vinylgirl's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- whiplash It can be really easy to get lost in pangs of loneliness, doubt, despair, and general depression without being able to put things in perspective or see the proverbial light. For the past month I have been drifting through life with a combination of the aforementioned monkeys on my back. Sometimes I would lurk around the kitchen around bedtime with my mom as she did her evening chores before bed, because I was desperate to talk and have my aching resonate. Her comfort provided some solace. Sometimes it is hard to get the words out when you are feeling low, to put it lightly. Not clinical depression, but constant disappointment depression. The kind of depression caused by consistent rejection from jobs and the dejection you feel when you have no trajectory. In a society where we are so defined by what we do, to do nothing makes you feel as though you really are nothing. That is the track we have set for ourselves: to find our job and then find ourselves, but of course one must know oneself in order to find a fulfilling job. Then again there are lots of nothing joe jobs out there waiting for me. On the other hand, for many people a fulfilling job is the least important prerequisite for the good life and they look to family, travel, and wealth of experiences. I am in a strange limbo living one year ahead, ten years ahead, two years and counting, or day one. Whiplash from the constant stops and starts: office work for now, journalism for life, non-profits, lawschool or maybe a bag lady. My inner compass is all jumbled and twitching and nothing feels quite right, except desperation. And love? Well, that is a long story. There is a part of me with fire in my loins and a simple desire for sex of any kind. I would probably accept mediocre sex with the guy I am currently dating. Like Amelie with her eyes wide open, I would grin and bear it � the cost of an orgasm. I was looking at him the other day sitting on my mother's new white sofas in the living room. I felt exposed wearing a bathing suit under a tank top and cotton skirt. My mind wandered, as he asked whether I would prefer him with or without the small patch of facial hair he keeps on the apex of his chin, to whether it is possible to determine someone's sexual prowess before rolling around in the proverbial hay. My first instinct was to say yes and then I determined he would be a decent lover, but typical and not very adventurous. His favourite position would be missionary and his idea of a good time (which I knew from the horses mouth) would be for me to wear a jersey. I would probably not have an orgasm with him the first time we did it. So then I did the virtual inventory of available men and rated their prowess, the ones I knew, and realized there were some surprises. Like the spicy latin boy with whom I had much chemistry that ended up fizzling in the reality of uncomfortable fooling around. So perhaps there is room in the theory for surprises. Maybe some of these demons will surface tonight in the form of a drink with an old friend, or more likely not. People do not volunteer their sad stories unless there is something in it for them. People do not call friends or write when things are going poorly. I suppose if things were going well I would be more social instead of such a wallflower lately. I think it is because we feel we have nothing to offer anyone when we are low. Unless we can offer advice. Allison 2:53 p.m. - 06/19/2006 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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