12:06 a.m. - December 22, 2002
It's my journal and I'll cry if I want to, begging your pardon
I don't know what is more off-putting than listening to someone say I'm so fill-in-the-blank and I'm struck again by the public nature of this journal and the impulse to censor or write for an audience, a recurring theme measured by my flee-or-fight mentality. This is my place where I want to talk to myself and where my meta-logues won't be discovered by family members unless I'm careless. It is not your place to tell me I'm wrong or misguided, blind or wallowing because anyone in my position will cast off your words, well-intentioned as they may be, as the least effective type of interpersonal communication: Anonymous. I resent your urge to say Jason, of course you're not ugly as a knee-jerk reaction to beseeching pleas for ego build-up and maintenance. My feelings are my own and whether they are narcissitic or abusive, they are my own and not open for public interpretation. And I resent feeling defensive in my own fucking journal, to boot!
A waste of time and oxygen to write about this any longer.
Today was a loss; I stared at the same two pages and wrote nothing.
I slept and read and walked and accomplished little worth noting.
I wish I never wrote this book, signed the contract, committed myself to the project.
Too late for that now but there is scant comfort to be found. Did I mention Barbara-the-Editor told me Thursday that New York State has placed an order for 12,100 books?
And you wonder why I'm a mess.
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