I should be asleep right now, but since I downed three shots of espresso over the course of my evening shift tonight and then went to spend time with the visiting family afterwards, I can’t shut my brain off and am here, writing, instead. Oh, morning café shift, how bleak you look right now.
I am still very much hurting over the theft of my laptop this past Monday, and part of my lousy mood all week has been feeling that loss during the day (especially considering that I lost it while at work), and then repeating the scenario in my head at night, unable to sleep for all the alternate paths that day could have taken. If only I had… I should never have… I could have…
All of it hurts. The fact that I had gotten so accustomed to the familiarity and friendliness of my workplace as to have let my guard down. The fact that this was something I had so wanted, that I had hinted I wanted to my mother, that she then gifted to me for the holidays: this big, expensive laptop. The self-battering of my own negligence, carelessness, and blatant disregard for city culture. The fact that it’s my first significant theft to impact me so strongly on an emotional level.
Sure, part of me scoffs: all for what? A hunk of replaceable and exorbitantly expensive metal? The fact that I even have a backup laptop, my old college Dell, is suddenly a blessing. A part of me relives the scenario purely to be able to imagine punching in the faces of the two kids who lifted the computer. It is unfortunate that it’s when I am tired and ready for bed that the defenses strip away enough to get to a point of pure emotional vengeance, and it’s enough to kick up my adrenaline and make it that much harder to fall asleep.
It doesn’t help that I’ve continued to get mildly intrusive and disturbing phone calls from someone in response to the craigslist ad I placed, asking about my missing laptop.
In the midst of everything, I am debating whether to get a new laptop, which seems more and more necessary given the kind of work I am doing, and if so, whether to replace the Macbook Pro or shoot for a more ergonomical and economically-feasible PC. Most PCs with similar specs to my Macbook are equally powerful at a third of the cost. I recognize that if I bought a Macbook, a large part of the money is going to the brand name tax and the aluminum unibody.
Yet, as so many Macbook owners can attest to, having used one now makes it extremely hard to go back to PCs. I can rationalize wanting to replace what I’ve lost in an attempt to keep my new status quo. And Macbooks are so different from PCs, whereas I’d have no issue switching between, say, a Dell and a Lenovo. This is purely on the body design, because, as a third option, I could also buy a cheaper PC and install Snow Leopard or Ubuntu to run on it instead.
So many thoughts running through my head. And there are a bunch of Valentine’s Day sales on electronics over the weekend, which makes it tempting to just bite the bullet and purchase a $500-600 laptop now. (Though why electronics should go on sale for Valentine’s Day mystifies me; are iPads the new rose bouquet and chocolate package?)
I doubt I will, though. I’m not a very impulsive shopper, even in thrift stores. I hate accumulating more physical “stuff.” And yet, I still want another Macbook Pro. Ugh, I reek of consumerism.
The other topic that I’ve been considering seriously is developing a more regular climbing and workout regimen. At the moment I have been trying to make it to the climbing gym once a week, and I’d like to also attend their weekly yoga classes as well, though so far the 7:30am class time remains a daunting goal. And this entire concept of a regular exercise schedule is so foreign to me. For a while, in my teens, I shunned the idea of exercise for the sake of physical fitness, believing that physical fitness should be maintained through actual labor that also accomplishes something else. I so disdained the idea of pure, abstract exercise, with its tinge of privilege and class.
Yes, I had rather quite a few high headed beliefs as a teenager. And I’d like to think I’m not so self-righteously perched on that marble pedestal anymore. However, a direct consequence of this belief has been that I’ve never prioritized exercise mentally, nor have I formed habits for keeping to an exercise schedule.
Surely it cannot be that difficult. And since my climbing gym in fact is a full workout gym as well, I have very little excuse to not get in better shape and increase my flexibility. On a bright note, despite not having climbed for the past couple of months, after just a few trips to the gym I’m already getting on 5.10b routes, which I never attempted while at school. And I get a better endorphin high and have more fun climbing than I ever will running or working the ellipticals.
And, yes, for anyone who’s already thought this, a large part of my increased level of interest and awareness of my physical fitness is, indeed, to be able to handle more as a rope bottom. What can I say? We all have our vices, alas.
(Oh, let me amend that. At the last Exiles munch, I arm-wrestled with three of the attendees, and lost to two of them. There’s plenty of motivation right there!)
Two nights ago, I left a crowd of crying, cheering, clapping, hugging young college students at a frat house to walk across campus, where my car was parked. As I breathed in the frosty autumn air, chills ran down the back of my neck and down my spine, not because of the cold, but in response to the echoes of shrieks, shouts, car and air horns reverberating through the air. War cries of victory swept down the roads, from common room to common room, and people hugged and danced in the streets.
Yes we can. Yes we did. The chanting began, and soon thousands of students were marching through campus to the president’s house, demanding a speech. The message was clear and loud: We Won.
