| ...a day in the life of a mouse |
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| ...a day in the life of a mouse |
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2005-02-17 - 11:59 pm Just to let you know, the following entry is backdated to February 17, 2005. you see, part of the fall out of that nasty ass virus that attacked my computer, is that i am no longer allowed to use it for personal reasons...EVER. (which is really funny, considering i'm updating my diary right now.) so i wrote this entry in Word and saved it to disc, but i'm only now getting around to entering it. hopefully soon i will get my home computer up and running properly, and will be able to be online more. in the meantime, expect sporadic updates from me that may or may not actually reflect my current mood by the time i get around to posting them. ::: A study in contrast. Standing in front of me waiting for the bus. A lovely young woman with beautiful mocha skin, long hair in tiny, sassy braids down her back. Tight jeans, faded blue, like a second skin. Her ass. My God, her ASS! That is exactly what I want to look like. That is the kind of woman I am inside. Then, a large, shuffling woman gets off another bus and walks in front of the beautiful girl with the perfect ass. Eclipses her. Polyester slacks. Large winter coat in an ugly bruise color. Orthopedic looking shoes. Fat-girl hair cut, double chin quivering, and off-the-rack discount glasses with cheap plastic frames. Walking with that odd, shuffling/waddling gait fat girls get when they can no longer even touch their knees together. It was like fate showed me the beautiful girl and said, “here’s what you WANT”, and then showed me the fat woman and said, “but here’s what you ARE.” And then fate danced off, laughing gleefully while I huddled on the bus bench in the cold, wishing I’d remembered my mittens, and wishing even harder that the earth would just open up and swallow me. ::: A brown woman, sitting across from me on the bus. Not to say that she had brown skin. No, she was actually quite pale. But everything about her was just…brown. Brown hair, brown scarf, brown sweater, brown pants and brown boots. She wore simple silver earrings, and a very unique, but still plain silver, ring. And in her extraordinarily plain bag, I’m sure she had a brown paper bag with a peanut butter sandwich (on brown bread, of course). But you know, I got a feeling about her that perhaps on weekends she was a secret dominatrix, or perhaps a latex and leather fetishist. ::: young man gets on the bus. As he shuffles down the aisle to the back of the bus (“move to the back of the bus, please!”) I give him a quick and subtle once-over. About 5’8”, trim build, goatee, and shaved head with a sexy dark stubble all over. And just as I was thinking, “ya, he’s cute”, I noticed his clothes. His face and posture gave off a very bad-boy vibe, but his clothes, were…beige. His jacket was clean and looked like he might have it dry cleaned on a weekly basis. So did his pants. And if it were possible to dry clean shoes, I think he would have. So right on the heels of my initial, “ya, he’s cute” was “naw, he’s too clean”. Huh. Too clean. I wonder what THAT says about me. ::: Was hideously late for work today. I’d like to say I had a reason, that I was late because the train station was hit by a renegade meteor and I single-handedly saved 3 old ladies, a blind man (and his dog), 22 university students (7 of them cute Asian girls here on exchange), 1 university professor who is very close to discovering a cure for cancer, and a young mother with a baby. But meh…none of that actually happened. I was late because, well….i just don’t much care. Don’t wanna get up. Don’t wanna walk the dog. Don’t wanna shower and wash my hair and put on make up and get dressed in pretty colored clothes. Don’t wanna pack a lunch. Don’t wanna put on boots that hurt my feet. Don’t wanna take my sore feet to the train station, then the bus stop, then walk across the hospital grounds to the office. Don’t wanna wait for the stupid-ass elevator (but I want to climb 2 flights of stairs even less). Don’t wanna sit at my damn desk all day typing reports I don’t care about. Don’t wanna make small talk with the women in my office. Don’t wanna haul my sorry ass back to the bus stop when my shift is done. Don’t wanna walk the dog when I get home. All I want to do is lay there and sleep until things are….what? I don’t know, better? Happy? I don’t know. I just am not caring about things. It all sounds like whining, I know. And really, that’s what it is. But I hate what I’ve become. I hate who I am most of the time. I hate that I’m sitting here missing out on life, but lack the energy to change. I am ruining everything, and I can’t seem to help myself. Walking up the hill from the train yesterday, I thought for sure I was going to have a heart attack. What did I have for lunch? Fries and a burger, of course. Ha ha. I’m so very fucking clever. ::: Apparently fate doesn’t want me to have caffeine today, either. Scraped together just enough change from the penny jar this morning to buy a large diet coke from the cafeteria this morning. Mmmmm….caffeine. Then, on the slow ass elevator, crammed full of people, I dropped my beverage. Yup, all 750 ml of it. It’s like I watched it fall in slow motion, the cup hitting the floor, the flimsy plastic lid popping off, and the beautiful, sweet, bubbly contents spreading all over the warped blue linoleum. I just about wept. So now I’m wondering if I have enough nickels and dimes floating around in my desk drawer to buy a teeny-tiny can of pop from the machine downstairs. At this point, however, I’d just as soon have a gin and tonic. 
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