Andare, Partire, Tornare

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Wanted: A pair of testes and the will to use them

You'd think that growing up in a peripatetic household would make me accustomed to change, but truth to tell, most forms of it scare me to death. That's probably because, deep down, I'm still not actually convinced that I'm an adult, and that I do have the power and capability to decide on and then execute these decisions with a fair amount of competence.

I'm also a total wuss about confrontations. Angry voices make me back down, for the most part - although on rare occasions I have been able to stand up for myself in what I hope is a quiet and dignified manner, and not a meek, pleading one. I inherited that from my father, I think - my mom certainly is not one to back down from things, and my dad was the sort to eat a bad dinner rather than ask the waitress to take it back. I'm not quite that bad, but my reaction to most situations is to placate, soothe, and, if I can manage it without aggravating the situation any more than I can help it, express my side of the story, my discontent, stand up for my rights. But only, you know, if it doesn't bother you too much.

Which is why I'm in such a muddle right now, letting things get to me until I have a semi-permanent ball of stress lodged just to the left of my torso, near my heart, near my stomach, an unyielding knotted skein of lumpish misery. All because I'm going to stand up for myself in a minor matter, because I am going to claim rights that I already have, and am just not exercising. God forbid there not be peace in the valley, and especially forbid that I be the one causing trouble.

I need to grow a pair of balls. On second thought, that would greatly startle the Bemo during our next intimate encounter. Maybe people have loaner sets I can rent. As long as they've been thoroughly sanitized for my protection.

9:02 p.m. - 2003-01-14

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