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I hardly ever post anything on here any more. But it is a good way to tell the details of a story when something I want to talk about happens. Make of that what you will. I'll put a cut in in case this is a longish story, since I don't want to take up a bunch of space.
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I’ve seen the new guy three times in the last week. It would have been four, but I told him that I needed yesterday as a mental health day free from all socializing so I could hide in my room. It’s so unusual for me and I was thinking about why. Because most of my close friends are people I see actually quite infrequently. Usually because they are more comfortable with that and with far in advance plans. Which means I’m actually used to spending quite a bit of time by myself on my own reconnaissance. So, the question becomes, is this going to be an issue or is it something I can get used to and end up liking over time? I’m really not sure yet. Part of me can't help but remember that in middle school and high school, I played with friends nearly every day, but that was also before I got my own computer, so who knows?
 
 
 
 
 
 
Mom: I don't know why your manager didn't call you on your cell. All kids have phones these days.
Me: I'm not a kid. I'm a grown-ass adult (does awkward little front-kick while clutching phone).
 
 
 
 
 
 
When I have done something wrong
My brain screams out “Don’t hit me!”
Even though you never have
You spanked me when I was little maybe half a dozen times
Before you realized I didn’t start listening until you started talking
And even with this, whenever someone starts toward me with a disagreement of my behavior,
A frustration with what I did, an angry retort of choices I didn’t know I was making,
I feel myself holding back my shoulders like cold iron
Forcing myself not to crumple into a ball to avoid a fist
That never comes.
 
 
 
 
 
 
Here's how I know Amanda is my best friend: We were in the park for five hours yesterday and we never stopped talking.
 
 
 
 
 
 
Yesterday morning, Carl and I got into an argument about the second amendment. I was trying to point out something about how the syntax of the sentence revealed a particular meaning. Carl listened for about half a moment before he started to say, "Yeah, whatever. You're already wrong." I became very frustrated and tried to explain what I meant, but he kept talking over me, getting louder and louder. It was like watching Bill O'Reilly or one of those other talk hosts who keeps interrupting guests when they're trying to say something, before they can even make their point. Only it was worse, because it was happening to me. I started to tear up and I was shouting and finally I said, "Fuck you. I don't want to talk to you any more. There's no point if you never let me speak when we're discussing something important." He tried to keep berating me, but I only shouted that I was leaving and that I didn't want to talk to him any more and that he wasn't helping the situation anyway until I was able to get downstairs where I wouldn't hear him any more. He kept saying that I was overreacting. Layla followed me down the stairs because she likes me best. I helped her up onto my bed and I sat on the edge just sobbing for a while until I could calm myself down.

A couple of hours later, I went to work. It was very slow at work. I was extremely bored. I basically read and was on the internet. I was listless to the point of suffering.

After work, there was a holiday work party. It was less than a mile from the library. We all drove over and those who weren't working came also. To be honest, if I weren't working I probably wouldn't have gone, but since I was with them already, I figured I would. I hung up my coat on the rack and walked into the room with all the food. There were maybe 6-8 tables around the room and buffet tables on the outside walls. Immediately, I felt like that new kid in school. I didn't know what to do. No one from my department was there yet, as I drove straight over. I wasted time by taking a small plate to fill with nibbles. I then looked around at the food they were starting to set out. I felt so lonesome I could cry. All the while, I was keeping an eye on a couple of my coworkers getting drinks at the bar, people I usually get along with well enough at work.

Finally, when a couple of them made their way back to the table where they had already set their things, I took my plate of nibbles and my purse and asked if I could sit with them. The room shortly became so loud that I could barely hear the people next to me. I looked around, trying to catch threads of conversation and I could pick up small snippets of words about vacations and soccer practices or things, but I was never sure what was happening. It was all ambient noise with minor words thrown in just to confuse me into thinking I understood. I became very sad, but also concerned that everyone else seemed to be able to participate. I worried my hearing was suffering somehow. I remember thinking about how I had a week ago asked my mom's friend to teach me ASL. I wondered if I would need it for myself.

After we'd eaten and I suffered through a white elephant exchange (the worst type of gift exchange), people were standing around talking. I wanted to leave, but it was dark out in the parking lot and it was a bit of a walk to my car. I was scared. I pretended I was participating (though I still couldn't hear), but the whole time I kept scanning the room to see if I could walk out with someone else. Finally, I saw a woman putting on a coat. Not a woman I knew well, but I decided it didn't matter. I was so close to home. I went quickly across the room to ask if I could walk out with her. I went to get my own coat.

Though I remembered quite clearly where and how I had hung up my coat, I couldn't find it on the coat rack. I looked at every single hanger multiple times, but saw nothing. Others started to look with me and I felt a panicked, embarrassed hole in my chest. When it was still nowhere to be found, one of the others suggested I make an announcement to the room. I walked into the room and had to take a few deep breaths. I had a few false starts where words started to escape my throat only to get stuck in my mouth, but finally I shouted above the din that I was looking for my coat and described it

Soon, the majority of the library was helping me look for my coat. I was so worried and overwhelmed that I began to tear up. I tried to hide it, looking at the wall while shuffling through the coat rack yet again, describing my coat again to others helping me. The library director played a prominent role in helping me look and I couldn't stop crying and was forced to let them see it. I wanted to die. I felt as though if I looked just one more time, my jacket would appear where I had left it. Multiple suggestions were made, like I had left it in my car or someone else had accidentally grabbed it, but I didn't know what to do. I told them my keys were in my pocket and that I would have to call my dad to come get me, that there were no identifying marks in my coat other than keys and black gloves on the right side. The coat itself was quite distinctive, but nothing in it. Finally, all the other coats shuffled off until there were only a couple left. One black peacoat of the sort many wore was unidentified and one of my coworkers reached into the pocket. She pulled out a set of keys and asked if they were mine. They were. Though I had worn the same coat since Christmas, apparently just that day I had grabbed a different one. I wanted to die. I couldn't stop apologizing and sobbing. Everyone around me told me it was okay, which only made me feel worse for being so stupid. I pulled the coat on and started out the door with the woman I had originally spoken to, who had waited for me. She asked if I would be okay to drive home. I said it was fine. I sat inside my car and sobbed for a little bit and drove home.

