Salty, like me

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Salt. It’s not a nice smell. That’s not something we think about often; our language talks about ‘the salty sea air’ in novels like it’s wonderful. It isn’t. The sea stinks of fish and rotting seaweed. But it isn’t ’til you wake up in the middle of the night and smell the salt on you from dried sweat that you begin to know exactly how putrid salt actually smells. Then your nose wrinkles, and you don’t think about the sweat or the nightmares that might have caused it, you think salt. That’s all you smell. And it’s awful.

I suppose I should try to get used to it. This nightmare. I don’t even want to delve into what my brain might have cooked up for me in dreams; my waking reality is too far over the edge the way it is.

Anger woke me today. Same old, same old. I really got a problem with my family. Ain’t that loverly? To be so screwed up on the Alpha that your Omega passes by while you try to figure out what went wrong back at Alpha. Saddest thing is, they don’t care. I predict that if I dropped over dead right now, the only tear shed in the family would be by my older brother who’d be doing it because he felt sorry for himself for not getting to see me one last time. They wouldn’t care if it had been hard on me, they wouldn’t care how much it hurt. Only how their own little castles in the air get affected – now that would trip their triggers. I should borrow a hundred bucks from one of them and never pay it back just to make sure they have some reason to bring me up when I kick it.

Not that any of them would lend me a hundred bucks.

And I’m angry that yet another week has ticked by with nothing from the fucking director with the theater group. It’s not fucking Anna Karenina; it’ll only take a goddamn hour to read – two, if you’re not that great at English. If you didn’t want to read it in the first place, say fucking so! Say “Sorry, I don’t really have time” or “Gee, I’m not really the person you should hand this off to, sorry”. I’ll get it. I’ll move on. But to say you will, to string me along for MONTHS now and give me nothing but a carrot on a stick, pisses me off.

Shallow goddamn vipers.

As for my work, the changes have been made. Typos corrected. A line pulled here, a line inserted there. It’s as comprehensive, smooth, and fluid as I can get it without outside help. Today marks the beginning of The Great Send-Out. I’ve just enough anger to get over my anxiety about sending the script out. Oh, and Goddess, please! Let just one theater group say they’ll do it. They can be from bum-fuck nowhere, just let me hear back from them before the local theater group meets, so when the director stumbles around and gives me yet another excuse I can oh so cooly say, “It’s okay; I’ve got a group producing it right now” and just saunter away. That’s all I ask: the opportunity to for ONCE in my life give a little of that bullshit back that I get heaped on my head day in and day out!

I thank my love of cartoons for getting me through the days lately. Every time I feel lonely and alone, I imagine cartoon tumbleweeds rolling thru the room. It makes me smile, even thru the loneliness. As usual with people who feel lonely, I’m having a difficult time reaching out (terrible circle, that). The few email conversations I do have are short, and stunted. What I’d give for a long, drawn out message from someone I know right now! But everyone’s on Twit-o-sphere, everyone uses emojis, and no one seems to say anything about what’s really going on with them – or if they do share, it’s all bad, all negative. I’m so negative these days it’s hard when I hear my friends sound down. What can I say to them? I see the world as pretty shitty these days, too. I have no magic wand, no silver bullet, no cure-all.

Life sucks, and I didn’t ask for it.

That makes me angrier than anything. That I’m just here, without my consent or approval. That I’m forced to live inside this body – this fucking diseased body that wasn’t right from the get go. That I’m sentenced to go through this life.

This hell.

Didn’t go to the gym yesterday, and my attitude shows it. I’ll go today, despite it being Saturday. Try to burn hard enough that my brain releases endorphins and tricks me into believing things aren’t quite so bad, at least for a little while.

I feel old, and cynical.

Nothing to do but wait and see what happens. Yesterday a fellow student came to class with the flu. She had to sit next to me, had to push her used tissues to my side of the table, had to cough in my direction, lick her fingers and touch the papers she passed to me – in short, she seemed to do everything she could to ensure I fell ill again. I’ve had a bleeding headache since about 3 yesterday. Last night my throat felt raw. …Maybe I’m ready to be ill again. It’s a ready made reason to hide, and I do so feel like hiding lately. Just go away; you’re all assholes and fuckers, anyway. I’ll come back out when I rebuild my shell.

Which brings me back to salt because it seems like that’s the shell I’m building up. A salty, crusty outer layer. How fitting. My new work is coarse, and graphic. The things I’ve imagined writing about…the things my mind keeps turning back to, time and again…these are not script ideas for the local group. They’re not script ideas for family groups or church groups or school groups.

They’re salty, like me.

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