whacked
I asked when I'd get my time to do stuff. He looked at me like I was crazy. Like "don't you always get time?" look. No, I don't. With you gone half the time. traveling for work and shit. fuck caps, by the way. I asked if I would get the time to work out? he said I didn't seem like I felt well enought to work out. no, it's just that you're gone a lot. when do I work it out in my schedule? i can't when he's gone.
He said that he cleared off the space for me to do my projects. gee whiz, we've lived here 8 months and there's space made for my crap. what am I supposed to do here? yes, I could have cleared my own space. just gets me how he can take over his space and where's mine to be found?
i'm feeling particularly whacked in the head today. i'm sure any shrink to read my writing would agree. his clinical diagnosis would be "yes, yes...whacked in the head..." I'm about ready to snap at anyone and I don't know why.
i know better around this time about the diary thing. i can keep it to myself. the problem with a bunch of people knowing is you really can't write what you want. no shit? really? yeah, i could've figured that out on my own, but didn't think of the long term ramifications of having a sister in law reading about your bitches about her brother, and so on, etc.
I found this on a CD album and realized this is how I feel. Not romantic:
Don't stop. in a shortness which can be taken as friendship don't end your kiss. Understand what freezes in me is the courage in my fear. Now, in the dark room the "Orchestral Sui te*No.3 (Aria in G minor)" plays for a second time. Enveloped in the gentleness of Bach but what I want is a call from you, and...
And you're saying to yourself , "What the fuck?" Japanese english. That's pretty much how I think a clinical diagnosis on me from a Japanese physician would be. I can't figure me out.