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01-21-02 - 11:09 p.m. Janet called me to ask me a million questions tonight. I wish she'd stop doing that. I've stopped seeing her. I didn't make any appointments with her secretary. That wasn't a mistake. I don't want to see her because, with her, seeing involves speaking and I'm tired of talking all the time. (Writing is different. This is my release. The fact that I share it is immaterial. If you bring up in conversation with me something I've written here, I'm likely to get angry. You're supposed to read and, if you wish, comment either in my guestbook or, for fellow Diarylanders, by leaving me a note. I don't like to talk about my feelings. So get over it and just read and accept and don't expect me to explain shit to you. Audience participation is sorely frowned upon. And NO, Patti, I am NOT directing this at you. Goddammit...I shouldn't have to say that.) Anyway... Janet asked me why I had neglected to tell her about my San Francisco trip. She called it "Frisco." That has to be the most annoying city nickname I have ever heard in my entire life. Who the hell calls it "Frisco?!" I told her I had forgotten. "Slipped my mind." She told me that it was very irresponsible of me to keep such information from her and from George and Sharon. I interjected that "Kellie knew!" but she didn't think that was quite the same. I coughed at that point and she asked me if I was still smoking, and what. "Cigarettes and yes," I told her. "You know that's not good," Janet babbled. "I know it's not good." "Your lungs are still weak from pneumonia, aren't they?" "They're fine." "Do you cough a lot?" "No." "Is that the truth?" "Like you'd believe me anyway." "So you do cough frequently?" "What part of 'I want to die slowly and painfully' don't you understand?" "Why slowly and painfully?" "Because quick and painless hasn't ever worked." "I think you need some time off." "I think you're wrong." I had told her, earlier in the conversation, about my dream, meaning to share something whimsical, but she turned it against me, saying that if I was having, even subconsciously, thoughts involving murder, that I needed some "specific and intensive psychotherapy." What I need is a bullet to the brain. But that wouldn't work. I've come close to trying, tasted gun metal before. It's greasy and cold. Nothing works. Slow and painful is the way. /End feeling sorry for self.
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