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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, fawn-breath.
Another Sun 10-June-2005 10:31 p.m.
I have been cleaning the house like a madwoman. I have 37 projects going at once, at all times. Drawers are emptied, their contents strewn about the dining room table. I am taking on closets and cabinets with the ease and confidence of one of those sassy-peppy people on any of those home improvement shows. You know the ones. But there are no cameras here, no crew, no audience. Well, not for a home improvement show, anyway. We're filming a porno for folks who dig watching naked women juggle domestic projects like able squids.
Everything feels weird lately. My daydreams have sauntered off into the night. I went on a few walks without them and it just wasn't the same, so I have been lacking motivation in that department. I look forward to their return. I need a little magic in my life. Everything feels mundane and heavy and thick, like an unimaginative soup no one wants to eat. But I've been really enjoying the days in spite of that.
Last night the moon was a sliver of light on the bottom edge, curling up like a smile. I breathed in some of that magic and felt like taking a walk—succulent imaginings or not. I love how life is like that. One minute you're feeling gloomy and lackluster and the next you're excited about something or other. I feel glad not to be needy of happiness. I'm more than delighted when I feel it, but don't require it from moment to moment. I don't think I ever expected to come here and feel only one way. There are a plethora of emotions out there. I think the trick is not to get stuck in any one feeling. Better to let them pass through you, to feel them and let them go without judgment or expectation. It makes more sense to me than spending crazy amounts of time trying to lasso happiness and beat down anything else deemed unfavourable, unsightly, unladylike and a whole bunch of other words beginning with un.
You know what really grosses me out? When people—men especially—use the word panties in reference to a woman's underwear. It just makes a guy sound like a pedophile, and makes me want to tear that last remaining strand of hair out of my wig. Stop it, you jacktoasts. Women don't wear panties; they wear goddamned underwear. Some are thongs; some are French cut; some are bikinis; some are huge, covering half the thigh. Some are even boxers, for us dames who know a thing or two about comfort. But all of these, every last pair, are underwear. Ladies, please stop perpetuating the myth that it is somehow sexy or cute or youthful or whatever to call your fucking underwear panties.
I've been grumpy lately. The other day I actually invited a table to step outside after it had the audacity to hit my leg as I walked past. I believe my words were, "Do you want to step outside with me, bitch?" It's amazing how a piece of furniture will just clam up when it comes to duking it out.
This is like pulling teeth. It's like homework. I don't feel like writing. I don't know what I want to do.
I have heat in my belly. Anger. I am pissed off thinking about something at the moment. It's giving me a stomachache. I don't think I knew until very recently that stomachache is one word. My friend remarked the other day that the word stomachache looks like an attempt to write stomach without knowing when to stop. I thought that was squeezably adorable.
How do you not feel awkward around someone with whom you always feel awkward? What do you do about that? I always think it'll be different the next time. I'll remember past discomfort around certain people and think oh man, I would never feel like that now. And then I see them, and it's back to feeling small and unsophisticated, quietly defensive and just plain uncomfortable. What happens to that almost cocky certainty? It seems to melt like butter on the hood of an overheated car. Sometimes I get so nervous I can feel my pulse pounding away inside my head. My mouth goes dry and my hands feel as if they are slightly trembling. Words become elusive. What have I been up to? Uh... honey, what have I been up to? I dread that question because I am always fairly certain the answer I have to give won't be the one that will gain me admittance into the Fascinating People Hall Of Fame. In my mind I am never enough.
I spent the first half of my life telling everyone I was going to be famous. There was no doubt in my mind: I would be a famous singer/songwriter. And then once my career was established, I would write screenplays and star in and direct these great independent films. I had it all planned out. There were a lot of people who believed in me. And now I imagine them pitying me, saying things like what a shame and well, she certainly gave it a good try. I hate imagining that. I hate feeling like a huge disappointment. I hate spending even one minute regretting any day that I have lived.
I imagine certain other people feeling glad that what I said would happen didn't come to fruition. Relieved. There are some people who cannot live a day in a world where you get what you want, because they don't believe in themselves even a little. They have to constantly take away from you, or try to, in an attempt to remain unburdened by your contentment. And when it looks as if things are going your way, they come unglued, either loudly or inaudibly. The loud version is scorching and messy; the quiet is cold and bitter and unresponsive.
But I know in my heart the only thing that matters is what I say to myself. No, I didn't plan to spend nine years in physical pain—who would? I did have the best intentions for myself. Still do. And if I asked myself if I would change these last nine years were it possible, I'm pretty sure my answer would be no. I am slowly becoming everything I am meant to be, and I think it took this time spent aching to get me to the point where I wanted to claw my way to the surface. A person can only take so much pushing and poking and jabbing and kicking and biting and tearing. You either cave in or climb your way out.
And here I am, just below the skin.
I have no desire to hide anymore. I will not shrink to make someone else feel better. No more stabbing my own feet—I am allowed to move forward.
Quote From My World
"I am grumpy as all hell and about five minutes away from writing on the sheets."
Well, I'm off to order The Toolbox Murders from Movies On Demand. I hope it doesn't suck. I love a good horror film, the ones that are let's turn on the security alarm scary. When I need an escort to accompany me to the bathroom for fear of being murdered, I know it's a good one. Thank you for reading.
Linda
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