November 22, 2002
Image I Created
I am distressed by the fact that I cannot get my Bjork CD to play in my computer. I really rather like that CD.
So should not be listening to John Mayer right now. Am fighting depression of some two days and running.
I returned to DeviantART, and put up some poetry that I am rather proud of and a few tampered photographs, if anybody is bored and looking for an activity. I am particuraly fond of Daydream #436. You know me. Subtle and not so subtle sexual imagery.
I wonder... all these girls on birth control because it clears up acne... are they just bullshitting the world? I made the mistake of saying something yesterday to my roommate, who has a boyfriend of two-plus years, and it turns out she is only on it for the acne prevention.
Is she bullshitting the world or me or no one? How am I to know? I'm an idiot. Personally, if you're going to do it, though, and not want to talk about it or pretend that you aren't, there is a problem.
I am comforted by my honesty.
There are two misconceptions which I have discovered in the world, both of which I am previously guilty of.
One: Long standing relationships involve sex. This is not true. I dated Ryan for a year and a half and never really seriously considered it.
Two: Relationships that involve sex are sustained by it. I certainly hope this is not the case.
I think I'm crazy. I wasn't with Mike for a month before I realized there was something deep and lovely and worthy about him, something that made me willing to do that act which I have so feared and loathed and ridiculed in the past. I wonder... have I become like the girls I once mocked for their stupidity? Were they ever stupid, or was it just the way I saw them? Am I stupid?
Do any of you think I'm stupid?
All online diarists can plead and moan all day about how they write for themselves, but it's a lie. We wouldn't have a diary on the internet, that vehicle for most social and public encounters, if we didn't want people to read and react. I love having readers. I love people knowing my deepest and darkest secrets and yet never having laid eyes on my face, nor heard my voice. I'm not a person, really, to most of you. I'm astera, this quirky, desperate, ridiculous character all bound up in a pink layout and an inline scroll. I'm not Jillian. I'm not five foot four and awkward and slight and brushing past you in a tan coat and a frown. You've never seen me walk to class in the rain and bitch. You've never seen me. You've never heard me give mostly trite and sometimes insightful comments in English, you've never looked over and wondered why I was so plain and dressed so strangely. You've never heard, you've never looked.
It's weird, isn't it?
What was I getting at?
I write for me. But I write for you, too. And I want a response, be it one that angers me or pleases me. When I worry about being an idiot, when I worry about making the wrong choices, I try to see what you all must see. I wonder, how would I judge me?
Online diaries are the shit. In all realms of that word.
astera at 11:17 a.m.