it's 3:06 am, on March 04, 2003 - oh so clever ring composition.
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It's two forty one in the morning, and I'm hungry, so let's eat.
No, really, let's eat. I'm starving.
You know, sometimes I wonder where the girl went that had interesting journal entries to make. She was around! at some point! she had pretty things to say and they related and through somewhat depressing yet very neatly circular logic rambled and wandered through various topics to end up right back where she started. and all in one post.
Now, it's all gone.
Mel got her visa, by the by. Aphrodite, Eros and Ganymede. There's something there.
Oh, there's something - Al said that if I couldn't figure out where I belonged, I could try and find myself in Knoxville. I offered to do her laundry. Which should be some huge thing, painful and yet intense at the same time, full of history and hurt -- I mean, Toby and Chris. In the laundry room. except hardly any of you know that history anymore, it's like Xander saying "you know what I should have done when Jesse moved--"
but, anyway. Offering to do her laundry should maybe be this huge thing, but really, it's just that I kind of like it. Doing laundry. Folding laundry. Taking dirty clothing and making them clean again. Making tee shirts smell like dryer sheets. Having a stack of fluffy towels sitting beside a pile of unmatched socks and an empty hamper.
So I have a trio of gods in Toronto, and Al in knoxville. Kel's thinking about moving to Rhode Island, which I can't move to, of course, since. you know. Rhode Island. I have an open invite from Sue to take in Las Vegas forever. All these lives and none my own. Laundry hampers, so to speak, and no washing machines.
Which is really code for, I have no clean clothing. If I don't do something about it soon I'm gonna have to wear a skirt to school on Wednesday.
Speaking of school: the writing on The Paper That Ate The World continues. I have five pages of very rough outlining, and a few quotes about fandom and fanfiction in general. I still have no idea how I'm going to form twenty pages of coherent argument, nevermind for April third. Look for March and April to be months of nervous breakdowns.
But, I've been in an email conversation with a very nice lady named Kristina the last little while, all about post modernism and fandom and celebrity and fic. It's interesting, except it melts my brain trying to think about the stuff for too long. I don't know how to explain to the world in general that really, I just want to watch Fight Club and Only You for a living, and all this theoretical analyzation meta bullshit is just a cover for the fact that I really like TV.
Which is fine, except that liking TV translates to ignoring school, which leads to said nervous breakdown. Twenty pages of paper, thirty books out of the library, a month and a half until the end of term, however you want to categorize it; I'm never going to have enough clean clothes to last me. Maybe when I get my useless degree, I can get a job washing linen at a hotel for a living. All day, every day, nothing but fold towels. I could get behind that.
nothing but white towels, day in and day out. it's almost zen. Or maybe someone will keep me as a housepet if I promise to keep their underwear drawer full.
I mean, if the Toronto pantheon gets a house, maybe they could keep me in a cupboard, take me out and play with me on special occasions? throw a sparkly ball, make me do laundry, let me chase butterflies in the garden. Rent. Chores.
Days and days of cleaning. Scrubbing. Maybe the eternal smell of pine, no, lemon cleanser. One of those cute little kerchiefs that housewives wear, so that I can scrub. I don't know, maybe I could be happy doing nothing but manual labor the rest of my life, or barring that, smelling like disinfectant. I mean, it was good enough for Keller, the laundry room. Maybe it could be good enough for me.
No, maybe I should just accept that my place in the world is not going to actually be houseplant, or housepet, and move on, no matter how painful the realization is. After all, it wouldn't be the first time I've accepted that it's time to move on, and not questioned it at all. I mean, Cathy and I probably haven't spoken since she visited in December, and all I keep thinking is "does she have my Celebrity bootlegs?" It's like, throwing out the letters and keeping the stamps.
Mel got her visa. I'm still not sure how I feel about that, personally. I mean, it's fabulous for her, but I'm still unsure.
When aren't I.
And it's really sad that, instead of looking for content to write about this entry? I've actually tried to give the paragraphs themselves structure. Oh, look at the clever ring composition! Each paragraph matches its equal in the first half of the entry, cleverly arranged around the center of the post, which is "I really like TV." Circular though not logical, and probably as dull as every other entry. In three days it'll be my birthday. I'll be twenty-one.
I'll be twenty one and I'm hungry for something.
it's three oh five in the morning now, and I still have the barenaked ladies in my head.
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