail in a blow
And when the yards broke off they said that I got killed
But I am living still.I was a dam builder across the river deep and wide
Where steel and water did collide
A place called Boulder on the wild Colorado
I slipped and fell into the wet concrete below
They buried me in that great tomb that knows no sound
But I am still around..I'll always be around..and around...I fly a starship across the Universe divide
And when I reach the other side
I'll find a place to rest my spirit if I can
Perhaps I may become a highwayman again
Or I may simply be a single drop of rain
But I will remain
And I'll be back again, and again....That's another of the few songs I remember from my childhood. Unless you've heard it (or even if you have), I don't think you could understand why the song so appeals to me. There's a timeless quality to the vocals that makes it easier to suspend disbelief for a second. To think, that perhaps, there may be something after we die.
I am an athiest. I gave up all thoughts of heaven when I was old enough to reason for myself, and when I was old enough to become bitter and cynical. But, I must say, the idea of reincarnation has always appealed to me.
I sometimes forget that I am going to die one day.
I'm odd tonight. I feel fey, unchained. Perhaps because there is no-one to talk to, to keep me rooted in reality. I'm sitting in front of a computer looking at lyrics written by a mostly forgotten dead man. We have old ticket stubs that my parents got when they saw his show at Carney Park, in Naples, Italy. That was back in '78. They also have an autographed book by him. I feel proud that this man touched our lives, even in so little a way.
But hardly anyone remembers him. He died over two decades ago, and public memory is short. He wasn't that famous anyway, a folk singer who campaigned for the rights of the homeless. You've even heard his song, "Cat's in The Cradle", probably the version Ugly Kid Joe did. Or some godawful country singer. Harry Chapin. But you probably don't remember him, if you're even old enough to. I don't know why, but that makes me sadder than anything that's happened to me lately.
As I said, I'm odd tonight. Morbid.
Anyway, here's the place I finally found "The Highwayman" lyrics. The Lyrics Library.
That's enough. Always remember I love you all. Especially the ones who hate me.