that's awasum

You've been chosen as an extra in the movie adaptation of the sequel to your life *
02.11.04 + 10:08 a.m.

I'm sometimes overly aware of other people's feelings. It makes me feel invisible, as if the only reason I can be seen at all is because the energy from other people is refracting off of my surface, and without it, I might disappear.

I don't mean to make myself out as some kind of martyr. Sometimes, though, I feel like an undulating combination of autonomousness and magnetism. I forget how I function in relation to the rest of the world. I forget what I look like. I forget that when I'm walking down the street, I play a cameo in the lives of the strangers who see me.

Some people are stunning when they cry. They look like angels or statues. Some people look exactly the same, the only indication of weeping being the alligator tears barrelling down their cheeks. But, as Mama Rose would say, "'some people' ain't me."

I am a butt-ugly crier. I am not a "weeper," but more of a "burster." Weepers cry gracefully, soulfully. When I cry, I look like I'm carrying a highly contagious disease which causes fever and all sort of facial discharge. You can tell when I'm gearing up to cry about five minutes before the first tears start rolling, and you can tell that I've been crying for at least an hour after they've ceased. I come from a long line of fugly criers, all of our ruddy, florid Irishness coming flush to the surface in response to emotional provocation.

My eyes, nose, and lips become engorged, I become congested to the point of mouth-breathing, and my facial orifices emit a truly juicy cacaphony of blubbers and schnucks. The tears rarely course down my cheeks soas to leave trails on my mottled skin, but instead they burn around the rims of my eyes for a moment before oozing out in awkward rivulets. I don't cry too terribly often, but when I feel tears coming on, there's no stopping them. And I'm almost invariably in a public place when it happens. On the bus, maybe, in the grocery store, or on my cell phone by the corner of Chicago and Dearborn Avenues.

God forbid a hot date take me to a sappy movie. I'm a crier at the movies, oh, most definitely. I can just imagine sitting there after a thus-far great evening (I am the reigning queen of successful first dates, funnily enough,), and then starting to weep as soon as the lights go down. As the ending credits rolled and the lights came up, hypothetical date would turn to the overly emotional, engorged tomato that I'd have become.

"So, Kelly did you like the ... YAH!"

And he'd cringe, grab his coat, turn up his collar, and flee the theatre with his hands shoved deeply into his coat pockets. (I don't know why such a specific image came to mind.) Then I'd look at the camera, sigh, shrug, and say, "There goes another one!" as the studio audience laughter swelled to a crescendo and crysnot congealed on my upper lip.

The worst is when I cry right before going to bed, making me look swollen and hung-over the next morning, no matter how many hours of sleep I got. It is physically impossible for me to fully open my eyes on such days, them being sort of poofy-lidded to begin with; and my entire body cavity feels soggy and slow, as if it's been slaked with molasses. How exhausting.

At the same time, a good cry can be so wonderful. I've felt one building for a few weeks, but I haven't had any impetus specific enough to let loose.

I'm sorry to report that my recently attained healthy stasis is beginning a familiar wane. I can feel it. I'm OK, haven't fallen off the wagon or anything, but ... I don't know ... Apparetnly, there's more work to be done. Think of me?

Some stuff:

-I find it interesting that the vast majority of comments on my previous post pertained to my yummy yummy yeast infection, as opposed to the more universal subject of poop, especially since the bulk of the entry was poop-related. I think it might have something to do with the fact that D-land is rather estrogen-heavy. Don't be afraid to speak up on behalf of defecation, folks! The Balloonians feel neglected!

- I have discovered a newfound love for Mazzy Star.

- This weekend, while I was flossing my teeth, a filling fell out. I'm pretty sure that's not supposed to happen. Irony, thy name is Dental Hygiene.

* = The nipple-hair-for-song-lyric sweepstakes returns!

Identify the artist and song from whence came the title of this post, and I'll send you one of my very own nipple hairs, plucked with my very own teeth. Those of you with whom I've already discussed the lyric, your participation is VERBOTEN!

Sorry, Poo. It's in the small print.

THANKYOUANDGOODNIGHT!

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.
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