Sunday, 5 July 2009

Up beat

So a pile on the bed one minute, then I'm deciding I'm ok and I need eat a quick salad and to put in contacts and speed to town for some dancing. Snap decision, out of hole, then a guy in a cunty car bips me and I'm just crying nudged up to the pavement. GA. I hate crying in public it's so degrading, apart from if it's bawling, like when those girls thought I was in real trouble and I was so glad to be rescued, that was very raw.

It was good to chat just then. Not like a problem shared is one halved, but like a problem doubled and divided by two is a bit smaller than the originals. Something is skimmed off the edges, like feet skin. I want my feet to be smaller. And I think at least a half size would be possible. I bet the royals have really small feet. Shaved feet. My shoes killed today. Only two hours. Part of me just wants to be a professional dancer, so bad! I love them all, I do! But the scene, yuk. Wrap tops and legwarmers and loads of manmade fabrics. Part of me is enrolling on a course at Laban. Another part is writing a cookbook. Another part is sectretly painting. Another part is in bed feeling like a lost ship.

I didn't revisit the problem, but felt comforted when she agreed it was ok to talk it out. The automatic response is not exactly bespoke, and I am almost unique (!). There are no rules here, or anywhere, I make them. I am free and I can say and do as I please, and I wouldn't want to regret not being angry enough, or not talking things out enough, not consolidating things for my own sense. Part of me abhors a cheat, part of me sees him as the difference between a day, or even an hour, if you were to be so callous. I make the rules. Others can help but our answers are our own. I need new rules.

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