November 14, 1998.

Went to bed crying after Southpark (no, not because of Southpark. Please. Give my mood swings some credit.) Woke up early & answered a month & a half of back email. I always correspond better when I'm depressed. Which I suppose is good news to those of you whom I tend to write with, although I can't promise much for the peppy quality of my replies. Nope nope nope.

It feels like I've been depressed forever, which is always the way, isn't it? Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on you p.o.v.), my capacities during a depression only shut down to about 50%...I still drag myself around to classes & a few social occasions, but without zest. I've been watching a lot of teevee, and listening to the more depressing end of my CD collection. Last night I burst into tears right after joining in with Marilyn Manson on the first song off "Mechanical Animals."

"My stitches itch
My prescription's low
I wish you were queen
Just for today."

I must be driving Galadrial crazy. She keeps inviting me out with her, and I always beg off, pleading school work. But basically, it's an excuse to be alone here; to wander around my room, turn the music up loud, surf the web aimlessly, and start crying without warning or explanation.

Trevor keeps apologizing, and I keep explaining that nothing is his fault. And it's true. I don't want to light out for the territories, exactly...but I want to have an uninscribed space. I thought Trevor was that space, but who am I to blame him for having a past, having a life pre-me? Me, the girl who blurted out the whole sordid history of Mr. Blonde, Tiger Lily, Cranly, Poet & I the first time Trevor & I had dinner. Okay, I was tired & sunstruck & rattled that day, but still. I carry my past like an overloaded carpet bag, while I totter around on metaphorical 5" heels. My tatt bears witness to my obsessive fascination with the past. Although strictly speaking, I don't have that much ugly past...though I have been convinced for about two years or so that I am a nasty bit of baggage.

Hey, I thought I was through with all this stuff! I thought I'd finished up with feeling guilty that I gave Mr. Blonde the sandpaper shaft (emotionally speaking, that is). I still, however, carry around the conviction that I am damaged goods. Imperfect girl.

A conclusion which can be borne out by almost any situation in my current life, despite its objective veracity. Why am I so lonely, if I'm not emotionally malformed? Why can't I trust anyone who says positive things about me to me?

"This isn't me, I'm not mechanical."

Please send your answer on a 3 x 5 postcard. Winners will be notified by carrier pigeon. Losers will be swiftly kicked by their nearest & dearest.