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I make money like Fred Astaire

Oct. 13th, 2009 | 12:43 pm

Ohhhhhh Jesus.

When I was fourteen, I wrote a log of my life, which turned into the depressing, self-obsessed ramblings of a teenage girl. This log/journal/whatever was to be read upon my 23rd birthday. Today, I commending myself for waking up before noon, and after watching the last hour of 'Superstar,' I decided it was time I read the notebook.

I verbalize that I am very nearly sure I'm having a break-down, or a quarter-life crisis. It is really more of a shut-down. When something breaks, it makes a loud crash--We do not have to see it to know it is broken. I have simply turned off---stopped working. Stopped wanting to work. Since I have graduated college, I have accomplished nothing. I haven't even wanted to accomplish anything. I want to sleep, I want to watch movies, I want to see my boyfriend, and I want to eat. These are my wants. I don't actually want to spend time with my friends, unless I feel a sense of obligation to do so. I know I should want to go back to school. I know I should want to get a real job.

In reality, I want nothing. I wait all week for that random Wednesday/Thursday I have off of work, so I can wake up when I feel like waking up, and I can drift around the house for five-to-six hours before I have to shower and hide the evidence that I have done nothing all day, so when Todd walks through the door, he doesn't feel sorry for me.

My notebook just ends. I just...stopped writing in it. Right when my life started to turn around, when I actually started to have something to say--I just stopped. My motivation to enlighten my "older, my mature self" is no more than twenty pages of very typical teenage-girl rants.

I just stopped. I worked so hard for so long, and now I have just stopped. I have to learn to function without guidance, and I'm not stepping up to the challenge. I know exactly what is wrong with me.

I've never been this apathetic in my life. I've never been so goddamned lazy.

But don't tell anyone. It's a secret.

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Time is like a broken clock.

Jul. 7th, 2009 | 11:41 am

The new place is splendid, save for half the company I keep in it. I'm glad Todd has a friend to keep him from being completely bored in this grown-up place. I like it. I wake up on my off-days, and I do the dishes in the sink, put the clean ones away; I change the laundry; I make sure Chuck has food and water and makes his way through the doggie door to take a shit; I wipe down the kitchen counters; I make sun tea; I sit in my underwear at the kitchen table knowing I have at least until 5:30 before either of my flat mates come home; I read on the couch, in complete silence.

Had my first row with Adam last night--in front of company. Knew it wouldn't take long before we started bickering like high school students in an AP Government class. He's the kid with the military dad who weighs people's worth by the amount of guns they know how to fire. I'm the kid with the smart dad who gets invited to all the work parties. They only thing we argree on is to legalize prostitution, but only because his uncle Barry is in jail for getting his dick sucked outside an Arco gas station. This is what it would be like if we were high school students in the same AP Government class. But we're not. We're college graduates living together, and I'm nearly positive Adam doesn't have a Uncle Barry.

My ego always brings me back to  a bumper sticker I saw at one of those mall CD stores once: "I refuse to engage in a battle of wits with an unarmed man." Along side all the "Bitch" and marijuana leaf stickers, I thought it pretty clever. I think the only time I've ever yelled in a real agrument is when an idiot tells me I don't know what I'm talking about. Because--I'm.Fucking.Smarter. How dare you. You haven't been right thus far, it's time to give up.

Only two smart people can argue without raising their voice. One smart person and one idiot will end in barks and condescensions, while the audience seeks to verbally fan the fire (the way it happens in the movies, when the fire starts and the first person on the scene uses a shirt to beat at it, only resulting in a bigger fire and a burnt shirt.)

But I love my new house.

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Boxes of Sweeties.

Jun. 23rd, 2009 | 05:02 pm

I like packing my stuff away. Each box is one box closer to getting the fuck out of this house.

Jessi and I have decided to write Maxwell one letter a week. We are collaborating. Jessi draws him a comic about something funny that has happened while he has been away, while I draft a story web for The Misadventures of People Living Without Max. It's a dramatic saga depicting, well, life without Max.

