Thus, with a self-imposed deadline of 10:00 a.m. to write entries, I’m swilling down what is becoming a ritual 16 ounces of coffee. And I wonder why my stomach is so goddamn ripped-up...Sambuca/horribly cheap brandy, followed by coffee....and more coffee the next day...on an empty stomach. I’d deserve it if my stomach decided to secede.
I forgot to mention the girl who was our waitress at Ruby’s on Sunday. She was a dead ringer for Krisco. Same face, same color hair (what Krisco’s hair would have looked like had she not done several bad bleach and dye jobs in rapid succession), even the same eyebrow piercing. Petite, no tits...I swear, if the name hadn’t been Elizabeth on her tag, and if she hadn’t been one of the most pleasant waitresses I’ve encountered at Ruby’s, I wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference. She even had the same facial expressions!
”Did you watch to make sure she didn’t spit in my drink? I’m going to be so pissed if she spat in my drink.”
I also forgot to mention that Dirk’s parents are going on vacation next weekend. Dirk’s mother took me aside and asked me to watch over Dirk while she was gone, to make sure nothing bad happened. She also asked me to spend Easter with them at Dirk’s grandmother’s house. What an odd turn of events. I believe that last year, Dirk’s parents were so angry at him because of Krisco that they didn’t want him to spend Easter with them. If I ever break up with him, I’d better be certain to completely alienate his parents first, so they don’t make his life a living hell.
”I think Agent Skatter has a lot more sense than my son does.”
Yesterday wasn’t nearly as exciting as I thought it would be. I updated the webring link page on Diarist.Net, and forgot to attach the updated version to my e-mail. Thus, I got a polite but confused letter from the webmaster of that site, asking me if I planned to send the updated version of the webring page.
Dirk and I put up ads for a new drummer...we managed to get to Venemen’s and Mars before they closed. Venemen’s is the most important, as it’s the most popular music store in the area. We found one ad by a couple of 13-year-old kids, trying to get a band together called “Kidd Vicious.” I don’t see how they’re going to get together to practice, much less make it to gigs. Those kids must have some damn tolerant parents.
”Don’t let our age intimidate you, we’re an up-and-coming band...”
Tonight we’re going to a couple more music shops to put up ads, and I think Dirk has to work. I’m glad he does, that way he can’t gloat over the fact that I have to wake up at the ungodly hour of 5:30 in the morning. I tried the avocado-oatmeal purifying facial masque. I don’t like it. I think it’s making my skin icky. It feels nice and smooth, but I’ve learned to associate the sensation of “smooth” with “greasy”. Besides, I looked at the ingredients, and it has two kinds of oil in it!
I missed my self-imposed deadline, sorry. It’s busy as hell, and Alex is at a stupid seminar. He came back from a church retreat and told everyone that he’d gone down to Georgia to tell his friend’s parents that their son was dying of AIDS. Now, that’s patently untrue. He has the name of his religious retreat written down on the calendar. I hate people who lie about stuff like that to gain sympathy.
I give up. It’s just too busy here to write a decent entry. Plus, I want to tweak this site a bit, since there’s a lot of pages I haven’t converted over to the new design.
(3:40 pm) You know, I’ve always assumed that I’m much colder and stronger than I really am. I wasted a lot of time trying to live up to this rather unusual self-expectation, perhaps because I’ve always viewed emotions as a tool that can be used against me. My mother was ever talented at finding out exactly what would hurt me most, then using against me when she was angry.
I don’t know how strong I am, because if you asked me to name the strongest person I know, it wouldn’t be me. Sure, I tend to handle a lot of problems all by myself, and I don’t rely on my friends to see me through crises, but I always feel like I’m emotionally needy. I always feel fragile. All I know is I haven’t been broken yet.
I know I’m not particularly cold, although you’d be hard-put to convince most of the people I went to high school with of that. I can put up a good front, and my anger often manifests itself as coldness (I have yet to determine if this is more or less hurtful to whomever happens to be the object of my dissatisfaction than screaming at them would be.) I suppose the proof would be in the sort of people I make friends with...by no means are any of them cold. And my friends tend to be stronger, in my opinion, than myself.
I also take myself far too seriously. And there’s always going to be someone more punk than me. Lots of somebodies more punk than me, in fact. It’s not hard. All you really have to do to qualify as more punk than me is play in a punk band and have body piercings, tattoos, or garishly dyed hair. Or be amazingly pretentious. To be more superficially punk, anyway.
I admit it. After all these years, I still have no concept of what it means to qualify as “punk”.