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Crush enemies, abandon hope, and unleash endless waves of unrepentant sarcasm. |
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There's nothing to see here that's really out of the ordinary. Nothing really terribly interesting either, unless you like griping, gossip, grudges, and possible mental illness. If anything it's some small way to keep myself writing (though you'll see by the dates on the entries that it's by no means an effective way), as well as a means through which I can vent about any number of things that are pissing me off. Occasionally there's pie. Look: I'm not a normal person. I'm suffering from untreated depression and plagued by increasingly frequent migraines that pretty much render me bedridden for days. I've suffered a lifetime of abuse and neglect, and still have to struggle with unfathomable depths of low self-worth, not to mention the eating disorders. I'm a weirdo, a freak, an aberration of nature and human experience . . . but it doesn't make me interesting. So, you can read this if you want. I've got some social commentary that might be a little fun, and occasionally throw in a poem or two, but for the most part it's the ramblings of a stricken mind. Pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain; she's just trying to change her dress. |
| I'm typing this in red because I feel like this is a red-feeling post. I finally grew some balls (not literally, thank god; I'd hate to walk around with dangly parts) and decided to tell Bradley I want to talk to him. I was going to tell him after chorus on Thursday, but he ran out to do homework before I got the chance. So I sent him a message via Facebook, to which he did not respond online. That worried me, but I worry about everything. Tonight was Mason Madness, the big pep rally before the start of the basketball season. We, the University Chorale, had to perform Carmina Burana "O Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi" with the pep band. The director for the event was Doc Nix, probably the coolest choral director I've ever had the pleasure of working with (sorry, Dr. B). He has so much energy! and the biggest grin! And he kinda looks like Billy Dee Williams. Carmina rocked, and the music portion of the rally was great. I gotta see more sports events just to hear the pep band. After the event, Bradley asked if I wanted to get food and talk, as he had gotten my message. I was feeling good about it, all nice and confident about what I wanted to say for once in my life. Sadly, it was not to be: Ashley called asking for a ride home, as her intended ride left early. He seemed annoyed by this, and frankly I was too, but what am I going to do? Tell him to tell her to wait in the cold? So we went out separate ways, but not before making plans to meet on Tuesday. So, yeah. I'm one step closer to finding out what's really going on. I'd like to be over and done with it, as I would be by now had she not called, but you work with what you have. I just hope I do not lose my nerve before Tuesday. |
| I feel a little heartbroken over this whole Bradley thing. I know that I went along with it, and I know that I promised not to go crazy over it, but it hurts so much. It feels like one big tease: "Hey Ahlyssah! Here's a taste of what you're never going to have! Enjoy!" I don't want to believe that he would ever intentionally hurt me, but at the same time, I hate feeling that all this pain and bitterness is just random. I wish I had the balls to just talk to him, ask him why he did it, but I feel like it's been so long that he assumes it's immaterial at this point. Part of me says, Fuck him. He didn't care about my feelings when he did it, so why should I care about his in trying to find out his motivation. I don't want to lose him as a friend, but I have to keep reminding myself that he did this, not me. If it makes him uncomfortable to talk about it, that's something he should have considered before doing it. |
| Sooooooo, I'm writing yet another sonnet, based off of my lovely little signature at the bottom of most of my entires (but not this one becuase I'm doing a quick entry). I am hoping to make it good, but I'm not sure where to go from here. Hopefully it will be done by the time I go to bed tonight. And oh yeah: instead seeing a movie like I'd planned, I ended up going to the park with Sasha, Ej, Taka, and Cola, and also Stef but she came late and left early. We played volleyball, went on the swings as little children ignored us, hung out in the abandoned skate park (I was able to run up and get on top of the highest side of the halfpipe, yay!), then we came back to Mason and were able to pull Bradley and Pip outside to play soccer. We went to McDonalds, and now I'm back here. I'm so happy to have some something physical. Hell, once I got over being self-conscious, I even tried! Yay. |
| I hate my body. There, I said it, the thing I've been thinking all this time that I've been past puberty. I fucking hate my body. I feel so damn fat and flabby, disgustingly out of shape. I want to work out so badly, but my joints hurt so much whenever I do any kind of activity, especially my knees. Besides, I'm ashamed to work out in front of people; I worry that I won't know how to use the equipment properly, or will bounce around too much and get everyone in the gym looking and laughing. To be honest, the approach that seems good to me is to cut back on my eating. A lot. I know that anorexia is a horrible thing, and that I would be a fool to take that path, but I can't shake the urge. I know I won't, if that's any consolation, but I keep skipping meals or not eating meat, and that's going to come back to bite me in the ass (but not in the way I want). I've been having a lot of headaches lately, and I think it has a lot to do with my eating. To be honest, the one thing that is preventing me from starving the fat off my ass is the knowledge that, if I do cut down on the calories on a massive scale, my boobs will be gone within a week. It's always the breasts that leave me, never anything else. That, and my forearms are disgustingly thin as it stands; I can't imagine their appearance benefitting from too much weight loss. So I guess I'll stick to floor exercises, even if, for some strange reason, they don't seem to be working. Even the one move that hurts like a bitch comes with no pain, and I can't imagine what I'm doing wrong. Maybe if I keep it up it will slim me a bit, but I have little optimism at this point. I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
