dedicated to hanna

We've established a general way to communicate with each other, mostly relying on language to convey any message, both reasonable and totally obscure, to another person. This makes sense, and works out especially well for me since i generally bank on my words as a way to communicate anything and everything. To much touching tends to make me uncomfortable, eye contact was out of the question for a long while, and g-d knows that i'm not well versed on the complexity of body language. Feelings, which even in typing makes me feel nauseatingly feminine, become so deeply immersed in my defensive humor and random streams of consciousness that they are essentially waterlogged and lose all real meaning. So i default to hoping that my ramblings help convey some form of sensitivity that is buried within my language. But this concept, that i can say something and someone else will understand me, has affected my general pattern of thinking. Now not only do i believe that i can communicate everything i want to through our shoddy english language that has been infiltrated by latin and german and french (which is surprising since we're supposed to hate the french right?), but i have taken that a step further, believing that everything i do and think and hope is what an outsider would do and think and hope as well as long as i say it right. P.S. that's not how the system works.

This is where you come in Hanna, the only person i know who actually reads my blog (why you do this is still a mystery, nevertheless a pleasant one, to me). So apparently i'm secretive. Hidden. Withdrawn. Which is bizarre because i feel like i do the friendship equivalent of prostitute myself out to anyone who so much as smiles at me. But maybe this is why people think i'm not the open book i've defined myself to be. I guess i've heard this from other people before, but it seemed so absolutely ridiculous to me that i dusted it off my shoulder like a real pimp would do. Don't you ever forget that ladies is pimps too. Maybe i give a lot of nothing to a wide population. My words, that mask what i actually do, or think, or hope, or dare i say it feel, are something i am more than comfortable sharing, but language doesn't transcend all that is important. Over the past couple of days i have been hit by a slow-moving yet shockingly powerful wave of realization that not everyone, in fact very few people, think in the exact same way that i do. Not only am i totally soaked from head to toe, but this tsunami has left a bitter, salty taste lingering in my mouth. Oh yes, it's the taste of foreboding responsibility. Oh yes, it may even be the taste of an oncoming (but most likely long-winded) change. And this wave will keep pushing me back until i realize that i need to stop relying on this falsehood that i have turned to fact: I am everybody else, and they are me. So now the dish i've scooped onto my plate is dripping over the edges and spilling onto my clothes. Plus this is marni's shirt, so i feel twice as guilty about staining it with my unappealing duty. I could dump it into a trashcan, but in this current day and age we can't afford to waste realizations when other people in third-world countries are starving for this shit. I guess it's time to give in and let myself binge, no matter how full or disgusted i am, and deal with things i've been putting off.