February 17, 2005

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

Dear Diary,

Hello, old friend - old, dusty, long forgotten about friend, and keeper of my buzzing honey bee thoughts.

Yesterday was a tough day following a terrible evening. I forgot to pay the power bill (I know!) and so was living la vida dark while my roommate was at her boyfriend’s. Roommate provided the cash to bring our account current and to keep our apartment well lit. My status as an adult has once again come into question.

“But you’re still young!” some might say.

I’m sorry, but 28 is not actually young anymore. It’s simply not old.

When people refer to me as a woman, I cringe. Woman? Hardly. Girl person, more like. Or woman shaped creature.

Perhaps I am the Perpetual Pubescent. A Twittering Tremulous Teen? Or just plain irresponsible, just plain immature.

Maybe I could be tossed into a maturation chamber, get a fat hen to sit on me for a few more years until I’m ready to be a card carrying member of my 30’s.

Stellar roommate is a cure for all ills, though. Not getting upset. Coming to the rescue. And being the amazing conversationalist she is, just a few hours in her company and all reverts better than back to normal, normal being the state in which I’m always a bit ready to burst out of my seams. Still, my anormal normal beats yesterday’s feeling of complete deflation.

Now, once the cure has been administered, what is there left to do, dearest diary, but watch some LOST and drool all over Sawyer’s backside.

Lickety lick, lick LICK that boy up. Dear diary, if you had a tongue, we’d be bathing him together with our love saliva. And he'd like it.

Slick, stickety, slick, slather, sip.

What else, dear diary, should I now confess?

I saw the Jesus Man on the bus again, yesterday. Jesus Man is taller than me. He wears soft shirts. He has eyes so bright bluish and see through I can hardly stand to look at them. They're shadowed. He has the most kissable mouth but his nose is almost too small for his face, the shape of which is masculine and tender. He has a high forehead and dark, soft, short hair. Jesus Man sometimes reads a very heavy bible. At first I could hope he was simply a student of theology. I could think he was reading the bible for literary purposes and literary purposes alone! But there was a calm about him that seemed to suggest otherwise. Plus, I want him. I have a perverse fascination with religious zealots. The monk boys who would hand out flyers in New York? All those beards? Oh my! Yes, I want him, so he’s most likely a born again. DAMMIT.

Have I failed to mention, diary, that Jesus Boy has the loveliest beard, cause he does. He has a delicious beard.

But the other day I saw him hand out pamphlets. He didn’t give me one. I don’t think he likes me. I suspect he knows I’m a heathen / recovered slut, and wants nothing to do with me, which doesn't seem fair, really. I mean, shouldn't he be trying to *save* me? Isnt' that his job as a zealot?

I also suspect that he knows I stare at him. I suspect this because he’s caught me staring several times, and still I stare! He catches me and then pretends to sleep so he won’t have to catch me again. When he closes those frightening preceptors of his, I find I can look straight into them without blushing.

Please forgive me Jesus boy lust object, for I have a sinner’s heart and I cannot help myself. Your pamphlet, I saw it, says “Jesus loves you so much….IT HURTS.”

And I think:

HURT ME JESUS! HURT ME! PLEASE, YES, JESUS IN HEAVEN AND WITH ALL YOUR MERCY, HURT ME.

Oh, Jesus boy, where is this bus taking us both?

Later that evening, I went to throw away my coffee in a garbage can last night and stopped myself – just in time – from coming into direct contact with a rat’s tail. A living rat’s tail. A rat, more scared of me than I of it – and so he must have been terrified – that scampered away as I screeched loud enough to hear myself even though I was listening to my walkman.

Rodents are cute. Rodents are interesting. Rodents in Los Angeles aren’t as large and intimidating as rodents in NYC. But these wild bringers of the plage, smaller than my foot, terrify me. And my hand nearly touched one.

Live and let live, I say. It's his street as much as it is my own. Moreso, even. I wouldn’t want the rat to come to harm. Unless it was in my apartment, and then I would gleefully egg my cats on towards the rat’s violent, bloody, horrible end. THE UGLY BEAST, my ugly heart would cry, MURDER IT DEAD!

Sawyer nearly made me forget that rat. Nearly.

What else?

I’m crampy and tired today.

But I’m wearing a cute outfit! An eyelet skirt, just below the knee. Of course, I’m unshaved. Wooly legs, winter bush, a femalian hairsuit to conserve my body heat until spring. Besides, I’ve got blonde leg hair. You can’t even see it unless the sun glints just so, and then each individual hair sticks out at attention, turning my legs into dandelion wishes.

