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Posted in Crazy Wisdom on Sunday, September 28, 2003 at 11:34 am by flerly.

[mood | tired ]
[emotional state | unstable ]

Why am I sitting here in front of this crappy journal right now? My body is aching and tired. I can feel the blisters on my feet from con then dancing in all the wrong shoes (not to mention my 3-mile walk right before going). In public, there is this facade you put on, where you just seem to be you. You enjoy the music, you move to the music, you enjoy the movement of your body, the sweating, and how it makes you feel. You draw energy from the crowd and how they are moving to the music. You appreciate the dim or black lighting for doing it’s best to make you look more interesting than you probably are. But you can’t dance with your eyes closed all night… you run into too many people that way. So you leave them open, you let them slide across things in the room without much focus. There are things that get your attention for a moment, but it doesn’t take long to capture the mental image and slide on by. Alcohol makes people forgetful, right? Harder to hold on to those images… must keep looking.

There was a point when my facade dropped and I couldn’t dance through the fact that my head had started pounding from annoyances like the throbbing of my aching feet and the dry powder that my mouth seemed to be lined with from thirst. I was annoyed with myself for how I handle things internally… the root of it all is paranoia, but then there’s just some self-loathing that makes me think through scenarios the way I do. Couldn’t stop thinking. Had to walk away. It was an abrupt end to an okay evening.

Some people apparently don’t get to drink often enough, and may not remember how to handle it… when to quit…. and thus may not wake up in time to go get their Najica souvenir panties signed by the very attractive Kira Vincent Davis, but who needs too much stimulation in one 24-hour period… and what are we going to do.. frame them? That’ll make a nice conversation piece. No, wait… not frame.. scan then to be emailed like trophies to the testosterone-filled portion of his friends and family that would appreciate them. Fine then, he’ll probably wake up.

Ugh. I’m starving. I have a pile of work to do. I was supposed to go in to the office, but I just can’t make myself. And now instead I’m sitting here ignoring my still aching feet, aching head, and skin and mouth so dry they hurt, just to ramble at this journal, like I swore I wouldn’t anymore. Old habits.


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