Monday, 01/26/04 - 4:40 pm.
My friends Art and Cel came over last night for a little while. I was going to ask them if they were back together, because they looked very playful with each other, but I chose not to, to avoid creating an awkard situation, out of ignorance and bad timing.
I ask Cel (I found her online later on), and she tells me they're the best of friends now. I don't doubt it, but it's kind of odd. For me, anyway. He helps her with her make-up, for example. That's nice, and that only reminded me of my wish to have a gay best friend (seriously, I need someone to teach me how in the fuckin' world you wear make-up and what each type of make-up is called). Because let's face it: girls are too complicated and boys are too dangerous. But I wouldn't know if a gay friend is the solution, either.
During dinner last night, my dad mentioned that he's been advised to see a psychologist. I always thought he was somehow depressed, with all the things that go on in his personal life. But he needs one because of his stressful-self that GETS UPSET OVER EVERYTHING AND NOTHING! Goddammit. I love my dad, but he's already given me a deeper insight on why people die. Old people, I mean. I love him and I'm worried about him. I hope he gets a fuckin' grip, that's all it really takes for him to get better. His attitude of taking everything too serious (specially the diseases...he thinks he has) is also harmful for the ones who surround him.
At some point of the conversation, my mom and my brother Carlos (both psychologists) said that "in fact, all psychologists should take one". Meaning a test, to see if you're emotionally stable. In my mind, I jumped and screamed: "I need a therapist!", but then I realized I actually have not been feeling too bad lately. In and since Houston (besides the first days after I came back) I've been feeling ok. A little numb and empty, but that's better than feeling sad.
I started to think what I'd tell a therapist, or a psychologist. "Hi, listen...we're gonna be colleagues. How are you feeling? I always feel fine, isn't that neat? And I also cut myself sometimes". It'd be fun, but thinking carefully about it, thank God I'm not going to a therapist and thank God I keep everything to myself. Like the first semester at college, when I used to come home at 8:30 and cry endlessly. It's a good thing I never told my mom. I swear one night I was thisclose to go and tell her "mom, get me some help, please".
Speaking of which, I cannot wait until 3rd year of psychology to start seeing patients at the clinic in my university. I promise I'll be a good therapist, and I'm going to save lives.
My brother brought back my other brother's work-out machine, so I ran for 20 minutes today, after getting out of bed. It's weird, feeling tired out while you feel a rush inside of you. Working out is a good way to start the day, seriously. After working out and taking a shower, I opened my windows. And so on, I'm not going to describe the whole day. I just wanted to say I opened my windows, because I like to open windows.
I thought I had Fahrenheit 451 in the library (it's the studio, actually, but my dad likes to call such vast collection of books "the library"), but I couldn't find it. Shame, really, I need to read a good book. I stood on a couch in the study, though, and I found a collection of 100 books, on the last, highest shelf. They've always been there, as far as I can remember, but I've never been too drawn to them (I read Dorian Gray once, but the book was so old the pages were falling off...and someone had already done a lousy job trying to fix it, because after page 26 came page 95).
In any case, I was (I am) craving a mindfuck, if the term is allowed. So I started to read the names, until I got to 83, Virginia Woolf. I saw The Hours in Houston, and since then I was curious about Woolf's books. The name of the book was Flush.
I didn't like the name, Flush, reminds me of hygiene and toilets. But I grabbed it and started to read it. It's a pretty book (it's a pretty dog), and her writing is beautiful. I read a sentence and I realize I could never write such idea with such words. And since I'm not a critic, words fail me to say anything else about the book that could pass up as clever.