by the morning i'll feel like shit

"if you hate the taste of wine, why do you drink it 'til you're blind? and if you swear that there's no truth and who cares, how come you say it like you're right? why are you scared to dream of God, when it's salvation that you want? you see stars that clear have been dead for years, but the idea just lives on," conor oberst sings on my stereo. i think he has a point.

i think i want to cut all my hair off. like really short. like felicity short. it will probably be ugly. but maybe that's not a bad thing. maybe if i cut my hair off, the symbol of femininity, i won't have girlie feelings. i won't want to fall in love. i won't want to fall into my pre-ordained gender role. i won't feel trapped, chained by my hair. maybe i won't be this over-dramatic.

i just threw a crumpled piece of paper at my trash can. i missed. damn.

i spent six hours today working on my rhetoric 3000-3500 word paper. i finished it. it's about 3200 words. about nine pages. two papers down, one to go and one porfolio left. hell, maybe i will actually get all my work done with limited stress.

"when everything is lonely i can be my own best friend. i get a coffee and the paper, have my own conversations with the sidewalk and the pigeons and my window reflection. the mask i polish in the evening by the morning looks like shit," conor sings. i agree.

friday night ramblings

"we started laughing 'til didn't hurt. we started laughing 'til it didn't hurt. we started laughing 'til it didn't hurt. alright," the good life plays on my stereo.

mean thought: i hope they aren't having fun.

i was outside this morning when the cool front blew through fort worth. it was humid and in the eighties one moment, then the wind blew, the air smelled differently, and it was dry and cool. i took a deep breath. smelled the new, cool air. it was beautiful.

"you're no, you're no, you're no fool," tim sings.

i took a three hour nap this afternoon, because i was up until two-thirty stealing boys' license plates and sending ransom emails. and then i got up early to take my last spanish oral exam. i think i did okay despite the lack of sleep.

i don't like the word "oral." it may, in fact, be my least favorite word. it is just yucky.

"you're not you, you're not you anymore. you're not you, you're not you anymore," tim sings.

the plan is to get up early and be at the library when it opens--nine in the morning. it is going to be a long, boring saturday. on the to due list: rhetoric ten page paper, chaucer ten page paper, and work on writing portfolio.

i am waiting for laundry to dry, so i can go to bed. my room is a mess. sarah and richard are having a mini gilmore girl's marathon in the living room. it makes me happy that they are in the same house i am in.

my brother called me last night to tell me he is going to be the president of ffa at school next year--and he is only going to be a junior. what a stud.

"i swear to speak the whole truth. nothing but the truth," tim sings.

maybe it's because i'm tired

i want to be in lincoln, nebraska tonight. i want to dance around to really loud music (gently because of abby's gimpy leg, but dance none the less). i want to tell her about all the little things i file in my head under "tell only abby." i want to give abby a hug. i want to talk about new york city and nyu. i want to read my newest short story to her. i want to laugh about nothing and everything. i want her to make me some famous abby concoction to eat. and maybe it will make my tummy feel better. and i promise, abby. i promise i will try anything you make.

i want to care that i have my last spanish oral exam tomorrow morning. but because it is my last ever, i don't care. i won't care whether i get a good grade or not. i just want it to be over.

i want to know why people want to talk to and spend time with certain people. i want to remember that i am pretty damn cool. and that i have friends. and i have people who like to talk to me and spend time with me. and screw you, if you are not one of them. and i want to apologize for saying "screw you." but i won't.

i want you to stop reading this now. i want to start a blog that no one i know reads, so i can be completely honest without being mean, or rude, or selfish, or a bitch, or myself.

i want to go to sleep. to dream under my comforter that everything i want comes true. maybe it's because i'm tired, but i want a lot. and yet, it doesn't seem too much to ask for.

post-it note bandits strike again

we are awesome. and yes, we got caught. but i really think we wanted to. we wanted to see the looks on their face. we wanted to see michael climb on top of the roof of their apartment to see what was meant by the male caller's advice: "front door. now." we wanted to see the guys open the post-it noted package (post-it note bow and all) of all the stuff we have stolen for months. we wanted to see them scan the parking lot. we wanted to see carl jump on the hood of my car, spread eagle, as we shrilled and tried to drive away. we wanted to see the look on brett's face as he blocked the gate and used a flashlight to shine in our faces. i wanted to witness brett stealing the back license plate off my car--as i sat alone in my car yelling, "okay now i am sorry i volunteered my car," out my slightly cracked window. we got away. we always do. they tried to get us back the same night (morning): oreos, plastic wrap, and vasoline on our cars. they also stole the remaining license plates off all the cars--rachael, stephani, and sarah's. but sarah and i caught them in the act. and we each have a license plate remaining. all in all, it was pretty lame of them. it didn't even take five minutes to clean up. and they got caught. okay, yeah. so did we. but we stole things for months without being caught. we win. we totally win. and the war isn't even over.

oh. and i am a tired girl. i wasn't in bed until after four this morning. oh. but it was freakin' worth it.

