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Read this if you're new (or bored...).
2004-06-03 - 7:45 p.m.
The dead past
Fine week for deja-vu. Ran into a guy I went to grade school and high school with. Spoke to his parents. Was reminded how I'm ever inferior to one of his friends, my grade school rival. The rivalry was his choice, btw. I never cared as much as he did (and we all know I care about *everything* way too much, so that's saying a lot, isn't it?). Still, he made it inescapable -- I grew used to being measured against him. Old habits die hard. Anyway, he's apparently working for the Detroit Free Press this summer. I, on the other hand, am splitting my time between Target (grr...) and administrative (ie secretarial) work on campus. Go me. That night, was hanging with the best friend -- also a grade school classmate. Told him the story. We reminisced about grade school, hellhole that it was. I recalled accounts of severe bitchitude. He noted that the bitch in question never bothered him. I explained, apologetically, that he was beneath her radar at the time. We arrived at the diner, and what's playing but "I'll be missing you" -- you know, the cover of "I'll be watching you" (old stalker-song) that was re-writting in memry of some rapper, B.I.G., I think. Very popular around the time I graduated from 8th grade. The next night, the boyfriend came down for the evening. We ride out to the mini-golf place, but it's just closing, so we decide to go a bit farther down the road and shoot some pool. Lo and behold (though, frankly, not altogether surprisingly), we run in to the Ex. *The* ex. Refer to my earliest entries for reference. He was quite friendly, in a cordial small-talk kind of way. Even introduced himself to the boyfriend (well played on both their parts, btw... good job, fellows). Seems to be doing quite decently. The boyfriend remarked that it went as well as could be expected. True that. Still, weird... especially when I recounted the story to my mom, who noted we've been broken up about two and a half years. Wow. And come July, the boyfriend and I will have been together twice as long as I was with the ex. Whoo-hoo! So then today was my brother's high school graduation. The ceremony itself was a snooze. The kid cannot stop smirking (unless he's getting pissy at me. I'm sorry, you can't tell me to meet you at 9, then yell at me because *you* got there early and had to wait!). Saw a few teachers, and a handful of my classmates. Again, friendly in a superficial small-talk kind of way. A pity, really, but I guess I'm better off. But you know me. Thinking about where I'm been always makes me think how far I've come, whether I've improved or degenerated, and where, exactly it is I'm going. And we all know that never ends well. Also, note that I'm currently reading the Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath. That has mixed results: It inspires me to write more (good). It reminds me that she was published nationally while still in high school, and I wasn't (bad). However, note that the magazines in which she was published don't really carry poetry and short stories anymore (middling). It assures me that other people, especially other artists, go through depressionand hopelessness much like mine (good -- reassurance helps). It reminds me that her two suicide attempts (the second, successful) used the only two methods I could see myself pulling off (bad! should not be contemplating). She got married and found herself reveling vicariously through his successes rather than putting herself downfor not being as good -- despite her fears that she wouldn't be able to (good! there's hope for me yet). It was the 50s (bad -- the standards were different at the time). She married him -- not started dating, *married* -- within three months of getting over her ex-boyfriend (bad -- I can't relate to that, and don't respect it a whole lot). I know how it ends: he'll abandon her with the kids, she'll stick her head in the oven, he'll destroy her final journals and seal manyof her journals and poems until shortly before he died in 1998 (bad bad bad! Cannot repeat!) She read and identified with Woolf. I read and identify with her. They both killed themselves. I've... scared myself by thinking about it seriously. Sigh. Well, if it makes you feel any better, I have the strangest feeling it'll be cancer, not my own hand, that does me in. And the boyfriend already promised not to destroy my journals. If I can just force myself to write something *really good* and *marketable*, I canstart submitting it for publication, and then... If I get accepted, I'll be on myway, both experiencially (is that a word?) and mental/psychologically. If not, I'll be convinced that I suck and have no business writing, and some of you will have to talk sense into me. Wow. All that and I haven't even *touched* on my sheer terror of the future. Oh well, maybe next time. There are plenty of ways you can respond. Choose one and kindly doso, fair reader!
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