and if you're up there you'd perceive that my heart's here upon my sleeve.

Surprisingly enough, I meant to disable the comments on my last post of yesterday. Because I don't necessarily mind being emotionally vulnerable to people, but I don't want to talk about it. I don't want it acknowledged. And also, I just didn't want to be a big drama queen. But anyway, I didn't check the disable comments box and people said some nice things, so, uh...thanks. At this point, I will look down at my feet with my hands in my pocket, looking sheepish.

Remarkably enough, I am very grateful of the life I have and the people in it, and don't often give much thought to my missing parents. But that's part of the problem -- I just sort of denied that it bothered me for so long, years even, and now it's sort of creeping on the come-up. Which probably means doomsday is approaching, i.e. the time when it finally comes to a hilt and change effective happens in one form or another.

It amuses me that some people offered to lecture my parents, because I've sometimes had this fantasy of applying for a job with my parents to be their child, and I would not only include a "resume" and essay, but also letters of recommendations from other people. Sort of explicit imagery of how I'm constantly putting myself in these evaluation or litigation scenarios. I have this mental compulsion to prove I'm right, or at least more right than them. I don't want to win the trial based on a preponderance of the evidence -- I want the criminal trial. I wany beyond a reasonable doubt. Hell, I want beyond unreasonable doubt as well.

Last night I watched too much Real World and not enough The Osbournes (my new favorite show). I also ate WAY too much, in part because of Riley's generous gift of Garrett's popcorn on top of my milkshake. And I went to bed and had a dream that me and these 2 other trans guys I know in Chicago (but not on LJ) were hanging out with this big, bearish married bio guy, and we sort of joked about all of us seducing him, then Borders Boy #2 went ahead and did it, ditching us to hangout in the living room watching American Beauty on the big screen TV while they had sex in one of the bedrooms. Borders Boy #1 then whipped out his drug paraphenalia box and I thought he was going to roll a joint, but then I thought he might be preparing to shoot up. I wasn't sure how I felt about participating, but then the wife came home and we started talking about the movie and how I hated it and how she hated it for different reasons I had never thought of. Sometimes, I fcking love my brain and the isht it produces. I mean, my dream wasn't particularly happy or fun, but it was interesting and entertaining.

my baby takes the morning train.

Between staring at computer screens and tiny numbers on the accounting forms, I've developed a mild headache. The kind that make me sleepy. I can doze on the train if I'm lucky to get a seat, which I usually am since I board the last car.

Sleeping on the train is an art form that few have taken the time to master, except for those who spend hours and hours on the trains for the lack of a more comfortable shelter. There's a certain way to balance yourself, to keep from dropping over to your neighbor's shoulder, or worse, jerking backwards and hitting your head on the window or bar. I've done all of these things. I don't do them much anymore. Every once in awhile I'll hit my head when it tips backwards, but that's usually a sign that I'm sleeping too deeply and should be woken up anyway.

The key is to master a light doze. Enough to tune out the passing stations and mumbing commuters and submerge myself in daydream thoughts that start to shape themselves, a cross between REM dreams and drug-induced short-term hallucinations, but without any scariness or weight. But in this state one must not indulge for too long because you'll really fall asleep and go right past your desired stop. It's disorienting enough to wake up on the train and none of the people around you were there when you closed your eyes. It's worse to look out the window and see nothing immediately familiar.

When I lived way north of the city, my commute was about 45 minutes. The perfect length for a deeper sleep, where I could completely tune out during the express phase, and then be lulled back to the waking world when we crossed the city border and all the purple line riders departed.

Nowadays my commute is so short, I get extremely antsy. For some reason, 20 minutes seems less tolerable than 50 minutes. It's not quite long enough to doze, not long enough to really get into a book. I mostly resort to headphones, and close my eyes and relax while under the tunnels. Spring is arriving, so in the evenings, emerging from the tunnels bring sunlight, which reminds me that my stop is next. The hub of three major train lines and the source of frustrating attempts to move down the platform. But once I go through the revolving door, I know I only have a half a block before home, and no grumpy commuter, campaigning politician, or restaurant flyer soliciter can phase me.

Why yes, yes, I do enjoy 5 pm.