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[personal profile] improperlyhuman
I became angry this evening while I was sitting next to the highway outside the laundromat and waiting for my laundry to dry. It was a surprisingly oblique anger, something I cannot remember ever having experienced before, something I struggled to recognize as anger. I suppose that is because anger wasn't the primary emotion. The primary emotion seemed to be a kind of confused, scattered anxiety.

There was something mildly ominous about the way the thoughts snuck up, as through cracks in my mind, forming and playing out, seemingly without my control. Yet they were so similar in content to my by now typical anxious thoughts about what people think of me. It was as if part of me (the body, perhaps) was relaxed while another part (the mind?) seemed to gradually succumb to these bitter fantasies of others' thoughts and the attendant worries. But perhaps the succumbing was not so gradual, but only gradual entered my consciousness.

And then, as I sat wondering at these destructive and random ruminations, and perhaps still partially "asleep" in my relaxation, something began to seep upwards though the holes that had been created by the anxiety-provoking scenarios: the incoherent, foreign-seeming anger.

I wondered that I should be angry about things that had very likely never happened, thoughts people likely had not entertained. But those things were not what angered me. The anxiety angered me. The stress, the wondering, the worrying, the insecurity. The lack of a comfortable groove to fit into, the feeling distanced from everyone.

It's madness. I scarcely know these people. These awful thoughts come to me unbidden. The really absurd thing is that I don't, in a sense, much care about what they think. I drop down into sub-conscious worry out of a sub-conscious need to cover all the bases, to keep myself ahead of the game, in a favorable position. Something that's not always possible.

Just a thought, right? I needn't dwell on it. It's just that I'm usually more or less conscious of descending into anxious thoughts and feel that I am directing them, however unwillingly. But not this time. Strange. I was comfortable and in a content and thoughtful mood...then irritated. In between, a blurry transition that I didn't quite get a look at.

I'm listening to some Tony Bennett/Bill Evans recordings as I type this. Why do I say that; scarcely anyone knows who they are. I hate it when people name their favorite artists in their profiles (especially when the list of artists is long). I think to myself, don't you realize that there are a million different music artists, and a ton of people will not recognize anyone on your list?

Anyways, the recordings made me sad when I first put the music on. I've wanted to be a pianist my whole life. I asked my dad for piano lessons when I was young, surely no more than 8 or 9. Of course I never got the lessons. I remember strategically not asking for other things, vainly hoping that someone would notice and decide to apply the saved money to piano lessons. I wonder if any of them ever noticed when I was a "good kid."

Oh, yes. The symptom. Another of the symptoms the rheumatologist warned me about. I'd noticed it before but paid it little attention. Swollen joints. My ankles and my feet look swollen. I can't think of what may have caused them to swell. On one or two occasions, I've felt a strange, sharp, burning pain in my ankles. Last night, my right ankle fell asleep despite my not having it in a position favorable to falling asleep. I was simply sitting in this chair.

The swelling is subtle and unaccompanied by other physical symptoms; I struggled to feel confident that I was actually seeing swelling. Well, I took pictures on Obamaphone 2, so the doctor can decide.

I sat outside the laundromat for a while, and, staring at the cobbled pavement, visualized what would happen if I had lupus, got sicker, began to deteriorate on my way to dying. Such morbid shit is not uncommon with me.

I came across another good editing project based on Google Docs. So I finally got a Google account today. I signed up in the library. I had planned out a way to get around the phone verification, but I didn't need the plan. Though it did not work before, I signed up as a teenager and, as the online tip promised, was not asked to verify my account. I think a Google account that I created at the library's IP address, without my real name, age, country, or other identifying information attached, that I intend to use only through Tor, is a sufficiently safe setup.

Look at all this trifling bullshit I'm going on about. I'm in a strange mood this evening, I suppose.

Summer is here and it is a horror. The heat never lets up inside the apartment. I can't afford to run the air conditioning for very long, and it is during the day so hot outside that opening windows makes the apartment hotter if anything. That would all be endurable if only I could freely open the windows at night. But with nightfall a wild and alarming variety of insects show up at the windows. Unlike the increasingly common spiders, the small specimens cannot coexist peacefully, for they cease their mad whirling about the light fixtures as soon as I turn the lights off and begin to hop on and off my legs, preventing sleep.

The day before yesterday, I entertained my second large specimen, a creature I at first mistook for another unholy-sized cockroach. I was using the bathroom when she crawled in, huge and copper and attention-grabbing. My sounds of frustration morphed into sounds of disgust and horror as I saw her suddenly take flight just inside the bathroom door as she came towards me.

In the next hour or so I spent trying to catch her unharmed (her speed was not so hideously great as the giant cockroach's had been), I decided that she was some sort of beetle. Lacking the long, monstrously waving cockroach antennae, she was not so unpleasant to behold, and I noticed the richness of her copper color.

My diet is proceeding thus: I have (or rather, my metabolism has) reached the point at which I simply won't be bothered to eat so much, yet what I do eat seems, by the hunger pangs, insufficient.
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