lunedì, luglio 03, 2006

The only tummyache is in my head

I eat too much here. We picked a kajillion strawberries so I made pie and tarts, and then the Mum made jam and milkshakes, and then the Dad roasted a goat and fried up wild mushrooms, and maaaaan. So this entry will reflect my indigestion/biliousness - you've been warned. Being home - not just the debauched overeating, but something else too - makes me want cigarettes like nobody's business. And whenever I even smell them, my body starts to tease: "You want that, huh? You want it? You want it? I'll make you PUKE if you put that in your mouth, bitch!" Oh ciggie poos. Yeah. I'm in a shitty mood.

I wasn't raised to feel entitled and being here reminds me of that. That's not a whinge, or at least I don't think it is; nobody was nasty to me when they were raising me so I'm lucky and I know it. They tried to be realistic and helpful when they raised me by teaching me the world was unfair, that virtue and merit are nescessary but go unrewarded. But now I've decided that's not helpful anymore and what matters are balls. Now I'm frustrated over feeling blocked and unentitled about doctoral programmes when I shouldn't be either.

Part, but not all, is my ex-advisor's unhelpfulness. I'm not this blocked over the applications just because my cunty ex-advisor is being a cunt and I have to butter him up like fucking Maria Schneider in Last Tango in Paris. The block is more about fear; about asking people for what I just think should be mine automatically and being piss-scared of them saying no. And then being piss-scared that if they don't say no - that if I get it and fuck up, or hate it, lapse into another lethargic depression, it's me, 100% me, who fucks up or hates it or lapses into a lethargic depression.

There's the problem. I know the idiocy and misery I'm capable of, and I don't have the balls to trust myself to not do that again. I wish there was some knight in shining armour around who'd kick me in the head until I stopped being an idiot forever, but there isn't. Figaro is awfully important, but I know he'll never kick my ass into gear, nor should I expect that of him. I also know that no matter what happens with or without Figaro, Magnum PI is imaginary and will NOT come and inspire me to flights of marketable genius with his wry good humour and Rusyn good looks.

Holy fucking shit, do I ever need to grow a figurative set of balls; become the man I've always wanted to have, more or less. Does that sound icky? Because I'm pretty sure it's true. From now on, whenever I feel myself turning into a piss-scared, defeatist, hateful gloom merchant, I'm going to ask myself what Ghengis Khan would do. And then I'll do whichever version of it won't send me to prison.

4 commenti:

Melbine ha detto...

Krazy has kicked my ass into gear at some really opportune moments and I was very appreciative of it. I'm not sure if or how my life would be different because of it?

I sympathize with your need to grow a figurative set of balls. It's not easy. But do you feel like the older you get, the more it's happening?

Btw, I totally shuddered at the 'Last Tango in Paris' comment. What a horrible scene. I like Bertolucci's 'Besieged' so much better.

Mistress La Spliffe ha detto...

Who knows - I do know I spent hours of my trip home helping my gentle mum write angry letters to incompetent institutions. There were ways I wasn't trained to communicate I think I'm slowly picking up.

Lady ha detto...

i think it's hilarious that my parents expect me to have balls, but are scared to SHIT for me to actually use them. so we get stuck in this "i'm the Queen of the World and deserve everything in life but oooooh my what if this life eats me!"

the answer? still working on it, but i think it goes something like, "your mother is always right, your father will always be there, you're smarter than you think, and you're better than everyone else."

;) we can maybe eventually erase that last part, you know, after enlightenment.

Mistress La Spliffe ha detto...

Mine goes like "your mother will always worry, your father will always want you to make more money, clever is as clever does and everybody else amounts to pylons that alternately obstruct and direct you."

I'm hoping a few more months of psycho-analysis will help me erase *that* last part.