My mother was in the living room when I got home, watching a movie. She asked how the party was and I broke down. I told her the Carl story and the coat story and I was hysterical crying. She kept saying, "I think you're more worried about this than you need to be." I tried to explain how much I hate to inconvenience anyone. I will usually make myself very uncomfortable rather than try to make people acknowledge or help me. When I do, it's surrounded by dozens of apologies. I think I would actually be an extrovert if it were just up to me, but it isn't. I call people to spend time with them far less often than I want to because I know it makes them uncomfortable and I would never want to cause that. I have always felt to some degree alone, like the whole world was understanding life better than I was. So many nights, I arrive home from work and I sit in my room in semi-dark watching films because it's better than making someone spend time with me if they might not want to.
 
 
 
 
 
 

So, the other day I was at work and I had the hiccups. No big deal. They always go away eventually. They weren't bad enough I felt the need to seek out water, so I was just sitting at the desk quietly hiccuping. Then my coworker shouted and grabbed my arm. I looked at her and hiccuped. She said, "I was just trying to scare you." I know she was trying to help and meant well, but all I could think was, "Please don't touch my person."

 
 
 
 
 
 

I must be ovulating right now and this must be on some level my body punishing me for going off the pill, but I can’t seem to keep my mind very long from one topic.

I’m going to put the rest under the cuts so people who don’t want to see my introspection (which is guaranteed to be a bit long-winded and information-heavy) can skip by easily.


Pitch PerfectCollapse )AwkwardCollapse )
 
 
 
 
 
 
I've been thinking a lot about how the shoes we wear affect who we are. I don't mean in a cost ratio or a fashion one, but how the literal construction of what we choose to support and cover our feet changes how we interact with the world. In Cory Doctorow's excellent Young Adult novel, Little Brother, one of the measures of security at the main character's school is a gait cam, which figures out where the students are based on their walks. I began to wonder if gait analysis was a legitimate form of security, one that actually works well, because I can imagine so many ways a person's gait can be changed just by changing their shoes, not even to mention the techniques used to confuse it in the book, such as adding rocks to the toes of shoes.

Not only does the changing of my shoes change my walking, but it changes how I feel about my place in the space I am inhabiting. My favorite pair of shoes is a pair of plaid, double layered Converse sneakers that appear far more beat up than their actual age would suggest. The toes are surprisingly roomy for a pair of Chucks and I am not positive whether or not they may actually be knock offs. I notice that sometimes when I wear some of my regulation Chucks, my toes feel too cramped inside the front. Once I notice this, I begin reflexively stretching my toes against the confining space, almost as though they were having a panic attack from claustrophobia. This solves nothing except to cramp my foot and make me much more uncomfortable, but I can't seem to resist doing it. I am forced to mostly wear my Chucks when I'm going to be walking and moving around a lot, as this does not give me enough time to contemplate toe space. I also notice that when I'm wearing my happy, loose plaid Chucks, particularly in connection with a hoodie, I tend to feel a bit more of a cool, urbanized young person. Make of that what you will. It certainly masculinizes my walk a bit. My hips swing less. I fiddle less with my hands in front of me. My shoulders stay lowered. There is a touch of the swagger about me. I am more likely to be sarcastic, to call out something I perceive as ridiculous. A bit of the Tony Stark in me comes out, if you will.

When I wear ballet flats (which I often do for work), the contrast is quite apparent. My feet always take on more of a turn-out and I step more delicately and deliberately. I am all too conscious of how tenuous the connection between my feet and my shoes is, that I cannot sit at my desk without the heel falling off and the shoe slowly falling down to dangle precariously on my toes until it is either dropped or rescued by my placing my feet firmly on the floor. Ballet flats are not (for me) shoes of confidence. They are shoes of meekness, of quick apologies and muted voices.

On the few occasions that I wear heels, my walk is very feminized. My hips swing from side to side and I'm likely to use very dancer-like movements. It's really when I feel most female. They also make me very authoritative. My heels strike the floor with commanding raps. I actually feel extremely uncomfortable if I have to silence them by moving on the balls of my feet, as if I am hobbling myself. I understand many people associate this very effect with heels and I can certainly see from where they are getting it.

I do not know if this chameleon nature of footwear is true for everyone or if my personality and mannerisms are more fluid, allowing myself to be changed by how I am connecting with the earth. I certainly prefer the loose-sneakered version of myself. She seems most like who I prefer to be.
 
 
 
 
 
 
I believe that dreams can be instructive, if nothing more than an insight into our subconscious. I think people who deny this are those who see the dreams at face value. As a very introspective person, I usually know what my brain is getting at.

So, last night I had this dream...Collapse )