So the night before last I finished my mix tape, which I could finally do because I had Tracy's cd, and I spent yesterday listening to it. And boy does it suck!

Okay, the music doesn't suck, how could it suck, I chose the songs therefor they are swell (except for two that I have decided don't so much fit in with the intended themes of the mix anymore--I take making mix tapes very seriously), the problem is the sound quality, which is supremely horrible.

How many broken boomboxes do I own? Something like four, now five, since this one is clearly beyond anything but playing cds--for taping purposes it throws in giant crackles at will, and some songs are so quiet that you turn the volume up and then the next song is loud enough that your ears start to bleed.

I'm going to have to buy another goddamn boombox. And I am totally busted flat in Baton Rouge waiting for a train at this very little minute, what with my hemorrhaging money this weekend, so I don't see how I am going to manage it. But I cannot bear the thought of not finishing this until next payday. I may just see what the friendly people at K-Mart have on offer these days, and bring in lunch for the next eight days.

Because the mix cannot be delayed. Of course, I have to make nineteen copies of it for my music club, and I can't afford to buy the blank tapes, but we'll fall over that cliff when we come to it.

Another trip to the dentist yesterday, but only for a cleaning, not for inserting or removing various versions of my teeth. The Raccoon had a remarkably painful cleaning the day before, and I apologized when I came in. "Sorry, mine didn't hurt at all!"

Which was a teeny bit of a lie, because the bit where he poked at the gum around my new crown hurt, since that gum has gone through alot lately, and the cold water hurt my sensitive little teethsies in places, but other than that, it was an uneventful cleaning.

O, except for the bit where he nearly put my eye out with the pointy metal hook! He was leaning forward to adjust my chair, and I think he didn't notice where his hand was in relationship to my face, and poked me with the pointy pointy hook about an inch under my eyeball.

"Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ!" I yelled, "You almost poked me in the eye! With the hook! The pointy hook!" "Maybe you were squirted with the water." "No! Hook! Poked! EYE!!"

I think that he didn't believe me, but by golly he did. I have a huge thing about eyes, my eyes in particular, in that I don't want them to be poked or popped or to fall out of my head or anything like that. And I particularly do not want them to be poked with a giant pointy metal hook at the dentist's. Trust me when I say that whenever that thing wasn't in my mouth, I damn well kept a gimlet eye on it. Especially when he adjusted my chair about fifty more times.

Anyway, I'm done with the whole thing until November, unless my teeth start crumbling like chalk again. But since I think my teeth break about every five or six years or so, I should be off the hook for the next little while. The pointy metal hook, that is.

Stayed at work until 11.30p last night filing. And, weirdly, singing "Sit Down You're Rocking the Boat" from Guys and Dolls over and over again in the thickest Scots accent I could manage, I have no idea why. The things my brain does to entertain itself, rather than just leaking quietly out of my ears.

"An' I said tae mysel' saddoon, saddoon you're rockin' the boat, and the de'il wil drag ye under wi' a soul so heavy ye'll ne'er float..."

So I started another new journal from the 40 Days list called Tattletale that just blows my mind.

I started reading it and it just whooshed me. You know what it's like to be whooshed? It's kind of like a whip-pan in a movie, sort of coupled with a POV stedi-cam shot, like you are one place and then suddenly, whoosh!! You are right in the middle of something else. And you look around, and it's home, it's your home.

Sometimes people ask what you look for in a journal, and I always say that I like good storytellers, I like people who live lives different from mine that I can experience through their eyes, but that ain't it, what I look for in a journal is myself.

I don't mean exact clones of myself, I don't mean me skipping merrily across every page, I mean something of my soul is in their soul, I mean recognizing myself in their journals, Every single journal that I read is partially me, and the way that Tattletale is like me is in such a way that I never see anywhere else, which is one of the reasoned that I just whooshed.

It's all slices of moments, with no explanation and no backstory. This is not how I write, but how I dream of writing, so it's like seeing myself in a dream, and much better than I ever really could be.

I wrote her a bunch of frantically fannish emails, I think startling her somewhat especially after reading this entry, where I said, "Tell me that it's just a story, that it didn't really happen!"

It's just a story, it didn't really happen. Thank God, because that story broke my heart.

Lenten entries missed:

Columbine went through something I know a little bit about, passport hell, and then more passport hell, got in trouble over opinions again, wrote a tiny little story that sings in my head, and got married!

Today's horoscope:
A little shopping, chit-chat or a brief trip could liven up your day. Seek out a change of pace.

One year ago today:
Afterwards, some of these whiny actors I work with were saying that that was the hardest show they had ever done, to which I can only say that they have never worked in front of a great big audience where they are hating you with all of their heart!

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Last Updated Sun 5 May 17:28:09 2002