And, scattered throughout dorms and houses, in smaller groups that remained quiet, other students cried different tears, turned their televisions off, and maybe downed a shot of whiskey. The message was clear there, too: They Lost.
While I am thrilled that the candidate I voted for has been chosen to lead this country, I did not share in the revelry of so many others. Instead, while walking the short distance to my car to go home that night, I wished that there wasn’t such a sharp contrast of Us versus Them in the political sphere. I guess it is instinctual as the social animals we are to divide things into such two distinct parties: with or against. It is survivalist, it is conservative, and it preserves our traditions. Humans, in general, do not like, appreciate, or support change. And we are, always, aware of the Other. There always has to be an enemy, right?
I’ve realized this in terms of how I personally deal with breakups. The guy has to be an asshole, and I mentally emphasize his assholish traits in order to sever my emotional attachment to him and to rationalize the breakup. Not that the whole thought process is rational, but it makes sense, in a way.
But, as with the whole political atmosphere, I’m starting to realize how harmful and self-destructive that can be. SR recently e-mailed me, after a month-long silence, asking after me and whether or not I was still planning the threesome. I immediately went on the defensive (hackles raised and everything, because why would he ask me about sex except to get me riled up?) but it wasn’t until he contacted me again asking why I had blocked him on instant messenger that I unleashed a month’s worth of anger and stress upon him via e-mail (sprinkled liberally with sarcasm that was amplified by my being so sick these past few days that I can’t swallow without feeling like I just drank a rusty razor blade puree).
And again I feel the impasse building between us. I wish he had just left well enough alone and never contacted me. I wish I didn’t feel like I have to label him the Enemy. How do I deal with this mess, when there are so many other things demanding my attention and energy? I feel so very tired, and I just want to be able to swallow normally again.
In other news, I had a most titillating dream a few nights ago, in which a friend of mine sat crying, hair covered in sudzy shampoo, in my childhood bathtub. I don’t remember why she was crying, but I remember reaching over and half-smoothing her hair back, half-washing the shampoo away. We were both naked and alone in the bathroom. And then she leaned in and bit/suckled on my nipple, and I gasped in pure pleasure and lust.
And there was a moment of pleasure before I awoke to razor blades in my throat.
May I never experience the managerial idiocy that the poor souls at Where is Bob? have to face daily. At once hilarious and depressingly sad, I’ve become instantly addicted to this blog that details the misadventures of working in a university IT group under a completely incompetent manager.
In other news, I had a most unexpected dream last night. I was in some kind of shadowy replica of a dorm room, chatting with a shifting number of girls. At one point, there is only one other girl, also Chinese, sitting on the bed. I can’t stop staring at her eyes, and suddenly we’re making out, lips pressed and drawing air like we depend on each other’s breath to live. My ears and face feel hot where her fingers press into my skin – and somehow I know that my physical, dreaming body is reacting to the imagery. And then her hand dips down between intertwined legs and against my groin. I mimic her movements, and feel my fingers sinking into soft, wet flesh. I push further, feel her muscles tightening around the two fingers now buried inside her. The contact is overwhelming.
I wish I could remember more of what happened afterwards, but the image fades from there. I may have been on the cusp of waking at that point.
It must be all this teasing to SR of how I’m going to get a girl with a strapon when he’s not around.
In this page out of Sandman: The Doll’s House, the female character, Rosie Walker, says, “Say, whoever you are. Do you know what Freud said about dreams of flying? It means you’re really dreaming about having sex.”
To which Morpheus, Sandman, and Lord Shaper of Dreams, replies, “Indeed? Tell me, then, what does it mean when you dream about having sex?”
I had the most vivid dream last night. And it was about having sex. This dream, however, has stood out in my mind, probably partially because of the lack of any actual sex, and the fact that it feature one of my girl friends. And the fact that we were sharing one guy.
One scene out of the numerous dream-scenes I remember especially clearly was that I rode this guy, helpfully condomed, on top, and I could feel my orgasm cresting with each undulation of my hips. I’ve no memory of who the guy was, but he was thick and hard, and that was all that mattered because I was coming in shallow gasps.
But, no, even that was not the most memorable part of the dream, because it soon cut to my friend’s turn with the guy. And, it still fills my head and my ears to remember it now, they both tore at each other, rough and loud and panting. I watched, awed, as the guy thrust his hands into my friend’s pussy, stretching it and manhandling her, while she moaned for more, harder, faster. It was disturbing, grotesque, but I couldn’t turn away.
And then she is gone, in a room somewhere with another guy, and I am inexplicably filled with a deep and brooding envy, because I want to be in that room. I wander aimlessly around the giant house of endless rooms, ending up in one vaguely reminiscent of my kitchen at home. And here things get even funkier, as dreams often do, because I am suddenly determined to make Jell-O with another friend who has appeared in the kitchen. We mix the powder and add pieces of fruit, but I want it to be sparkling Jell-O, and add flattened seltxer water and Sprite in the attempt.