it was 43 years ago today

being cared about by somebody should not involve having to justify who and what i am. am i fucking naive to feel this way? herein lies the conflict i have always had with my family. i feel like a coherent, kicky, with-it kind o' gal until i'm around them. afterwards i am left wondering what about myself is so obviously fucking fucked up that i am so fucking oblivious of.
obvious and oblivious do not share any common roots but they are almost perfect antonyms. i only just noticed this.
perhaps it is stupid shit like the above sentence that proves my family correct.
the only other person who makes me feel this way is my soon-to-be-ex-husband.
perhaps everyone else in my life is simply more polite.
I FUCKING HATE DOUBTING MYSELF.
I FUCKING HATE COMMUNICATING IN WHAT I CONSIDER TO BE A FAIRLY LUCID, PAINFULLY HONEST FASHION, AND STILL NOT BEING UNDERSTOOD.
enough with the capital letters. that was mighty obnoxious. i apologize. my mindset currently is set to 'guilt.' sorry sorry sorry. i don't want to cause concern, sorrow, pity, obligation, or disgust with anyone.
happier shit, already:
walking from my lair to where i presently is. dark soft night. no annoying coat to weigh me down. the sidewalk feels good. my body moves well. i am very fucking content with my own company and the sensation of air on skin, the sound of my breathing, the rhythm of my steps. i have all the time in the world tonight. the city lights are sharper than usual. fucking peter frampton sings into his talkbox and the crowd cheers and i smile automatically, as usual, because i always imagine how cheesy and yet how fucking cool it would have been to be there. (rather uncool. scratch that. peter frampton is a lily-white twit, the college girl's leif garrett.) someone's clove cigarette on the way here snapping me back to high school and sweet-tasting lips. the funkadelic record in the window at jive time. throngs of hip folk dressed to impress and fuck one another. the paramount theatre sign with the missing lights. the glassblowing neon on 5th. girls with nice asses. polite eye contact. and that was just on the way here.
he let me read his story. and earlier, at the fitfully functional recessed library terminal, i did, unwittingly crossing my legs more and more tightly, getting warmer. he is fucking talented. gleaning optimism out of shit affirms one's aliveness. this seems to be a recurring theme in my little fucking entries, in my little fucking life, and his writing tidily completed the metaphorical triangle. yeah. these are the good things, and how goddamn good they are, so why the fuck do i waste time on the bullshit of the first few paragraphs? were i more sentient i would probably just delete it, so's not to fuck up the veneer of Frivolous Me, but i shall leave this unedited and herky-jerky instead, i guess.
'your time is gonna come' plays. good christ this is a lovely song. it segues to 'into the mystic.' sirius radio is trying to get me off.