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One day I wrote something about something that bothered me, and it received no response, and it hasn't changed. So much for thinking I was being transparent.
Nov. 4th, 2002
I have been battering about ideas. Things I have been meaning to do, to write about, to define. One of them is, "What does it take to be my lover?" And if you think I mean sex, go read some Plato.
One of them is the thought that I may be naturally depressed. My heart rate, blood pressure and body temperature are all low. I have never been fast. I cannot run quickly or play music quickly or do a lot of things quickly. Maybe it's only because I tense up and this stops them.
I am stubborn with problems, and I worry them like a dog with a bone.
I talked to Mark. He said it was going to be ok. I hope so.
One of them is the thought that I may be naturally depressed. My heart rate, blood pressure and body temperature are all low. I have never been fast. I cannot run quickly or play music quickly or do a lot of things quickly. Maybe it's only because I tense up and this stops them.
I am stubborn with problems, and I worry them like a dog with a bone.
I talked to Mark. He said it was going to be ok. I hope so.
Today is my mother's birthday. I have to go find a way to look respectable for dinner with her, and a photograph that my sister wants taken of all of us. She is turning 60, my mother. Jennifer says that she would love to see me and to spend time with me, and I think I would like to do that.
