The Pervasiveness Of Dirt

This post was penned on Wednesday, but not posted until Thursday, due to jackass internet service people.

I used to hang out on a teen site called Bolt, and I generally got along with people on there, but I do remember one particular verbal scrap I had. I don't know who the girl was; I certainly never talked to her before she started sending me notes, and I can only assume that she took issue to something I put on one of the communal postboards. But whatever the reason, I remember being involved in a good old-fashioned catfight for a week or so, before I discovered the block button. And when I checked out her profile - I wanted to know who had it in for me - I was horrified to find out that she'd listed Jewel as one of her favourite singers. Jewel is one of MY favourite singers, and it somehow seemed terribly wrong that someone of a hostile nature, who claimed to hate everyone who wasn't rich and beautiful, who was clearly lacking both intelligence and kindness, could have any kind of appreciation for the haunting melodies, the subtle mocking of human failings but also the obvious love for people that characterise your average Jewel song.

Stephen Marshall's trial started yesterday. I was supposed to be there, but I had a migraine in the morning and Japanese class in the evening, so I didn't make it to court, which is something that I greatly regret. I currently - as I write this, at least - have no internet. 3 says that they've temporarily cut me off because of a computer virus (although by the time you're reading this, of course I have internet back, or I wouldn't have been able to post this note) so I can't search for information about the trial, and there's very little on the news - more snow plus an earthquake in Haiti have taken over the headlines today. All I know is that as of last night, he had pleaded guilty to dismemberment, but not guilty to murder. *rolls eyes* Because if you find a dead person, the natural way forward is to decide to cut him up and scatter him around in fields, ja?

I go through phases where I'm numb, and then other phases where I can barely speak. Most likely he'll get life in prison, if he's convicted of murder. But as far as I know, Hope Marshall is still missing, and I feel like hell. I feel...well, unclean. And I had this man in my house. I made him tea. He got in my way when I was trying to move the phone around, and I made a joke about trying not to garrotte him with the phone cord, and he laughed. I gave him a couple of cookies, and he told me that they were the best chocolate-chip cookies he'd ever had.

I feel like there's something wrong with me, that I can make cookies that appeal to a man like this.

You guys don't need to tell me how irrational this is. I KNOW it's irrational. But emotions don't always work in line with logic, and my emotions seem to be taking me over this year. And irrational as it is, they feel tainted.

I know that this doesn't mean anything other than the fact that I make damn good cookies that are loved by saints and murderers alike.

All the same, I don't think I'm going to be making them again any time soon.