Between The Lines

Last night was a fucking long night. But, last night was also the first night that I've ever laid down and fallen asleep almost immediately. True, it could be said that I was emotionally exhausted, because I was. For as much as I'm inclined not to sleep, I don't handle it well. Pretty much any morning where I wake up and my cuticles are bloody from me ripping at them is a morning I know didn't start off well, but it's OK.

Part of what made my night a long night was a 201 seminar on my blog. Seeing yourself through the eyes of other people is the same reason i've always loathed poetry and short stories. Sometimes, a story is just what it looks like - a story. At the risk of poking a bear, one of the few conversations Jeremy and I had was me explaining to him why I hated our bleeding heart liberal dyke professor for over-analysing everything. I cannot imagine any of my favorite authors being able to suffer through Lit 101 if their novels were the ones being taught, because I can't imagine watching someone analyse your sentance structure with a straight face.

"How were you feeling when you wrote the scene in which Harold commits suiicde?" and the real answer is "I was up against a deadline and I couldn't get the character to develop the way I wanted him to, so I killed him off."

My point? It's seldom as complicated as it seems with authors and it's certainly seldom as complicated as it seems with me. There are very scarcely deeper meanings to the things that i'm posting. For as much as I like to play my hand close to the vest with people in my life, there is nothing that is off-limits when I blog, so whatever i'm blogging tends to be exactly what I mean with no minced words. This is my life - not a comic novel. It is what it is and it's difficult to drive symbolism into shit when you're living it. Maybe one of these days when it's over i'll tell the story and I promise i'll throw some metaphores in there for you guys. In the mean time, if i'm talking about the Catholic Guilt Complex, i'm probably really talking about the Catholic Guilt complex.

A couple of days ago, I blogged this and like five people asked if I was OK. There is no emoticon to describe my face when they did, but I suspect if there was, it would have been all eyes.

I'm disclaiming. When i'm mad at someone and throwing punches - it looks like this or maybe this. See, idn't that obvious? When i'm depressed, it looks like this or this. When i'm wandering around the recesses of my mind thinking about something at random it looks like this.

Is it a bad sign when being in a fantastic mood reads like depression?

All i'm saying is, don't read too much into anything. If i'm in tears while I'm posting, you'll know it, because I'll say it. I can always be counted on for that :) Christ, I was listening to The Bangles for this one and who can be depressed listening to The Bangles?

And no, i'm not crying or throwing anything. I'm having apple juice and wondering why my speakers wont go up any louder...I think some of the wires fell out. Easy tiger :)