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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 feel like I should be working, but I don't know what to do. I really want to write, but my mind is so empty right now. I wish I could just spend all day in bed and sleep and dream. I really want to try to focus on some guy other than the one who's not giving me squat, and sleep is good for fantasizing. I'm so damn tired. I think I'll take some texts and go read in the Johnson Center. I don't know how I'll manage to stay awake, though; I'll have to get an energy drink. But yes, I have to read. I'm very behind in my studies. I'm surprised that I can even do homework with this level of motivation. Oh, and I fucked up kinda. I thought I had "Stone Fields" and needed "This Boy's Life" for class, so I bought "This Boy's Life" at the bookstore today. Well, it was the other way around, and it's too late to return the book for a full refund. I can always sell it back for a reduced price at the end of the term, and just keep the other copy. Sides, it's loan money, not MY money. Eight loan dollars isn't that big of a loss. And I don't need "Stone Fields" until later on, so I can grab that whenever. I'm so damn tired right now. It must be depression, like Beth said. There's no other reason for this fatigue. I need to shake it off once and for all. |
| It's been about two weeks since Bradley and I kissed, two weeks since he expressed attraction for me. So far, there has been no further mention of any of those events, and very little indication that anything has changed. I wish I knew what steps to take next. I'm wondering . . . is it my role to make this happen? I feel like I owe it to myself to at least try to figure out what's going on in his head. Heck, maybe he's wondering what's going on in my head. I need to stop assuming that he doesn't care, or that he doesn't want to talk about it. I'm not going to learn anything by sitting around speculating on what he might feel. I really need to ask him what's going on. I just need to stop being so frightened of the consequences. I'm already fairly unhappy, so what more harm could I cause by asking a few questions? I just need to find an appropriate time to do so. Damn, I hate my emotions. They always seem to screw everything up. I need to learn to grow up and curling up into a little ball of fear every time something unpleasant happens. |
| While looking up some rather gruesome photos on the Internet (I'm a freak who is interested in all the maladies that can affect the human body, what can I say?) I came across some images of the diseases that can affect the development of fetuses and young children. Horrors like harlequin fetus, anencephaly, Lesch-Nyhan Syndrome, progeria . . . some of the stuff that happens while an infant is in the womb is horrifying! I am quite thankful that anencephaly (a disorder where the skull, scalp, and brain do not develop fully) and harlequin fetus (where the child is born with a hard shell, contracted ears, nose, eyes, and appendages, and bloody pulps for eyes) result in babies that tend to die within hours of birth. What a horrible existence it must be. Which brings us to the title of this entry. Maybe it seems cruel and harsh coming from a woman who claims to love babies (I swear, it's getting creepy . . . I keep having urges to pick up toddlers), but it has to be said: if I were ever to give birth to a child suffering from anencephaly, or harlequinism, the doctor had better rush it out of the room, because I think I would kill it. I don't know how; probably just hold my hand over its mouth and nose until its heart stops, since I doubt I can get my hands on a lethal hypodermic. It sounds awful even to me, but god! I can't imagine living with myself if I allowed a child to suffer like that, even for a few hours or at most a day. We do it to injured deer all the time: it's called "putting the animal out of its misery." There's way more backlash to ending the misery of a human being as opposed to a child, but it seems more cruel to let a living being suffer like that. Better to speed it toward death, and toward a better reincarnation. Sometimes shit just happens. Nobody's fault, just random chance. It's just my view of morality: make the decision based on how much relief from pain or strife it would bring. Maybe it's taking a life, but it's taking a life that is filled with no joy or happiness. Now I feel scared. With all the nasty things that can happen to a developing child, I fear that my future children may be affected. It's unlikely, I know; I've seen hundreds of babies without any physical or mental defects, so clearly the odds are in my favor. Still, it's pretty damn frightening to think of what could happen. I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
| So I just read that the guy responsible for coining the term "subliminal advertising" once conducted a study that suggested that "the experience of a woman baking a cake could be likened to a woman giving birth." I'm trying to understand how, exactly, that works. Does James mean that baking a cake is a harrowing, exhausting experience which in the end gives the woman great joy and satisfaction? Does he mean that baking is stressful and difficult for first-timers but gets easier with experience? Or does he mean that women have bouts of uterine pain while measuring flour, and randomly scream out "I hate you!" while blending the mix? |
| I am unbelievably tired right now. I feel completely lethargic and weak, and all I want to do is go limp and lie on the floor. I don't even want to keep hitting these keys; I'd rather just sit here with my hands on the keyboard staring at nothing. Even talking seems like a chore; I can think of things I want to say, but it feels so good to keep my mouth closed, and it's almost painful to open it. It's like I've taken two or three Benadryl. I don't understand this a bit. I haven't taken anything except for a phenagren last night (drowsy-maker but only for an hour), and I was tired even before that. I slept beautifully last night, and didn't get up until noon (bedtime was three, so we're talking nine hours of sleep). I've been eating. I even got three tacos after class yesterday to help boost my iron levels. My color looks okay, so it's probably not anemia. I want nothing more than to go to bed and stay there, but I have work to do. I just want to shake this exhaustion and wake up! God, I hope this isn't mono. I could handle being sick, but I couldn't handle giving my friends and roommates a serious disease. If this doesn't clear up by tomorrow, I'm giving my apologies to my profs and going to Health Services. I just hope it's not too serious. I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
