DEAR DIARY

07.27.2024

Could not sleep last night.

During insomniac hours: Read (part of) the California DMV Driver’s Manual. Read (part of) Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. (Partly) rearranged foot-of-bed storage to hide (rather than eliminate) clutter.

Told myself “tomorrow I will” and “tomorrow I’ll” and “tomorrow I’ll” and “tomorrow” and tomorrow and tomorrow

07.2?.2024

I just read back through these July entries and I do not like them.

I often wonder if my diary — if this IS my diary — is taking the shape it ought to take. Surely it is best for a diary to be an accurate and inclusive catalog of days. A well-kept diary records the hours. You can look back and say — so THAT is what I did on July 18th 2022. Other people can look back and say — so THAT is what she did on July 18th 2022. It allows writers of historical nonfiction to improve reader engagement with well-researched sentences like "------ started the morning of --- ---- with a relaxed breakfast - four slices of toast with butter and strawberry preserves, as was his habit - not knowing that by nightfall he would making plans for war."

I will never be Samuel Pepys, and must come to terms with that.

Life feels so expansive when expressed through euphemism but withers away when Gradgrinded down into a catalog of facts. Made breakfast (2 rice cakes w/ almond butter and 8 chocolate chips). Ate breakfast (with coffee). Wasted time. Made a snack. Ate a snack. Scrolled. Etc. Etc. Maybe with some life coaching -- TED Talks -- YouTube videos on productivity -- I will learn to use my panic over lost hours to push myself to greatness; I will treat time as currency and spend each precious minute with thoughtful precision. I will hustle. I will optimize.

The details of most living are like environmentally-friendly packing peanuts. They are nothing. They are biodegradable. They dissolve in the rain.

07.21.2024

I deserve an early 2000s movie makeover where a gay-coded but never explicitly outed stylist tut-tuts my old sweatpants/frizzy hair/glasses and then, along with a crew of young attractive women, gives me cut/color/blowout/wax/nails/contacts/new designer wardrobe all gratis during a pop-backed feel-good montage, revealing a hidden beauty I never knew I possessed.

This is the American Dream that was promised me, which I have been unjustly denied.

[note: early 2000s America's Next Top model makeovers are the other side of this coin, an American Nightmare reserved for the nation's tall & slender]

07.16.2024

I suspect that I might be wasting my life.

07.13.2024

J— must have shown up at my dad’s apartment in West Hollywood one day in 1990 and said something like "I got a new video camera, can I film you giving a little apartment tour?"

I found it today on DVD.

I thought I would recognize his voice. I didn't.

I should be able to write some insightful and evocative description of how I feel. I've got nothing. I'm tired. I'm sad. I'm a little bloated. My nose is dripping.

He was really, really effortlessly funny.

I want to be the kind of person who feels watched over and guided, like those athletes who win Olympic medals and get interviewed while sweating patriotically after the race and say my grandma is here with me today, this win is for her, and then gesture heavenwards. Moving forward, I will try to feel both watched over and guided. I will try to finish projects I start. I will try to learn guitar. I will try to cry less - my eyes are very swollen and I get snotty, which means I can't even become the kind of hot girl who posts post-cry pictures on instagram with vague captions about grief/perseverance/wellbutrin. I will try to get to bed earlier. I will try very very hard to feel watched over and guided.

Today someone tried to assassinate Trump.

07.11.2024

This week I appeared in 5 LinkedIn searches.


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