on my mind

well, i am back in suburbia. home of the tree lined street, the s.u.v., and the standard two-story brick house. driving through my neighborhood (or is it now my parents' neighborhood?) i couldn't stop thinking of the multiple conversations i have been having with richard about the television show desperate housewives. we even went so far as to compare the show to kate chopin's the awakening. but really, my frustration isn't necessarily with the show (okay, maybe it is), but my frustration is with our society who produces shows like this under the umbrella of showing us "the real life" we lead, and instead of tearing down gender roles, they reinforce them. yes, these women are screwed up. characters have to be in order to have conflict, but women are still portrayed as conniving and subordinate to the men in their lives. and people see this show as empowering to women! they see it as women claiming their own sexuality! sleeping with your underage gardener so that you don't have the urge to kill yourself, but staying with your husband who makes a lot of money is not empowering. it is sick. this woman is presented as trapped as edna is in the early 1900s novel. we are supposed to have progressed.

another topic on my mind, sean, who i have mentioned before, is not as cool as i thought. i thought originally his short story we read in class was creative and imaginative and he used the style of bret easten ellis to present this make-believe world. well, it turns out his sex-with-a-stranger-to-get-back-at-his-girlfriend-cocaine-induced-stupor-and-objectifying-women-and-egotistical-pretentious-main-character is a true story. and he couldn't wait to tell the class. in fact, he told us a few times. such a disappointment. so not only was the style of his story unoriginal but the story wasn't even imagined. and not only that, the main character, also named sean (!), kept saying, "fuck bret easten ellis for glorifying sex and drugs in the rules of attraction." well sean, he wasn't. ellis wasn't glorifying anything. it is a satire. he is pointing out the pathetic and disgusting habits of the eighties college culture. someone cannot describe characters and events as ellis does and expect the reader to glorify this horrific images. i thought sean was smart enough to realize that. wrong again. i need to stop building people up in my mind that i don't even know. and for this reason, i never want to have a long conversation with tim kasher.

sunday's shoulds, wonders, and wishes

i am supposed to be working on a paper right now. oh, it's the story of my life. i don't think i am actually going to be able to write all the papers i have to write before this semester is over. my last real semester of school. scary thought. happy thought too.

i am supposed to be writing about chaucer's troilus and criseyde. i am supposed to be writing that troilus was not the typical, romantisized knight because he is feminized and has a hard time having an erection (no pun intended), which is a mark for an unheroic, immature, and worthless knight. i am supposed to be writing that pandarus could possibly be seen as a kind of sex therapist for troilus and criseyde. did you know they actually had sex therapists in the middle ages? who knew? not me. until having to write this paper, that is.

i am supposed to be working. typing. having enlightening thoughts. but all i want to do is go to bed. sleep. and sleep. and sleep some more. "don't wake me i plan on sleeping," postal service now comes to mind. i wonder if brett is finished with his chaucer paper. i wonder if he remembered to do it. i wonder if he would be willing to finish mine. i wish my cd player was a little closer. i'd put a cd in and turn it down low to play me to sleep. i wonder if abby is working tonight. it's too late to call her house. i wonder if she'll get a cell phone when she goes to new york. i wish she would. i wish she had one now. sarah and richard are in the other room. i wonder what they are talking about. i hear their voices. i wish they would come and talk to me, distract me. maybe i will go and talk to them, distract them. i should be writing this paper. but it just so easy not to care.

sanity is key

cursive is still playing on my stereo. pretty loud. but i feel a lot better. maybe because it's friday. maybe it's because i spent the entire afternoon with debbie and lucy. maybe because i am starting to realize that i am actually going to make it to the end. and the end isn't all that far away. i have also realized that it is okay to make working on my short story a priority and spanish not one. i plan on writing for the rest of my life. in english. not spanish. i have also realized it is okay to want to be alone. alone time is good for me. it makes me happy. it keeps me sane. and sanity is key.

listen to me

cursive is on my stereo. really loud.
fuck.
can i go a day without crying this week?
fuck.
i shouldn't talk to friends in nebraska. i just miss her more.
fuck.
i want attention. i want someone to care.
fuck. shit.
i think i'm going to throw up.
fuck. damn.
listen to me.
i am sad.
i am lonely.
fuck.
i want it to be about me.
shit.
i almost ran away yesterday. twice.
i regret my decision to stay.
fuck.
tim sings, "who am i if i'm alone? i hardly exist at all."
he says, "we'll live happily ever after."
i disagree.
fuck.
my hands are shaking. my eyes are burning. my head is pounding.
fuck.
i don't even want to dream. not tonight. not tomorrow.
i want to hide.
to disappear.
to fall.
shut the fuck up.
it's my turn.