| I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it, I fucking can't stand English 325 Why are we doing these exercises? Looking at a poem and taking note of how often a certain word is repeated? That's only significant if the word is repeated at a high frequency, not once or twice! Finding synonyms? THREE TIMES??? What kind of juvenile, childish, sophomoric bullshit IS this? As if we don't know how to use a fucking dictionary! As if we can't consider alternative meanings for words on our own! Jesus Christ, any person who needs to use the "methods" drawn out in the "Writing Analytically" book to help them understand the material has no fucking business being an English major!!!!! What a fucking waste of time. I'm too old to be using a crutch for my analysis of poetry. Why can't we just read the damn poem, come up with our own method of analysis, and learn from each other when we share our personal discoveries? I feel like using the exact same approach to analyzing a piece is going to lead to very similar interpretations. And that just takes the fun out of reading literature. This class is no fun. It's dull. Dull, dull, dull, good GOD it's dull. It's so painfully, agonizingly, sincerely, desperately, pervasively dull, and boring, and tedious, and repetitive, and dreary, and depressing, and loathsome, and exhausting, and wearisome, and unimaginative, and hateful, and useless, and DULL. Holy mother of Crichton, that class is dull. I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
| Sooooo, it turns out Bradley is single. Things didn't work out with the girls in whom he had interest, and he's pretty upset right now. He clearly cared a lot about one of them, and is sad over the silence of the other. It seems like a rough time for him, but I find myself wondering if this would work out in my favor (does that make me a bitch?). I have said it in the past, if I had the opportunity to get with Brad, even for one night's worth of sex, I would do it. I don't mind the idea of losing my virginity to him, and if that's as far as it goes between us, well, then it might be easier for me to get out and meet other guys. At the same time, would Bradley even want me? The girls he's dated or tried to date in the time I've known him are freaking gorgeous: slender, blond, good skin, outgoing . . . and here I am with my gigantic ass (which he does like), fat thighs, newly dyed auburn hair (though he says it looks great), mild acne, and reservation with talking to him, or not opening up, or being too clearly self-conscious around him. He and I seem to be pretty good friends (not really positive just how close he perceives us to be), so we get along well enough to have some level of compatibility. I just wish I could not feel so shy. Even before I started to care about him in that way, I wasn't sure what to say around him. I don't know if I should keep up with the dirty connotations, just be friendly, or what. I really, really want to get closer to him, and there's nobody I know who I'd rather sleep with at this time. Oh well, his call I guess. I can probably live without fucking Bradley. I feel so much better about our friendship now that he's shown me that he doesn't hate me (though it's more than likely he just never knew about my feelings for him). I just hope it's not too soon to try to get closer, since he's been so recently let down by other girls. I also have to really ask, how ready am I? As much as I want sex, I need to know whether or not I can have sex with him and not go insane and start stalking him. Hell, I kinda stalk him now: I used to check his wall posts on Facebook to see if he and Laran were saying anything that proved beyond a doubt that they were, in fact, dating. I don't know just how creepy that is, but I feel that anything more than that would be way too much. This is long enough. No more me spouting of my love (or just sexy feelings) for Bradley. I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
| It's been three months since I last updated this, and there's been a lot to tell. What with getting my first job, my mother being a bigger bitch than ever, Chase fucking up my loan, and dropping my computer (thank God nothing's broken except part of the frame), you'd think I'd have a lot to say, but right now the only thing I can really think about is how I saw Bradley today, and he hugged me. All summer I've been thinking about what would happen when Bradley and I met face-to-face for the first time since May. Even though my feelings for him are mostly gone, and I can deal with him having a girlfriend who isn't me, there was always that fear that he would learn of my feelings, and wish to avoid me. How else should I feel? Every other guy I've had a crush on and who found out has severed all contact. Brian Foster gave me dirty looks, and Sean, a friend, just avoided me altogether. I want to believe that Bradley is different---he's older, far more friendly than all my crushes put together, and has shown me more affection than most of my male friends---but if I'm wrong about him, it would be a far greater loss than any of the others. He's my friend; I love him like a brother and respect him more than most of the people I know. The fear of losing a friend like that is just too great to be ignored. But, it seems that everything is okay. He, Pip, and Taka showed up outside my Folklore of the Americas class (Bradley and Taka followed Pip, who is also taking the class), and after I got done being engulfed by Taka, he asked, "Where's my hug?" and gave me a little peck on my forehead by the hairline (I remember it because I've been thinking about all sorts of nasty scenarios for our first meeting in the days before). So, all is cool between us, and I must say that I care more about this than getting my student loan from Chase. Fuck the loan, I can get one from a different bank before I get kicked out of school, but there's only one Bradley who occasionally wears Aimee's clothes. |
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