So far,

With Max's departure, Tobin is the reigning king of Poon de Starbucks;

Melissa finds a drawer devoted to pictures of Max in her married cousin's house, with "Mrs. Law," and "I love Judd" written in lipstick;

Jessi is knocked up;

All the ladies generally spend their time sitting in the back room and talking about how big Max's muscles must be getting. 

Basically, it's a pick-me-up sort of thing, because being in the Army fucking sucks. If I was in the army, I would enjoy the idea of two close friends spending a couple hours a week trying to brighten my day with cartoons and made-up stories. 

Yep. The end.

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The problem with feeling different:

Jun. 17th, 2009 | 02:24 pm

You feel you need to do something special with your life, and know that you probably won't.

What do you do with a B.A. in English, what is my life going to be? Four years of college, and plenty of knowledge, have earned me this useless degress. Can't pay the bills yet, 'cause I have no skills yet--What is my life going to be? Still I can't shake it, this feeling I might make, a difference to the human race.

A human couldn't have said it better than a puppet did.

Todd's department needs people to do audio lecture recordings, and they will pay $100 for each lesson completed. I'm going to audition some time this week. Sooner or later, they will have a position created in the department for someone to simply do audio recordings.

That sounds really fun. I've always wanted to do audio book recordings. Hope they like my reading voice.

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Jun. 5th, 2009 | 05:16 pm

You know those days when you are shockingly disgusted with your physical self?
And you think....How did this happen? How did I let this happen? And you wonder how the lady with the ten pumps of mocha in her latte cannot realize what she is doing to herself--Or. How can she just not care? Then, if I am this disgusted with myself, how disgusted can she be with herself? Is there a point when there is comfort in being grossly overweight? The pound of no return....What's another pound when you've got a few hundred? Big is beautiful. More to love. There's always the chubby chasers.

Borders are worse, I think. Can't fit into the cheap jeans at Forever 21, can't fit into the smallest fit at Torrid. Angles, colors, lighting, belts, high waists, high heels, hair cuts: Illusions and Denials. I look good--Don't bend, don't sit, don't let the wind tighten the fabric around your hips--work it girl, work it without moving it girl!

Well, today is one of those days. Days are turning into weeks, and something must be done. Other than, at least I don't look like her.

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Kitty Porn

May. 20th, 2009 | 08:44 am

I'm not pretty when I'm angry.
I become pink-faced, sweaty, and my arms flail like a chicken drowning in a backyard pool.
When I cry, really cry, my face is contorted, a newborn pup's expression. I have a certain way of crying when other people are around--like a movie star, cheeks wet with a stage hand's bottled tear drops. It isn't tragically fake because there is nothing tragic about it.

I'm starting to think I should just move in with myself. Then, it occurs to me that I do not have enough money to live by myself, and no longer have the luxury of doing so without a large amount of pin money sacrifices. He has made it clear that he wants to live with him, that there is some sort of responsibility to this person. This person, out of all who was convinced to move out here, this person needs you.

To live with the one person in th world you love more than anything or anyone else, you must live with a person who represents everything you hate in a human being (truly). Is it worth it? I'm asking you. Is it? Because I don't.

I don't know.

If you live with someone who makes you happy--not fake happy, not momentary happiness, not contrived 'it's so beautiful' happiness-- someone who makes you feel real happiness....And you are forced to live with someone who has a presence which makes you very unhappy....Do the two cancel each other? Are you stuck in a Limbo of wanting to be happy, but cursed with a year's worth of frustration?

I hate the feeling of being asked what I want, when I know the person does not want to hear it. Will it change anything but make you sad to hear it? Stuck.

I will tell you what I do not want. I am tired of roommates. Yes. One in particular, but also as a whole. I am done with the idea of roommates. I'm done with the feeling of a person in the next room. Pretending to be friends. Listening to someone else's music, which is usually the same goddamned crap every day. 'Paper Planes' or 'Kids' on repeat, like it isn't enough to hear it in every store in the mall.