Today I have a wishborn heart, waiting to be pulled apart. Who will pull me apart, dear diary? Or will it be a few? Attach me to horses and then have me drawn and quartered. Perhaps I can split into four parts, like a single celled organism, and become four Audras. A good, noble Audra. A moral relativist Audra. A Libertine Audra. An eeeeeeeeevil Audra with eeeeeeeeevil clever plans; I could have a British accent!

I have no time for romance, dear diary. Only time for crushes on actor’s backs, Jesus boys, and too great a love for my own EGGO. Leggo my Eggo and maybe then I can find love.

Until then, nothing comes between me and my ENORMOUS pile of books sitting on my desk. Tonight I think I’ll make a list of which books to read first.

And perhaps buy some odor eaters for my shoes. I don’t often wear socks and the foot duds I’m wearing right now? I can actually smell them. I bet my co-workers can smell them. Poor co-workers. Poor Audra. Poor dear, dear diary.

I love you, diary. Secret keeper. Keeper of my honey bee thoughts.

Kisses,
Audra

[UvaGirl]

Originally Posted by Eliza Hodgkins 1812

I’m sorry, but 28 is not actually young anymore. It’s simply not old.

When people refer to me as a woman, I cringe. Woman? Hardly. Girl person, more like. Or woman shaped creature.

Perhaps I am the Perpetual Pubescent. A Twittering Tremulous Teen? Or just plain irresponsible, just plain immature.

So strange. I was thinking similar thoughts (about me, not you) jsut this morning. Unfortunately, it brings up terrible memories of that Britney Spears song ~ Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman

But seriously, I think I'm perpetually 17. And when I'm not 17, I'm about 23. But not my real age. Not 28. <sigh>

[Gn2Dlnd]

I drown in your literary riptide. My mere typings are but a teaspoon, found on the beach.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

Originally Posted by UvaGirl

So strange. i was thinking similar thoughts (about me, not you) jsut this morning. Unfortunately, it brings up terrible memories of that Britney Spears song ~ Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman

But seriously, I think I'm perpetually 17. And when I'm not 17, I'm about 23. But not my real age. Not 28. <sigh>

A fellow 28-er! We should start a club because those are MY ages, as well. I either feel 17 or 23. Exactly! How strange this is. And I, too, have thought about the Britney Spears song...and cringed. LOL.

[Not Afraid]

I'm 29. Do I count?

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

Originally Posted by Not Afraid

I'm 29. Do I count?

Yes. You always count.

[UvaGirl]

Hehehheh...Britney. So cringeworthy...

Back to the subject at hand. 28 is a strange age. People expect you to be a grown up, with grown up ideals & goals & accomplishments and yet, in most cases, I feel less grown up than I did in my early twenties. Maybe it's fear. Maybe it's an unwillingness to grow up. But to be honest, I'm kind of fine with it. If I feel like this when I'm 40, however, I might be worried...

[dsnylndmom]

Audra, you are so wonderful! I love to read anything you write, whether it's literary genius like above or a "please put the seat down" note taped to the toliet.

[Ponine]

It's odd, but when I think of myself when not giving much detail to the thoughts, I tend to forget that I am indeed a mere month away from 36.
I still see myself as the youngest one in the office, though I am, and since my coworkers feel compelled to refer to me as a youngster or little girl, it keeps me thinking that I am still about 25.

Never mind the fact that a great many people dont believe that I am my age. And in fact believe the myth , and perpetuate it, that I am in fact and under 30 person.
And now that I am on the weight loss kick, if I do in fact lose weight, althought that would be wonderful, it would only increase the misconceptions.

I dont feel like an adult. However I do tend to act like an adult. To steady and calm for the young set, too set in my ways.
But I dont refer to myself as an adult.....
How odd that stikes me now. And how odd that I dont seem to be alone in this thought.

(But as a side note, I love electronic billing)

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Originally Posted by Not Afraid

I'm 29. Do I count?

Apparently, you count badly.

I'll be 28 in 3 months. Will I enter a similar malaise? I dig my age, wherever I'm at, pretty much. I think 27 is all grown up...isn't it?

Aud, you should totally hit on that Jesus man. Can't you see that the reason he didn't give you a pamphlet is because you make him think sinful thoughts, and they make him extremely nervous in your presence? He doesn't want you to repent. You should teach him a lesson in sin.

Was it a rat or a mouse? We caught some beautiful mice in our apt and set them free. They were the cuteset things ever. I could hardly bear to part with them.