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© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy, but I like you."
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The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
Welcome to my journal, kitten.
On The Side Of The Cool 09-Dec-2004 9:37 a.m.
OK, so the other day I received an email from some guy who claims we went to music school together. I only vaguely recall his name, but I do remember the names and faces of the people with whom I chatted regularly and hung around at school. Apparently this guy is not one of those people because I'm not even sure who he is, yet he seems to think he has me all figured out, then and now.
I noticed on the statistics site that someone had looked up my first and last name and that they had entered my site through Google. I found that exciting and sort of creepy at the same time. I refreshed the stats site a bunch of times and watched this person's progress through my website, going from one journal entry to another. The person read every entry and ended up staying over ninety minutes with the twenty-five minutes they had already spent at the site before I checked the stats. I thought I'd be receiving an email from some long lost friend and was looking forward to seeing who it would be. Man, what a disappointment. I got an email instead from Mr. Bigcock, who had come to save the day.
For starters, it is apparently very wrong that my hair is no longer curly. I should really go to hell for that. Oh, that's right, I already have a one-way ticket there according to that born-again dude from this entry. I'm such a busy traveler. Anyway, Mr. Bigcock also let me know that he thinks I am depressed, maybe even clinically depressed. He included:
"The only person that can make you feel better about yourself is you but it is quite clear that you are choosing not to do that."
Yeah, I guess that's why I write in this journal, you know, to avoid making peace with the core belief I came up with years ago, the one that paints me as a less than important human being. The fact that I share these hurtful feelings about myself is an attempt to understand this unfortunate and incorrect perception of myself, and that should be pretty clear to any old regular halfwit. But Mr. Bigcock doesn't strike me as regular, which is probably why he chose to take a much needed dump in that email addressed to me and click the send button.
"Every entry has you coming down on yourself because you either think that other people will not think you're stuck up or maybe you just feel better being down?"
He obviously perused the "Notes from the Loo" section of this website, which is my bathroom journal. I am not afraid to publicly state that I have insecurities that come and go with the minutes, and some that have stuck around far too long if you ask me. I am a person, am I not? Being that, I am prone to all sorts of feelings, all of which I am happy to share in the hope that someone will read them and feel less shitty knowing they are not the only lunatic. Nobody truly feels better being down. The whole point of this thing is to bring myself back up.
What scares me about people like Mr. B. is the way they cover up their own insecurities. To me, that's dangerous because those little fuckers follow you everywhere you go and get bigger and bigger the more they are ignored. Pretending to be so utterly together and mentally healthy to the point where you're sending unsolicited emails to people you have never really known, packed with dime store psychology, assumptions, and reprimanding comments, seems like a sad distraction from your own problems. Mr. B. has most obviously not yet hurled himself over the wall into the world of issue-free people. If he had, he certainly would not have read every journal entry and deduced the things he came up with and bothered to share with me. It is clear he picked out what he wanted to see, which was me being a big mess, so he could bestow upon me all of his nuggets of wisdom under the guise of being the most stable studcock ever there was. He saw everything in the landscape but the three waltzing elephants (thank you to the lovely Carson McCullers for that line). And they were even wearing neon wigs, for the love of cake.
He remembers me as "popular" and "hot." May I mention how very little I enjoy the word hot now that it has evolved into a term that is used to describe a person's fuckability ranking? Call me crazy, but I used to enjoy pretty. Anyway, I'm still getting a kick out of the screwy memories he has of me being the school vixen and the queen of the vocal program. I have no clear memory of either, but Mr. Bigcock wants to know what happened to me to make me fall so far from grace. Another snipet:
"You say you wonder what it would be like living on the side of the cool. Maybe cool stems from years ago starting when we were children. Perhaps cool never really mattered? But I am cool and I've never known anything other than popularity and I know you ran in those same circles."
Sort of makes himself sound like Elvis in that paragraph. There's kind of a 1950s tone there with that "living on the side of the cool" comment that really makes me want to wear a poodle skirt and saddle shoes. And now I want to do the fucking Twist, but I think that dance was made popular in the 60s, so look at me getting all screwed around with decades. All I know is I have never run in any circle, no kidding. I prefer to roam in a more spontaneous, less limiting fashion.
Mr. B. ended his letter with the ever condescending:
"Get better Linda Escaip."
Well, I got a tiny taste of what famous people must endure constantly: a bunch of dicks writing to you or coming up to you on the street thinking they know who you are, believing they can tell you how you should feel, what you should change, how you should express yourself, etc. I'm not talking about the people who have friendly or even kind things to say, I'm talking about the nutbars who haven't yet cleaned up their own backyards but who insist on talking about your mess. People like that usually don't even know they have backyards, let alone messes.
Speaking of backyards, my lawn back there is looking rather sad. You should have seen the palm leaves in my yard the other day from the neighbour's tree. It looked like the tree had thrown a fit and spontaneously combusted or something. I delighted in throwing them over the fence like javelins, complete with a little run to make it look authentic. My neighbour is Mr. Fussy, and man is he ever. Ah, enough about him. The little hat-wearing bird is still happily crapping on the solar lights. And I still think it's cute.
Had my hair trimmed the other day by the half French female non-hairdresser again. I recommend it, I really do, once you get past the tail she leaves you. She was kind enough to snip it off once brought to her attention, that lovely beast.
Before I go I want to tell you about this quickly. My nephew Stahnu (that's how he pronounces his name) recently turned two and is at that stage where he'll smack you upside the head if you're not careful. My sis mentioned this to her sister-in-law who said she would mail her a book that helped when her son was going through that stage. The book is titled Hands Are Not For Hitting. So, my sister read it to Stahnu, and you know, it actually worked. He hit her with the book instead.
Well, I'm off to eat some fine food and have a day. Thanks for reading.
Linda
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