I'm clumsy. My body never does what I want it to. My voice cracks, my aim is always a little off, I drop things. Some people view their bodies as a tool. Mine has always been an obstruction, a filter, a limiter. My mind is omniscient and capable. It would be unstoppable without the confines of my body.
I don't see this as a good thing or a bad thing, my physical imperfections. It's a thing, a sponge, simply there. I'm not interested in the physical, as with math. I am incompetent at math but it doesn't interest me so I don't care. It's there for someone else to be interested in, to be good at.
I can't think because my brother is listening to Pretty Hate Machine really loud in the room next to me. I had it all worked out in my head on the way home, adding and rearranging it in my head until it sounded really good. Reciting it. But it has dissolved into the whinings of Trent Reznor.
I think I want a secret online journal. Something only people I don't know can chance upon. There are thousands. Chances are only a couple would see it. There are so many good ones out there it seems silly to put one up and actually try to get hits, get noticed.
I can feel it. One of these days I'm really going to start hating my job if something doesn't change soon. My attitude, my routine, the weather, people I work with. I'm becoming bitter, angry, lazy. There's a dull ache that I can't quite place, don't know what it is. Once in a while I feel I've almost found it, but always not quite.
I can't believe how cold and gloomy it is. It's June, dammit.