June 3rd, 2003



I dreamed last night that I was giving Brian Kinney a blow-job and that I wounded him in a bad place. There were four of us on his bed--Emmet and Ted were off to the side doing their own thing, while I lay between Bri's legs, giving him head. And then I scraped him with my tooth or something. Deep wound, though, and there was an unfortuantely vivid visual of the side of his man thang, resembling the split seam of a hot dog after you've microwaved it too long. I had some pieces of him actually, which I put in a ziploc bag, and while he was being delivered to the ER, I hurried to catch up and give the surgeon his missing bits. thete1 accompanied me. Thanks, Te! You're a peach.

The recurring thought running through my head was: shit, now he'll *never* let me blow him again.

Later I dreamed of nuclear missiles. First I was in my doctor's office. My doctor was Hugh Grant and when I walked in he was bent over his desk snorting coke. Or so I thought. I never saw the coke, mind, but he looked guilty. While he left to fill my prescription I hunted through his office looking for the drugs. He had many lacquered boxes, but none held a stash. When he came back I was required, as a kind of pro-bono patient, to lend myself to his class of students for a lesson. Three of them x-rayed my head, and then a woman with no face escorted me out. I was struck by her facelessness--even in a dream, it was notable--and I peered at her up close and discovered she just had some kind of flesh-colored mask on, like one of those heavy knee braces you can buy. Apparently it was part of the classwork.

Then I walked outside into the dark winter street. I was on a hill, trying to cross the street with many other people. All around us were gothic stone buildings, churches and tall office buildings. Across the street was a park. Up the mildly graded hill, where there was a break in the city's roofline--the interruption of the road--the visible sky was stark and purple, apocalyptic. As we tried to cross the road, a dark-grey missile the size of a jumbo jet was driven by on a truck-bed. On the side was painted "SADDAM" in tall white letters. I had a sense of impending doom. The missiles were headed to the city's edge, down by the bay, where they'd be launched. We would come under attack. Soon we might all be dead. This could well be the end.

I walked further up the hill and tried to cross again, but another missile trundled by. All the other people had crossed by this time though, and the road was emptying. I watched: further up on a cross-street or alley a third missile was being loaded. Impressions: the wintry darkening streets, empty tree branches, the missile as big as a zeppelin being loaded onto a truck behind a row of buildings. As I stood there waiting, the truck pulled out and the driver manipulated the huge arm of an excavator toward me and scooped up some dirt. I crossed the street to get away from it, but it through the ball of dirt after me, trying to hit me. I sensed casual malicious amusement from the driver.

The world was ending and people didn't care any more.

I've been MIA because I'm tired and it's too much effort to do anything right now. Even when I try to detach myself a little from the sticky online community, I feel the pull of obligations. It's hard to just take a break. I'm glum because I'm not writing and in consequence I feel like my existence is pointless. I'm glum because my car sucks and I can't get to local bashes and no one seems to give a shit. I'm not missed. Do I even want to go anymore? At least two people there probably don't even like me from all apparent evidence, but it's been one of my few real-life fannish outlets for years and after four months of non-attendance I feel like a cave dweller. I'm glum because someone blew me off days ago and still hasn't even contacted me about it. I'm glum because I have a list and someone posts an introduction to it and no one even replies to her--and I haven't yet, but I will, but it shouldn't be just me.

And I'm glum because it's probably all karma and the second law of socio-thermodynamics, blah blah blah.

I'm not a lot of fun right now. I am in fact the anti-fun.


I've just realized how many of my recent entries are dreams. Disturbing ones too. Some of the themes are ones that have been recurring for years--cats, being chased, abandoned urban buildings, my grandmother's living room, violent death, sex, etc. It's interesting though, how fannish most of them are right now. And not just in one fandom either. QAF, Buffy, Smallville. Weird. It would be cool if I could claim that I've dreamed in every fandom I've followed, but I don't remember any X-Files or Stargate dreams. I think I had a Sentinel dream once; I know I had a Due South dream.

My earlier post today was so negative and whiny. I'm embarrassed. And people are still friending me, despite my Charlie-Brownish moroseness and Lucylike crabbiness. The hell?

Taking a break from habit, I went and saw The Italian Job tonight, instead of coming straight home from work. It was a tight, fun, beautifully edited heist film. It's what Ocean's Eleven wanted to be and wasn't. It had an emotional core--I really believed Charlie's and Stella's driving hatred and cared about it (as much as you can care about any such thing in a popcorn flick), the way I didn't care at all about Danny Ocean's cool "heartbreak" and casual desire for revenge.

Also, Seth Green was funny and adorable, and got most of the movie's laughs. I'm so glad he's finally been given a real role. I was worried for him. All those Austin Powers movies.

The ending bothered me a little.

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I've been meaning to say how useful everyone's suggestions were for clothing alternatives. I did end up going shopping locally at Ross, because I was desperate. They had some good stuff though--I got a lot for the money I spent, eight pieces. And then I spent an equivalent amount of money on just two items from Flax. On sale, even. Life is too expensive. The dinner I grabbed after the movie tonight: a diner ham sandwich, fries, and a coke. Thirteen bucks, with tip.

This is when I start worrying that I sound like Andy Rooney.



Not in reaction to anything, but because I'm a broody person and I've been brooding on and off for the past hour, I want to note again that I'm well aware my first post today was a bit passive-agressive and paranoid, among other things. So if any self-suspected target of my angst wants to contact me, go ahead. I'm not averse to talking about anything directly. I'm just not seeking out any potential friction.

And I don't think I bite that hard, really. I'm more the kind that gets bitten into. Kind of a marshmallow. Black and burnt and bitter on the outside, but inside...blah blah blah.