It isn't personal. I have found something horribly wrong with every person I have lived with. Relationships have suffered, I have burned bridges, and I am about to lose my fucking mind. You strip away the flesh and muscle, and the bare bones are that I do not like living with people. I like my space, I like my silence, I like something to be mine and no one else's.

Honestly, the only person who I actually love living with is Todd. Because I don't mind if certain things are We things and not My things. Because, he cleans his dishes, and doesn't leave the television on all day, he doesn't complain about Chuck or give him gross leftovers, he doesn't throw my clothes on top of the dryer when he needs to use it, and he gives me space when he knows I seem like I need it.

So. As the plot thickens, will Melissa be forced to live with a person she really really really doesn't want to live with? Will this issue tear apart her relationship? Will she be thrown onto the streets like Maggie: Girl of the Streets? Will she rage against the almost-inevitable, only to wind up at her father's doorstep, pleading for a place to stay?

My life is pretty predictable, but I'm stumped by this one.

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You're mine, again.

May. 5th, 2009 | 11:57 am

Well, I gave up on the Ecocritical journal yesterday. I wrote it a nice little love letter, explaining why I was, emotionally, just never there for it.

I am excited for the summer, and being able to read only what I want to read. Every summer, I promise this. Then I pick up Virginia Woolf or something and expect to have a great time with it. I want to remember what it is like to REALLY enjoy reading. I want to hide all my pencils and pens and those tiny little post-it notes I use for pages I find particularly rich with literary qualities. I want to absorb as I read. I do not want to extract, or mold, or beat, or seek allusions, or compare the slants, or  read the footnotes, or reveal a Freudian fondness for Milton, or read one page more than once. I want to read like other people watch television. I want to read contemporary authors!! I don't know any, but I'll find some! 

I want to read because I want to read, not because I have to read.

Because I'm done. I am done with my English Literature degree. Even if I go back, it will be different for me. I needed my B.A. I want my M.A. and my PhD. I'm done with academia for a while, though. I want to focus on who I am for a while, not who The Big Six were.

Walking to my car from class yesterday, I realized that I really do not have any sort of affection for ASU. There have been a few professors that managed to change the way I think, but the campus itself holds very little meaning for me. I loved the "College Years," but I did not necessarily love college. I'm sure it is different when you go to a school in-state. You still have your old friends, presumably. Yeah, you make new friends--but you don't HAVE to. There's no excitement for discovering the ins and outs of a new city. You don't go to the in-state school because you fell in love with the campus, with it huge trees and Victorian-style buildings. You go because it is there, and they give you money. And because your father threatens a break-down if you go.

So. No, ASU, I won't be getting the ASU Allumni license plate cover. I will not frequent the bars on Mill Ave. to remember what it was like to be a part of your college bar scene. (Because I never was.) Don't worry, ASU. If you keep Jennifer Linde employed, I will return to you--if only to learn everything this woman knows. I mean, I know I can just have lunch with her, but I eventually WANT HER JOB.

So. A week from tomorrow, I will officially have a diploma. Go me! Hasn't really hit me yet. Nonetheless, give me a job, bitches! 

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May. 4th, 2009 | 02:19 am

Keats only wrote poetry for two and a half years, and he is part of The Big Six? This gives me lots....and lots of hope for myself and my own writing. Or lack thereof.

So. Lamia is one of the most beautiful Romantic poems I have ever read. Every time I read a section of it, I find something more striking than the previous time.


I found much more negative connotations in his representation of women than the rest of the class seemed to find. I am really tired, but I wanted to get this off my chest before the motivation to argue leaves me--so I'll just make a list. I love Donne, and Donne says, "Brevity is the soul of wit." 

