My So-called Life -- genius show. It makes me think of walking home from the bus stop after school in the fall, and I'd have homework to do but would never do it. In those days I looked forward to coming home and watching all of the shows I recorded on VHS, including snipets of recordings of MTV interviews of Billy Corgan and Billie Joe. In those days, dinner was still being served in this house, my dad still lived here, and he would come home from work around 4... I'd hate to hear that garage door open because I knew who would be walking through it, ready and willing to break me down in any way he could. After dinner, I'd close myself off in my room, and listen to music. I didn't have the internet back then... no one did, and I can't even fathom that now. That's actually weirding me out a bit thinking about it. I loved cold, clear nights, right before the sun went down -- it always reminded me of a church steeple and I don't understand why. My grandmother was still alive then and life wasn't quite as complex as it is now. I had no clue what I was in for. I miss the feeling of looking forward to such miniscule things like watching and re-watching a concert I had previously recorded. I remember I couldn't wait to go to bed and pretend I was someone else... someone desireable. I had this entirely fabricated life as I laid in my bed, where my name was Chrissy, and I wasn't quite so ugly as I am in reality. It was a place where I could get as much attention as I wished I had in reality. Thinking back, this is probably why I slept so much. As time goes by, I have a hard time believing anything existed before this point. When I think about my dad having lived here, I feel as though he never really did... that somehow it never really happened or it happened to someone else. I look back as though my life was lived by someone else -- someone other than me. It's hard to explain, I suppose. Time seems to go by so quickly, and reflecting back, I can see the different chapters of my life and it's so hard for me to accept that those times are gone. I can't even convey how terrifying that is for me, and the cold, hard fact of this reality is like a knife stabbing me repeatedly; twisting ocassionally in mockery of the things that are unstoppable. My aunt Sally always used to sit on the couch, always at the bend, and she'd sigh and say, "time marches on." It does, indeed, march on. It's a morbid march. It's an unforgiving and unyielding march. There I go again -- being too sentimental and not being able to help it whatsoever.
The death march
5:29 a.m.//12.01.04
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