On strike

I'm not sure if this is permanent or a temporary brain fart due to mental fatigue. I stopped coloring my hair, letting the grey come in at the temple, stopped wearing any and all makeup, stopped wearing jewelry except for a mogen david and wear nothing but simple slacks and shirt.
Coat collar pulled up, bag tightly held, eyes down, find a seat, pull out book, avoid all humans.
I'll never make it as a certified yid, I dont like people enough and that's the truth. I like people at a distance, on paper, in theory, as specimens, house plants or pets. You can't expect much more than an occasional lick or new leaf, more than that breeds disappointment.

I've been sick so that's one valid excuse for going on strike. The other excuse is I did all these things before and during marriage and I could've danced naked on Broadway, he would have strayed because he said it was his right to do as he liked. Paint yourself like a tart and bake and cook yourself into exhaustion. He didnt like cotton underwear and would buy these tarty outfits for me to slip into after a 12 hour day. Its not his fault, I married him hoping that endless love and cooking would be his rehab into democratic civilization, what a hoot. My father o"s used to say, can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear...


If Andrea Dworkin were alive I would have written her a love letter. She saved my life last year.I wasnt thinking of thanking her for keeping me alive, but for her insight and strength. I spent the last 6 months I was trapped living with him, reading "Heartbreak" over and over. Read it like medicine to keep on track, to move forward, keep going and focused. Then a colleague at work was in a funk and I gave it to her for strength.
I think it was too raw for her...she never said a word about reading it. I rarely part with books unless it seems like a fit, I hope the book found a reader and a home.

I'm so tired...