~Lamia is a snake. Also commonly known as....a serpent? What a serpents? I've never read the Bible, and even I know Serpents mean: sin, evil, forbidden fruit, manipulation, deceit.
~She can't just be any snake, she has to be a beautiful snake.
~She is granted her wish to become a woman only after she, in a sense, gives the nymph to the Hermes, who desires to possess the nymph.
~When Lamia, as a woman, grows pale and unattractive in her fear of Apollonius, Lycius is appalled. Her sexual appeal vanishes, so she literally and completely vanishes from his grasp.

These are vague ideas I am playing with, because I think I want to write about this in my research paper.

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May. 4th, 2009 | 02:02 am

Apocalypse and Iron Maiden

"Repent. The End is Near." I always wonder about the old men with their signs, telling us passing patrons that we are sinners in need of saving before JUDGEMENT DAY. I can't help but get a little irritated. It isn't because they are imposing their views on me, because if they really believe these sensational, religious ideas. In their mind, they are trying to help me. You know, I donate to charity to help my fellow (wo)man, but jeez, these guys are trying to save my soul from eternal damnation.  Pretty lofty. I don't believe in God, so the joke is on them.

The real reason is the religious nut-jobs always think the apocalypse is coming in their lifetime. It just keeps getting pushed back by the folks who weren't consumed by fires from above. They reproduce, unfortunately, and happily comes another generation who is convinced the end will really happen before they die. Is your life really so significant you think God will choose that particular 80 or so years to end it all? Its the ultimate egocentrism, really. What about: "Do not have children! The end is eventually coming and it will totally suck for them!"

I like that better.

Anyway, these guys don't realize that the end is already all around us. We have made damn sure of that. The bearded white guy in the sky is not responsible. We are. Short of a huge rock from space smashing into our planet and terminating us dinosaur-style, we're doing a pretty good job ourselves with screwing up the earth. I do not think I need to create a catalog of ills we have done to our home. We know what we are doing. That's the worst part.

On a lighter note. My boyfriend, Todd, doesn't read. He makes art instead. However, when I told him that we were reading 'Rime of the Ancient Mariner,' he got really excited and said, "That's my favorite Iron Maiden song! It's so good!" So the moral of the story: Good literature touches everyone, even when they don't want it to.

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May. 1st, 2009 | 12:51 pm

I always wait until after the class has discussed the text before I write my entries. Bad idea. I get caught up is the discussion, and forget what it was I wanted to say about the text, so I try to look back at the notes I wrote in the margins, and they rarely make much sense more than "!!" and "lovely."

I suppose these two notes fit when I think about Blake. Blake Blake Blake, I love Blake. I think it was the proverbs that first did it for me, I think. Profound bursts of thought, they get me every time.

Ah, but The Book of Thel. I say, !!, and I say, lovely. This is a new one for me. My favorite, Marriage of Heaven and Hell still firmly holds its position as No. 1, but I did enjoy this. Wordsworth might be considered the mostly consistent in his nature writing, but I think writing a story from the perspective of a virginal drop of dew is undoubtedly brilliant.

Or did she only live to be at death the food of worms? 

I think of this far too often. It is too easy to believe in God, to believe you are more than the cycle of the universe, that your only purpose in death is to feed the earth. What is a worm? It cannot reason, it cannot love, it cannot compose poetry. I fear the confrontation of death, not because of Judgment Day, as the men on Hayden lawn warn me, but of the day when there is nothing more than to feed the earth, to be burried and become fossil fuel for a generation a million years from now.

Why cannot the Ear be closed to its own destruction?
Or the glistening Eye to the poison of a smile?

Blake saw the darkness of humanity, how could he not? He saw the plasticity of a culture, and the capabilities of Mankind in height of the French Revolution. Is there any wisdom in war when we know so little about death? Maybe those who fight for religion find wisdom in war, so that they might die and say "Ha! I told you so!" The joke is on both sides.  

I digress.

I want to be Thel, so that I might disappear with the afternoon sun and melt beside fountains and springs.

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