Jacqui (jacqui) wrote,
Jacqui
jacqui

Screwy but Beloved Live Journal Posted This Twice, Not Deleting Due to Lovely Comments From Pals



Sometimes the backs are just as fun as the fronts of these cards. Little snapshots of history in written form, sigh. Why do I love the past so much?

Today is Cat Show day, yeay!!!! I spent the night in Beau's room last night because he wanted me to sleep with him. He goes through phases of wanting to sleep with me, then he does fine on his own for a long while, and then he wants to sleep with me for a night or two, and then goes back to his room again. He had wanted to sleep with me last night but he spilled a Snapple on the bed and it would have been too wet on his side for him to sleep so he begged me to sleep in his room. It was hard to sleep with all of his various blinking flashing lights.

I'm having fun assembling my office. It always amazes me how daunting things become possible, when you break them down in to small pieces. It feels so good to have dusted everything off and to be putting it in order. The psychology books with psychology, dream analysis with well, dream analysis, and so on, with astrology, tarot, I Ching, spirituality, self help, photography, animal rights, art, twelve step stuff, home decor, fiction, autobiographies, biographies, etc., etc. I have a whole library for my art books, literature, poetry, antique books, theatre and everything else I wanted to save, but somehow it all spilled out of there and started moving in here, then it spilled out of here and began filling my bedroom, and eventually my bathroom. You can never have enough books. However I'm taking a lesson from my pal ana and trying to let go of stuff, so we've made big boxes full of books to give away or possibly sell on eBay.

I hate when someone tells me that my posts are too long, or that I write too much or too often for them, (once a day is not too often, believe me, I've seen some journals, woo, but I never had the nerve to pass judgment on someone about it, I'm in or I'm out, and that's all there is to it), and they are just going to have to remove me from their friend's list. What the hell? Sometimes I wonder if people do this because they are angry that I never added them back or reciprocated comment wise. I always want to, but I am swamped, and most of the time it's all I can do to post and respond to the comments people have been generous enough to leave here.

This is the minor downside of the comment part of Live Journal, it stirs up teenage politics, and I really don't want to have to deal with them. It doesn't happen that often, and we're only talking about two percent of all of the wonderful people who've added me to their friend's lists, so it doesn't really merit any attention, but when someone actually thinks I want to hear their reason for removing me, it just pisses me off. It's my journal for God's sake. Journal, get it, it's about writing, words and reading, not just posting quizlets and copies of last night's chat with friends about some hot looking guy.

I understand about not posting images that are too wide, or too many to load. I've finally worked my inner-rebel-girl-being around to being more considerate about that, but when it comes to WRITING, uh, pardon me, but I doubt if anyone ever told Anais Nin that she's just writing too damned much! Sheesh. Ya know, if I want to spend three paragraphs talking about my little electronic moo cow in my own damned journal, well, then I just will, and that's all there is to it. I'm not saying I'm a great writer, fun, funny and heartfelt maybe, worth reading, yes, a chronicler of my time, maybe, but can you seriously imagine if every writer had a fucking friend's list? I mean what would they do, tell Virginia Woolf not to fill her skirt with stones, give Sylvia Plath advice on lighting her oven, ask Steven King to shorten it up a bit?

You see how I get here don't you? I hate this angry, teenage, wanna-be-popular aspect of my personality. I really am too old for this. I'd rather be working towards spiritual enlightenment than wondering what some shmee girl on Live Journal thinks of my words. Who cares, they're mine damnit. "Words, words, words, words, words. Mine! Get it?" she says, wiping her hands of this. I've had to work my way up to being thick skinned enough to not really care when people blip in and out of my friend's list here, but when they come by and tell me about it, listing their reasons for leaving, and then wishing me a nice life on top of it, well, it just irritates my tremendously attractive membranes and synapses, yes it does. Now where's that Xanax? Give me some pills and a couple or sixty cats and I'm fine.

An interesting article about Virginia Woolf, creativity, and psychiatric disorders.

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