my name is judge

I'm just not sympathetic enough. And people exhaust me. Social interaction exhausts me; those small, vindictive compromises you're obliged to make (average of 11 svc/hr) to ensure that feathered tutus aren't ruffled and the eggs are intact for the omelette everyone's always dreamed of. The disappointments and offenses you're forced to take on your knees, eye contact never wavering, always resolute but utterly demeaned.

There are so many things on the verge of happening -- like little lemmings quivering with repressed longing to jump down some rocky cliff. Their tight, jagged bodies bursting into singular brightly coloured pixels once they reach ground zero. But all I want to do is lie in bed and hide from the world. Just for a little bit. Or maybe go climb up a mountain. Stand on a cliff and make it majestic with the certainty that I would never jump.

It's not healthy. (But I love it. I don't know why.)

It's the same old theories, sloshing in my head like some futile, chaotic soup. No resolutions in sight, thanks. Always the same: talking heads feeding each other, reaching towards each other, warped and wet and all teeth (hardly any gums). It's those things no one wants to do, neatly dropped on to your lap like a drooling baby from a parent near-dead with exhaustion and resentment.

So obscure, Li. It's not 1998 anymore. Short stories about death in the high school paper this is not. Was I in high school in 1998? I can't remember. I hate reading my old stuff. (Which explains why I routinely delete entries... sometimes whole blogs.) Shit, I was in high school in 1998.

I miss home. Or maybe it's because I've stayed put for too long?