imwithjonas's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Just don't spill any milk. Just don't spill any milk.I've had a weird week. I'm suffering from some unprecedented hormonal imbalance. At first I was compulsively writing. That leant to a lot of thinking about things. The thinking probably leant to the next stage of this breakdown – compulsively crying. I just realized how bad it was when I found myself crying over a Keanu Reeves movie. Man. can’t. act. I kind of think this has been a good thing though. A week ago, I was practically incapable of crying. I could have witnessed the violent slaughter of a box full of kittens and not shed a tear. I’ve always avoided being emotional in public, and by “in public” I mean “in the presence of one or more people.” That practice has been largely to my detriment. See, if you never cry in front of anyone, no one ever knows anything is wrong with you. There’s always something wrong with me. No one ever really notices. Some things are worth crying over. It might suck, but some things warrant crying until the tears won’t come, but you’re still shaking from the uncontrollable, wracking sobs. It’s ok to cry because the little black boy in the Keanu Reeves movie died. It’s even ok to cry over Keanu Reeves’ touching speech, no matter how horribly delivered it is. It’s ok to cry when your mother might have cancer. It’s ok to sit on the phone with her, holding the phone upside down so she can’t here you sobbing, amazingly managing to sound normal when you do speak. It’s ok to have to work up some kind of control just to deliver a minute of intelligible speech to your best friend’s voice mail. And after that, it’s ok to turn out all the lights, turn on telly, crawl into bed, and start wailing so loudly you have to turn the volume up because you don’t want to answer any awkward questions. It’s ok to cry over a column on a website just because it’s so damn well written. Take into consideration the mildly poignant content, and it might even be appropriate. Dear Jesus, Big Daddy is going to be on tomorrow. I’ve got to bother dragging the Kleenex out from behind my dresser. Why am I watching Notting Hill? Julia Roberts’ existence is normally enough to make me cry. Ugh. As usual, I’ve waited until the end of the dramatic trash to deliver the actual point. I’m not as strong as people always used to think I am. I’m not entirely sure what my current people think of me. But I’m not particularly strong. If I didn’t have someone to alternately hold my hand and smack me with Cling Wrap, or a few old friends that occasionally remember I exist, then I wouldn’t survive all this. I would have lost all hope a long time ago and taken the path of lost and hopeless. I’d be strung out on crack, or lying hung-over on a park bench. Or dead. I like to pretend the last isn’t really an option, but I like to pretend a lot of things. Ah, drama. It makes the world go round. Why do I like Hugh Grant so much? That’s enough of that, and it’s also enough of this rambling entry. Sometimes crying is allowable. Sometimes the long weekend that was scheduled to be rather dismal is bright and sunny. Tomorrow I’m supposedly going to church for Easter. It’s nice to know some people can still believe in God, even when so much of the God-fearing community and their religion of choice turns against them. Knowing something like this can come from Mormons makes me think being one might not have been such a travesty afterall. 3:50 p.m. - April 10, 2004 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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