it's 5:17 pm, on April 02, 2008 - -.
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I think I have to re-label this journal something like 'documentation of shame and travesties, ironic or not'. case in point:
Side effect of reading nothing but Greg Saunders bdsm fic #2: continually reading about how the graveyard shift won't let him self-destruct without battles, promises, and proof that they will always be there, basically equals a fairy tale that on the one hand, I would love to believe, but on the other hand, for the last two years have watched - created - go the Grimm's version. this 'people won't give up on their friends' theme is gratifying, in some ways, but so candy-coated that half the time I find myself rolling my eyes.
real case in point regarding shame and travesties? the other half it's just heartbreaking. maybe I should start going to s&m clubs.
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keep wondering what it is I do that's good. --that's it, really. there are like a hundred greg saunders stories out there about how good he is at pushing people away, blah blah trauma cakes, blah blah worthlessness. I told Tap - the only person from a previous life I still talk to - that I can't even bring myself to get to the end of daydreams anymore, because the satisfactory ending they should have is elusive, something I can't believe in enough, even in my head. this is how much I relate to those greg stories; I like their happy endings, but I don't *believe* them, because in the space of 2 parts, 29 parts, whatever, everyone learns how to be a little better, when in reality the mess is totally different.
whatever. perhaps I will write the sadness to end all sadness'es of Greg/Gil stories, and have it mirror the last two years, a story of isolation, miscommunication, shenanigans, and drama cakes, that no one will believe because it'll just be too inane for words, and because people don't read stories for that.
overall in life, have become, much to my chagrin and I'm sure some people's viscious delights, an abject failure. have succeeded at fucking it up again! keep thinking in my head 'waiting for telfer', but believe that I've mixed up metaphors, and the poignancy of Godot is, in my brain, mistaken for Tom Stoppard.
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