February 27th, 2003


the wild hey

All day I kept wanting to follow up with comments in my last post, on writing, but my brain never came up to speed. Deeply, deeply tired all day. Came home early, worked a bit, slept a bit more.

I feel in a kind of what-the-fuck mood. I don't know what kind of imaginary mental audience I'm reacting to, but I have this feeling of soggy, exhausted crumbling, as if I've been keeping in all kinds of secrets, which is rather insane, as I don't think I have been. So, for no especially good reason I can pinpoint, my head is saying: I will say whatever I want, this is my space.

That may sound defensive, but it feels merely like tiredness, as if I've been arguing or battling with myself. I think part of it is...I'm tired of thinking about the things I write here, as if I have to hedge. As if they're so weirdly beyond the pale that I need to be careful. Thinking is good as a rule, yeah. Otherwise, we perhaps trend to that place of unselfconscious scariness that makes other people stare at us, saucer-eyed, as if mesmerized by roadkill or naked people.

Still, a break is good. I don't want to caveat today, and I don't want to nicely, politely ease people into their seats for the Anna Experience, and I don't want to apologize to noir readers for my slash obsessions, or to slashers for being "a freak," as I often call myself to preempt others from doing so--and I don't want to apologize for my elaborate fantasies or wonder what they say about my psyche, or muse on whether people will feel embarrassed for me, after reading what they find icky.

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