12:20:2003 Entry: "Ann : Invisible"
How often has this happened to you...you're talking to a parent on the phone and they say, "So-and-so asked about you." So-and-so you knew ages ago, before you were your own person. Unfortunately, you suspect so-and-so still isn't their own person, never have been, and never will be. If they were, you'd be happy to know how So-and-so themself is doing, but you're not. You could care less how So-and-so is, and have forgotten about them except for the fact that your parent reminded you of their existence, and perhaps the occasional bad memory of them breaking your glasses or assorted juvenile insults.
Why should So-and-so care how I'm doing? Does she want to hear sordid stories of how I'm a miserable failure, so she can feel better in her own life? Does she want to be tickled by tales of my whacky lifestyle? Ann, the never-ending source of infinite amusements. Is she expecting my mom to pull out the latest wallet-sized image of her daughter so that So-and-so can be satisfied to know that yes, even *I*, the little beanpole, have put on weight in my old age too. I'm proud to say my mom is not a walking wallet-sized photogallery, so So-and-so will have to keep wondering about my physical likeness, and only take home a small ambiguous morsel-sized serving of "she and her husband are doing fine" to quench her unsatisfied taste for gossip.
At one time Stan and I knew some people who I will refer to as people-we-used-to-know. For reasons best left unsaid, we decided we did not want to know these people anymore. OK, let's just say they were moral reasons. Ooooh, shock, Ann and Stan have morals. Surprise. One day about 8 years ago, they popped in unannounced...no calls ahead, they were just "in town" and having an argument and thought "Ann and Stan wil cheer us up." Excuse me, when was I someone's walk-in entertainment service? Drop by unannounced while we're busy and don't want to be bothered, drop by with your bratty kid who kicks my dog, yeah, that'll cheer me up. I'll become a barrel of jokes for YOUR AMUSEMENT.
To quote Joe Pesci's character from Goodfellas "What do you mean I'm funny?"
When I get solemn, people wonder what is wrong. There is nothing fucking wrong. I just don't always feel like laughing at a stupid silly joke. I lie, I say I'm tired or I have a headache. But in reality, I'm sick of laughing. I'm sick of smiling. I'm sick of surface talk and levity. I want the flesh inside. I want the bone. None of this conversational skin with little or no nutritional value.
I think I'm at this place where no one else other than Stan can understand me. People seem to think of me as a walking Halloween party...dark, gothic, yet fun. The haunted house is done up in various hues of black with whacky lights and candy corn. Behind a closed door is not a plastic skeleton or a bedsheet ghost, but just a plain room without pretense. It's so plain, in fact, it frightens the trick-or-treaters. Everything is put away in drawers so no one can see what is really there. At one time I brought those belongings out, but people didn't see them and tripped over them. Or they asked who they belonged to, not realizing they belonged to me.
I'm sick of the party-goers. It's not Halloween anymore. I've run out of candy.
The party's over.