You know, I don't think my ego has ever aged past 12. Whenever it takes a slap, I instantly want to hurt people. Not just hurt their feelings; I mean, kick them, punch them, throw rocks at them.I used to get punished for talking with my fists. Now I think the problem is I can hardly ever stand up for myself.I am sick of it.So living truthfully makes me a better actor, eh? Living truthfully also has the potential of pissing a lot of people off.But it's true, I'll grant you that. People get truly pissed off.I push people away. It's my first strike mentality--get rid of them before they have a chance to reject me. There must be millions of people like me--the funny thing is how many people do manage to end up together. I don't have the knack, or if I do have it, it's buried pretty deeply.People. The people knack. posted by Hane2SO4 9:54 AM . . .
I know this sounds treacherous, but I really fucking hate working with most women. We're all so afraid of causing a scene that we'll basically turn inside out to keep from confronting one another. THere are exceptions to this rule: Jean and Nik come to mind. But here at work, and at other offices, it's the women who turn out to be my biggest headaches. Women who won't tell me to my face that something I'm doing is bothering them. No, they'd rather stew in their own juices for weeks before going to a third party, who misinterprets the degree of their distress and ends up cutting me a new one. Or women who can't just plain admit that they don't like me, and become so incredibly two-faced that it's a wonder they don't go bankrupt on lipstick.I love working with direct people. For most of my working life, these have been men. Sure, it's not always easy: direct people have a disconcerting way of saying "you're fucking up" when you're fucking up. But I really feel so much more comfortable around direct people. And so damned uncomfortable around indirect people, no matter how nice or popular they might be. posted by Hane2SO4 5:10 PM . . .
You gotta' know that there is a part of this brain that will never grow up, never be able to accept what it perceives as rejection, and never forgive or forget. So much for that "Would you ever be interested in working together again?" BULLSHIT from the Teflon dude. Translation: If I cannot manage to find anyone else, and I do mean anyone, I might entertain the possibility of giving you a call. The part of the brain that the others might call immaturity, but is really the Id, says Fuck off! Die! I want you covered in blood and bone shards! I feel better now. You know? I really do. The brain is saying, "Never see any of those people again, stay away from them, they are bad," but I think that's just the Id again. I could draw my Id in dark reds and flashes of yellow. The colour of dried blood. The One We're Working on:I saw your eyes tonight In the face of a lonely woman sitting in a noisy cafe, waiting to be noticed. I cannot remember your living face, but only its living parts. Your hair, two heads in front of me on the bus; your pressed-lip smile Or sometimes a capped tooth brings you flooding back to life. Because you did not profess to believe in ghosts, I do not expect your haunting to follow convention. I see you take shape in myriad faces, and look back at me with unknowing eyes. posted by Hane2SO4 6:47 PM . . .
I said I wouldn't mind the fumes from the drycleaner place. No worse than cigars. I was wrong. posted by Hane2SO4 4:14 PM . . .
They said I could use the computer here since I live upstairs. Nice folk after all. posted by Hane2SO4 4:13 PM . . .
Why wont this fargin thing post? Must be the drycleaning fumes. posted by Hane2SO4 4:11 PM . . .
