2005-02-23 - 7:04 p.m.
As I settle deeper into my unwilling spinsterhood, I find myself wishing I corresponded more widely.
The highlight of my day is the McAnally's Digests. I get so excited when they arrive, like a new book. But the sense of separation persists. I don't *really* know these people; they don't *really* know me, any more than the people on Diaryland whose journals I follow like some sort of serial novel.
I want to know them, on some level. I consider writing something in their guest book, or essaying some comment, but on the other hand, what really is there to say? If I had something relevant, something pertinent to say, then maybe I could break that fourth wall.
But I don't.
It always breaks down to some pathetic fanboy inanity; "I like you.", "I think yer kewl"; the Century of the Fruitbat's version of "what's yer sign?". It's one thing to not care what people think about you in the everday world, and quite another to go begging. We are judgemental fucks, one and all; it takes so little to create a negative, and conversely it's so hard to create that sparkage of positive.
So distance persists.
I don't know why it turned out this way. It's an amusing story, to tell that I "never played well with others", but amidst that amusement is a certain amount of regret. I don't mean to be distant. I don't think I'm cold. It's not the result of any effort on my part. It's not conscious. And yet it is what it is, no? Because here we are.
Which apparently I mean as the royal 'we'; cause there's only me here, right?