Ramble, Post-Therapy
<<2003-04-15 - 10:54 a.m.>>

Yes, I check the doors to see who's around. Yes, I am a silly little girl, and yes, it kills me to think that someone might want me to back off, finds me voracious. Thinks I'm attracted to them sexually, physically, when really I just want to know them and to have them know me, I, the disembodied brain, I the fraud, the aspiring actual human being.

I am voracious.

I am playing the old games again, check the cashier, I am maximizing my opportunity. It's all about availability.

And yes, yes, yes, I have lost my ability to hold back, I have lost what shot at calm, cool, and collected I once had, and when I am upset it's not pretty. I don't cry glycerine tears.

And I am ashamed of this ugly crying.

Sometimes I feel eight years old.

There used to be another girl named Moira, a girl in third grade. I had a playdate at her house. She gave me a pair of earrings. My first dangly earrings. This was a very big deal, because they were dangly earrings, and because they were from her.

In third grade I followed older girls around like a puppy waiting to be kicked. I told terrible lies about trivial things to people who'd been there to know that they weren't true.

And I never know how much I'm fooling people.

All that wanting. God, blot it out, please, take it out of me, make me not so hungry, please, please, save my eight-year-old soul.

And I don't want to see you looking at me.

"First Person" from tenth grade. Feeling scrutinized. Eleventh grade English class, and "Don't look at me that way, I don't like it," and wanting the ground to open and swallow me up—not just hide me.

Subsume me. Eliminate me.

Disappear, disappear, disappear.

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