bragging on myself

there aren't too many times that i am truly proud of myself, proud of my accomplishments. sure, i'll be happy and feel satisfied with a job well done. but it is rare that i feel proud. on tuesday, my entire writing class critiqued my newest short story. and i would like to take a moment to write what they had to say:
"i want to start off by saying that i really, really, really liked your story. i think it is definitely one of the best we have read so far."
"i did enjoy your story and i don't casually hand out compliments in that fashion."
"you do an excellent job of developing real, believable, and likeable characters! i was especially struck by the natural dialogue."
"this story was GREAT; i think you've really done an excellent job here."
"your story may be one of the best written stories i have read in a long time."
"i absolutely loved this story."
and my professor wrote:
"as usual, it is a great pleasure to read your writing. you are a very good writer--you have a way with very original details and quirks in your characters. i'm always drawn right in with your writing and get seduced by the rich detail and engaging prose...i really hope you keep writing (and i don't say that lightly)."

i am really proud of myself.

the other me

i don't like it when people remind me of the way i used to be. i don't exactly know why i don't like it. maybe it's because i didn't like that person--then or now. maybe i don't want to hear whether they liked that me or this me better. and usually they give me that answer. but the thing is, it wasn't me back then. it was the me that i thought everyone wanted me to be. the good girl. the spiritual girl. the girl who had it together. the giver. the selfless girl. the proper girl. the respectful girl. the girl who followed all the rules. the girl who tried to be perfect. but that girl doesn't exist. and i think it is because i was trying to be this other me that led the real me to be extremely sad and bitter and heart broken and alone. and whenever anyone ever brings up this other me, it makes me sad. my heart cries that i ever tried to be this other me. and it makes me angry. it makes me angry that i felt like i had to be anything but myself.

i wanted to tell you

you are going to have to excuse me today--my mind is fuzzy, and i am going to try and write anyway.

i wanted to tell you that i have decided what i want to be when i grow up. i want to be a pirate. i have thought about this a lot--freakishly a lot--and i really think i would make quite a good pirate...and a cute one at that. i am an excellent swimmer; i feel actually more natural on or in water than i do on land. this will also come in handy if for some reason i run across a bad pirate and he or she makes me walk the plank. my treading water abilities are top notch. and i'm not a bad floater. if i became i pirate, i would also be able to travel the world, which is something i have always wanted to do. i am a great liar. and quite a sneaky thief. sarah also reminded me that most female pirates have red hair, so i fit that area perfectly as well. so i guess what i am saying is the pirate's life's for me.

i wanted to tell you that the fucking tcu police gave me a parking ticket for having an expired parking sticker! i haven't had a parking sticker since sophomore year and how the hell can you give someone a ticket for not needing one. yes, i was parked on campus like i am everyday to go to the rec center. and i have never ever had a ticket on my car. it is a bunch of shit, and when i calm down i am going to have a few words with those fucking bastards. p.s. "calm down" means i am no longer using words such as "fucking," "shit," or "bastards"

i wanted to tell you that my life is repeating itself. the same feelings and events i had the spring semester of my senior year in high school are now occurring in the spring semester of my senior year in college. what the hell? it doesn't make sense. i mean, i am talking like creepy similar. like twilight zone creepy. maybe this is to prove that i have grown up over the past four years. that i won't make the same mistakes. maybe it will give me confidence for the future. i can already tell i am not the same idiot i was then--i mean, i'm still an idiot, but a different one.

i wanted to tell you that i love receiving emails from real people. i love typing in my user name and password and seeing a number next to the inbox. then i try to guess who has emailed me. i can't fully express how disappointing it is to only find junk. but oh how happy it makes me to see the name of a person i know. i didn't used to be an email person. i wouldn't consider myself one even now. but i guess it is always nice to know someone cares about you enough to type a little note just for you.

secrets

after hearing on npr about postsecret, i have been thinking about secrets ever since. i've tried to recount all the secrets i hold onto, maybe i always will hold onto them. and then i wondered, why? why do i hold onto these things and guard them with my life? because usually when i tell a secret, there is no relief. there is only vulnerability. it makes me sick to my stomach. i can't sleep that night, usually not for a few nights thereafter. but then, do i have power over my secrets or do they have power over me? i am sure it is the latter. so why is not freeing to share these secrets? maybe i am ashamed. maybe i am scared others will think awful things about me--that i am selfish, disgusting, weird, unhappy, happy, hopeless, hopeful, afraid. it would be nice to write a few down and send my secrets to the world. but even anonymously, i am not sure if i could really do it. maybe simply saying them out loud or writing them down make my secrets true. and usually, i wish my secrets weren't my own. it's too honest.

happy

it is pretty incredible how happy an email can make me.
after over a week of frustration about my new short story, i decided to start a new one. so i placed the fifteen page draft in the trash. and i now have thirteen new pages. i am happy with that decision.
talking to a best friend in nebraska for only five minutes isn't enough. i am happy that we will talk longer tomorrow.
drinking texas tequila sunsets with best friends while playing "who do you think is more sexually attractive?" creates a little buzz, a little honesty, and a happy evening.
remembering that i can tell stephani anything makes me happy and a little more sane.
happy birthday, mommy.