| Professor Berg stated last class that writing is the "insomniac's disease," the natural result of not being able to fall asleep until a ridiculously late hour. It makes sense to me: what else would one do with all the time that would just be spent tossing and turning? Not watch TV; by four in the morning even the History Channel goes to infomercials. Not read, at least in my case, because your mind wanders from the fatigue and the words become all jumbled before your eyes. There's always movies, but the sound might disturb others in the household. So what should one do? One should work. It makes sense; back in the days of high school I got way more work done in the wee hours of the morning before I went to school than at any other time. Now that I'm staying up later and later, my insomnia is carrying me back to consciousness in that four AM period when I previously crawled out of bed. I do believe that if I were to stop wasting time tossing and turning for hours on end, I might be able to get something done. It's worth a try. I just realized that there's no correlation between anything I just said. I must be tired. I'd blame the pills I took for my migraine, but I haven't taken anything except for the phenegran at four in the morning. It should not still be in my system! Maybe the migraine just left me weak and drained. Yeah. At any rate, I'm going to pull out the orange dream journal and see if there's anything in there I feel like making a story out of. I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
| I sit before you (well not actually before you; in fact I'll probably be in bed or reading by the time that anyone reads this entry, so take the above statement as being in the figurative sense) a woman exhausted. I know not why I have been so prone to lethargy these past few days, but I strongly suspect that it is linked to my current state of mind. What can I say? I have been depressed. Strangely enough, I have heard multiple people speak of things in general, that almost seemed meant for me to hear. People have mentioned the folly of "self-medication" twice in a week, once in reference to the author who hanged himself this month, and again in reference to the use of writing as therapy. Professor Berg went off on a long tangent about people who write for therapy and why it makes for poor writing. I think he said, "Go to a psychiatrist," about five times. Then he started talking about how most writers do not write because they are afraid of writing "trash." I really needed to hear that, because I am convinced that I write mostly garbage; but knowing that it's a fear that all authors face makes me feel a little less like a fuck up. And here I am, still freaking tired and still not in bed. I would LOVE to sleep right now, but I know if I do I'm going to wake up ridiculously early and be tired by the time the reading I have to go to begins. Plus, I have homework that needs to get done at some point. So, here's to staying awake. I hope to get to bed a little earlier tonight, but it's no terrible loss if I do not. Maybe I will get some work done. Professor Berg said that writing is the "insomniacs' disease," the natural result of having a sleep disorder that keeps you awake in the wee hours of the morning. I might take advantage of that sometime. I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
| So I'm sitting and waiting for Asdastory to finish downloading. I'm hoping it finishes in the next half hour, sicne there might be additional steps to take and I must soon away to class (looks like it will finish). Sasha seemed to enjoy it, at least inasmuch as it provides for her a distraction. I'm also writing a sonnet! I'm on the last line, which I don't think really expresses the thought I want to get through. I need to toy with the wording so I can get it all to fit in iambic pentameter. It was actually a lot easier to write than I thought it would be; only about fiften minutes or so. I remember when sonnets seemed like an impossible task to ask of someone in my position, but damn: this was almost easy. I'll edit and post the link when I finish and save it to Writing-Dot-Com. |
| I always liked Times New Roman. Something about it just seems familiar and proper. I feel very, very alone. There isn't really anyone with whom I have a really deep connection, at least not deep enough for me to tell them how I really feel. You know, I just got off this suicide help website, one of those "Read this before you do anything else" kind of sites. It was a little comical, with all the cliched "You're still reading, so that's good. Just try to read for five minutes more" statements and so forth, but it also made me feel sadder. I just found it funny: it talks about the signs that somebody may be having suicidal thoughts, and lists a decline in appearance and sociality, as well as increased moodiness and sudden bursts of anger. Weird. I always do my best to avoid such troublesome activities, anything that would make people suspect that something deeper is going on. I guess it's just a personal quirk then. I feel such a physical need for contact right now. Even a hug would help, but I want something more. I don't know what to do about Bradley; it would be easier to deal with that earlier event if I didn't have this nagging urge to go out and fuck something as soon as possible. Really, half the time I think all I need is the touch of a man. I would rather that Bradley be that man, but every now and then there's that little voice in the margins of my mind saying, "To hell with Bradley. Anyone will do." Hell, the whole "sugar daddy" kind of relationship even looks appealing right now. How fucked up is that? Especially coming from Little Miss Emotions. I must be desperate if I'm even considering having sex with a guy I don't care for (and who is most likely married) just for the sex and whatever little tidbits of money he might rain down upon me for the experience. I'm losing it. I don't know what to think anymore. The thought that keeps coming back is that we're getting to that end stage. It's the culmination of everything I've been working toward since I found out that killing yourself is an option a person can take. I think it's the end, or close to it: I don't have much longer to live. But reason butts in and screams, "No!" Suicide is just so . . . stupid. To throw onesself into a completely unknown situation without any hope of return or regress? Fuck, I can't even commit to getting bangs, just because I know how long it will take to reverse the decision if I realize I don't like the way they look on me. Death is irreversible. No quick-load button, no backup disk, nothing. I feel like a fool for considering such a path. But then I think, life sucks and there's no chance of it improving, at least for long. Everyone I care for will be leaving soon, and I'll be left with nothing but a few cats who will all have died in the next twelve years. What have I got to lose? There's the rub. If I kill myself I lose everything: my friends, my future, my simple little pleasures and the quiet joy experiencing the world brings me. But my friends are leaving never to return in the next year or two, my future is already doomed to misery and mediocrity, I'll never be the woman I want to be, the things I enjoy have pretty much ceased to bring me any pleasure thanks to the life-sucking force of depression, and my time in the world has brought me just as much pain as happiness, so what, exactly, would be lost by my death? Fuck it. It's too complicated right now. I'm gonna go back to reading my book of conspiracy theories. I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
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