someone here smells like barbecue sauce

This was transcribed from my paper journal.

26 April 2010. Waiting at Civic Center for the train home.

I thought I might make it to writing group tonight, but my head is pounding. Pounding, pounding; it must be stress. My life has become this dull spiral of stress and sickness and waiting for the other shoe to drop. I hate waiting for components of wedding planning, of grad school apps. I never know where the edges are, when things are finished. I throw myself outwards but I’m on a rubber cord so I bounce right back in.

Someone here smells like barbecue sauce. I am sitting on the round marble bench I never sit on because I am tired and my head throbs with the train sounds. Here is my train but it is full. I could press myself into it but that thought makes me queasy. Still so claustrophobic; see, it wasn’t a phase. No more trains. I will wait. As ever. Always waiting. The fact of it is depressing. All I do is wait. At work, I wait for someone to come up to me and say something and then I can help them. I am so fucking sick of waiting.

I am angry almost all the time, if I think about it. I try not to think about it. If I focus on how I am feeling, it is all just anger. I am angry at ignorant people, at Facebook, at cliques, at the apparent death of SFlickr. I am angry when I am talked to and angry when I am not talked to enough. I am angry about how okay it is to not know anything about the future of my job. I am angry at all the people who write terrible things about city workers, that we should all lose our jobs, that we are all useless and stupid. I am angry at the sound of someone spitting on the sidewalk. This in particular enrages me, and whenever it happens, I split down the middle: one half imagines turning around and screaming at the spitter, and the other half stares at the first half, curious as to why this makes her so crazy.

Crazy, crazy. That word is everywhere in my head. So many things are crazy. All this petty anger is crazy. Crazy. The word itself is a loose handle, something that cannot be held for long. How does a person smell like barbecue sauce? As soon as I write this, I do not want to know the answer.

I remember days separated by small mistakes and triumphs instead of headaches, stomachaches. Will it be head or gut today? I will replace both with feathers. No one will know the difference.

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