11:08 p.m.
/
11 June, 2004

People are talking about my weight and my nails as if shit like that matters. People are talking about my hair also. Nobody talks about me. Also, everybody seems to see me as some mousy studious type, which makes me want to attack them with sharpened cutlery. If I make the effort not to immediately judge them and box 'em up into something neat and largely inaccurate then why the fuck can't they do the same for me. I'm smart, yes, but that doesn't make me a joyless bookworm. I'm also artistic, illogical, emotional, thoughtless, clumsy and self-destructive. I am NOT sensible. If you give me responsibility, there is a great likelihood that I will mess it up somehow, usually on purpose to piss you off and get me off the hook.

I am not shy, just disinterested and distracted, and many other 'dis' words besides.

If I do talk to you, it's not because I'm 'coming out of myself', it's my own personal verbal blitzkrieg, designed to break your brain and shut YOU up so that I can get some peace.

If I blush when you call me darling, it's not because I'm bashful and unused to being flirted with, it's because I despise people who are overfamiliar and rude enough to stomp all over my personal boundaries with no thought to how uncomfortable this might make me. If I go red, it's because I'm mad as hell, but don't want to cause a scene in public. Afterwards, watch your back when you're alone at night in case I feel like exacting revenge.

Anyway, I had the rehearsal hairdressing appointment for my cousin's wedding (which is in 6 weeks, by the way). The hairdresser woman told me off for having roots. I think black hair with blond roots is innovative, but not to someone who purposely paints their skin orange and sticks plastic on her nails, apparently. It's not like I wasn't going to dye it again before the wedding anyway, sheesh. So, I'm having this curly ringlety back-combed thing, with a tiara. I swear, my cousin hates me. Really hates me.