5:17 p.m. - September 16, 2004
The bougainvillea blossoms are dropping
Barbara-the-Editor is pushing for her preferred back cover information and we're butting heads. I know some information about me must be shared and I'd rather release the same information given to those whom I train: My name, a very brief educational sketch, my email address. Barbara wants to list my degrees and from where, my certifications and from where, my honors and accolades and a photo. Does she not feel the strength of the book to be enough that the About the Author section must pander and shrilly announce, I'm qualified! I'm qualified! as a desperate plea for purchase? Trying to explain to Barbara how much I value my privacy has little effect.
This morning I looked into the mirror and liked what I saw. It has been a long time since I thought my face (and the rest) wasn't overwhelmingly unfortunate. Body image is something I'd like to discuss with Brad before I make any cosmetic surgery appointments. A half-joke, that.
I wonder if it's true that everybody has a match, with the challenge being to find that person during one's lifetime.
I pray for an early death because I want to get out of here, do not believe in a week from tomorrow or longer ahead. Yet I cling to something illusory and tiny and the months pass by quickly. Being alone is a terrible thing but as I wrote before perhaps that's what I need to overcome, this wanting to share my life with another. I would hope I am neither needy or clingy but I just want to cuddle with someone and take road trips to nowhere, to have someone to call when I'm out of town to say good night. Fantasy, that. I think I need to learn how to enjoy myself and embrace a peaceful solitude before - something different comes my way.
I don't think it's a person exactly. Instead, it's wanting to be open and vulnerable to another, to have someone know my secrets and remain interested despite them, to be vested in something other than my immediate sphere.
I became bitter a while ago. Seems like I'm verging on misanthropy. Verging, because I still have a bit of hope, still have a desire for a long life.
My thoughts are scattered tonight.
