I woke up already crying. My belly is cramping like mad and it feels like fear. (It could be dinner, I suppose.)

I talked to my friend yesterday. After meandering a bit I got to the part where, “Painting the fence is freaking me out because every car that drives by slows down and yells at me out the window. I turn around in a blind panic (I’ve had a lot of rocks thrown at me in my life) and have to evaluate the situation fast enough to be charming almost instantly because they are actually saying something nice. No pressure. If I’m an asshole I will not build the community I want. I HAVE to be charming.”

Whenever someone asks me how much pot I use I feel ashamed of myself. How many times a day do I have some pot? At least three. Do you know why? I would like to be able to eat three meals without crying from the pain. With pot that happens. I am even capable of smiling through most meals. Without the pot I’m surly and cranky and difficult to be around and I don’t talk much. It fucking hurts and I don’t seem to be capable of thinking about other things.

My friend and I were talking about spoons. I feel weird about using the metaphor because I feel like I start out most days with such a high number of spoons that I should STFU given that it is a system designed for serious disabilities. I start every day with a freakishly high number of spoons. I CAN get a lot of things done.

Then you find out that things like someone shouting, “HEY! Whatcha doin’?!” out the car over and over and over uses a really high number of spoons. I probably had somewhere between two and three dozen people stop to talk to me. Each time I heard the “HEY!” my body locked. I was full of adrenaline and fear. I had that “This is the moment to decide to freeze or run… what should I do?” thought over and over.

That is very hard on my body. That is harder than rototilling the entire yard down three feet. (I have use of an extremely small electric rototiller that doesn’t like going down three feet. That’s a son-of-a-bitch sort of exercise.)

And I feel so guilty about how hard this is for me. Just get over it already. Geez, stop being such a whiny fucking baby.

When we went to the sex party last weekend I saw someone across the room that I had sex with at a party probably eight years ago. He didn’t recognize me at all.

That’s how it usually goes. I am either so memorable that people remember me after a thirty second conversation or I can fuck someone and they won’t remember me at all. Maybe sex isn’t the good thing people think it is.

The old guy neighbor I talk to a lot is harassing me while I paint. He clearly is trying to be friendly. Yelling at me over and over that I need to hurry up because I’m not working hard enough isn’t really funny after a while. I told him if he wants me to spread the paint faster he can come over here and I’ll dump a bucket on his head. It’ll spread real fast. He laughed but looked shocked.

I haven’t worked on the book much this week. I think the painting is harder than I thought. I’m going to spend most of today on it.

I’m really freaking out about something that is happening today but I can’t write about it. I hate that. I’m not doing so well with this whole “people don’t like me” thing lately. I know I am a piece of shit so it is ok that people don’t like me. I don’t know how to still be nice after they have decided they don’t like me.

Silence? I don’t know.

I feel really weird about the amount of approval I’m getting for the fence. I’m pretty sure that I have never had this many people say something nice to me about my actions before. I keep waiting for someone to call the police so that I get in trouble. Surely you aren’t allowed to just put paint on private buildings. (A different women in my neighborhood was contracted to paint a mural on a local liquor store (that sells the Best Ice Cream Ever) and the city said no. That’s why I didn’t ask the city before I started.)

Uhm, I need to clarify from yesterday. I have met very few people I actually think are wastes of oxygen. I have only thought we should retroactively abort a few people. I could certainly count them on my fingers and toes. And given that these are just thoughts that exist in my brain I can’t see how it is that bad. But I’ve been feeling bad since I typed. Mean spirited, nasty, harpy.

I don’t feel worthy of anything positive. I feel like I am probably the biggest waste of resources I know.

My friend said I should print out little fliers explaining who I am and what I’m doing. That way I can hand out the flier and say, “Can’t talk! Paint will dry!” It would at least be a reduction in the “Oh shit must be charming” cycle. Maybe that will be easier.

At least ten people have said, “You had better put your name down in the corner. You deserve all the credit for this.”

Hi, my name is Krissy Gibbs. I am a writer, artist, runner, home schooling mother, gardener, and a teacher. I have a lot of skills and I know a lot of things. When I see a fence that is on the unattractive side of meh I think “I could fix that.”

I asked students at our local elementary school to draw me pictures of what they love about living here. 52 kids submitted drawings. I am incorporating them as much as I can. (I was given five drawings of Mission Peak, for example, so I am doing a composite of styles and details.)

I will walk past this fence many times a week for the rest of my life. I want to see beauty. If you want to see something sometimes you have to go make it. So I did.