( Being pretentious literary bastard under cut... )

I want to be madly, madly, madly in love. I want to write madly.

I am mostly still writing letters... I will come back soon or someday.

I watched Kelly's Heroes last night, while nursing somebody back to health with hugs, alka-seltzer, tomato soup, and grilled cheese sandwiches. That was nice. I'm nice. You should know that by now, if you don't, that deep down, if I can be arsed, I'm the sweetest girl in the world.

I have about a paragraph left to write of my midterm draft paper. I CAN'T BRING MYSELF TO WRITE ANYTHING. NO ATTENTION SPAN. ALSO IT WOULDN'T BE PERFECT. I hate drafts.

I'm considering the butch-femme paradigm, ethnic-ized, in this paper; working the gender expressions of marianismo and machismo into how they intersect and interplay in the identity of lesbian Latinas. It's pretty neat.

OKAY PAPER FINISHED ENOUGH. Gotta get assembled and get to school.

We'll be together whatever the weather...

It's lovely outside lately. There's a very ethereal crispness at night, the days are so moderate, and I get to dress for cooler temperatures. It is so dirty here that even the night sky has a tinge of smoggish brown, reflecting in the air off of streetlights, with no stars in the sky.

It's this kind of weather that puts me in my element. It's too cool and lovely to want to be sober; I'd love to mix up a few cocktails and socialize, bond together for warmth, and laugh over something. Do something memorable that no one will remember as clearly and dearly as I do.

Alternately, I'd like to cook a lot of very complex things. For other people. I want to commune somehow, I suppose. I want to reap the benefits of our togetherness.

Unfortunately, given my social inaccessibility and present lifestyle partner, I'm rather not doing either of those. Instead, I'm taking the other vigorous route; holing myself up in my creativity, with a cup of tea, insomnia, incomprehensibility, and writing. Writing on a large scale; novel work, is a hopelessly isolated task.

My partner sits on his couch in the living room, alternately playing Fallout or working on a space war game he's been designing... with my assistance. I'm not of a lot of assistance now, my mind is abuzz with people who don't necessarily exist, and interpersonal dynamics, and social commentary, research, and proofreading. Tanks are hard for me to reconcile with that, and as a result, he feels a bit neglected. It's worse yet, that only I have an internet connection at all, and it's unstable and poor, and so whenever he's stuck in his game he has to take the computer away from me to look up walkthroughs. It's disruptive. It makes me grumpy. I can't resent him for it, it's necessary, and what else is he going to do?

It's hard for me to drink alone anymore, my tastes have outgrown solitary alcohol consumption. I have gotten to a point where a vodka+mixer drink just isn't interesting to me anymore, and what I do like to drink isn't high proof enough for me to bother drinking alone, or else I'd just go through a bottle of Amaretto or Midori over a week. Admittedly, a Broken Down Golf Cart would solve this conflict of boredom and taste, containing Amaretto AND Midori and vodka and cranberry juice with a squeeze of lime. If that didn't work out for me, I'd have a good measure of delicious ingredients to make other various things with.

So, I'm producing a lot creatively. I'm also kind of being a bastard. I should also be asleep by now, but the wordbugs are crawling all over my fingertips, I can't stop moving them. And my eyes, and my brain.

If you take a high dose of any antidepressant stimulant, you may notice that if you stare at organic colored objects too long (a wooden dresser, for example), you might actually start to see a faint "crawling" hallucination or a light distortion. Being as how you're productive and happy, you're okay with just looking away from it. If you stop taking the drugs, you'll think about having seen that before you go to bed, and only finally fall asleep with an anxious sense of dread.

I hate that compromise, when in a writing flurry, that I become so physically inactive but need to consume calories to stay awake. PRODUCTIVITY MAKES YOU FAT.

There's that state of mind between sleeping and dreaming, where you're just starting to drift, and ideas are drenching you, some nonsensical, and some rather fascinating. There is so much potential in that state. Difficulty sleeping due to anxiety issues makes you acutely aware of this in-between state, and if you're lucky, you'll learn something from it.

I wasted time tonight reading the IMDb forums; it's always horrible. Nonetheless, they have the good sense to refer to the character played by Charles Bronson in every film as "Bronson", while the side characters have actual character names. Charles Bronson -- bad ass enough without acting? Of course. They are remaking The Mechanic next year, it seems. I'm not sure Jason Statham has the stoic weariness of Bronson, but seeing an updated version of the film would be great, especially if they for some reason manage to get the same house in the film; that house was excellent. It's rare that a non-architect or set designer really finds a house to be so poignant in a movie.

Also, Charles Bronson will steal your wife, with warning. And you'll just let him, because who wants to mess with Charles Bronson?


THANK YOU. Thank you, who helped me out in my last post. I'm just about in the clear, but I'll wait until the end of the month to relax, at least.

I'm in a good creative build up lately; spending a lot of time writing not only a heavy fiction novel project, but also an archetypical examination of some rather noticeably unexamined stock characters that have been highly influential in my own creative persona and relationships. Anais Nin and Henry Miller; Charlotte and Templeton; Spider and Centipede -- does anyone see the correlations I'm drawing yet? There's a kind of darkly introspective but compassionate femme; and also kind of a loud crass jerk type, that despite (or because of) vast personality differences manage to connect in some collaborative way. A mutual acknowledgment of being outliers. A creative and consuming force. If anyone can give me any other examples or analogs, I would be super grateful. (Note: Lydia and Beetlejuice aren't quite it, though. If you had movie Lydia and cartoon Beetlejuice, maybe. But never together.)

Discovering odd facets of my identity and personality. I really should have noticed things about myself earlier, but when you're so self-absorbed, it's hard to remember to compare yourself to reality. And I keep people around to help me with that, but sometimes they get caught up in my web too. I feel anomalous. I also think I somehow managed to grow up with a lot less sexual shame than most girls, due to my own decision to independently and secretly forge a sexual identity at a young age and thus curtail most developmental-social neuroses.

My computer is dying. I need a new one.

I love the summer dying; this morning I heard the last cicada buzz. It's crisp at the earliest hours, but the days are still moderately warm, but not enough to make you break a sweat. It's the brief rendevous of pleasantness in Arizona. It's still clear in the sky, and I take for granted how blue the sky can be here, since I'm such a heliophobe. I prefer overcast weather, actually.

I love the shift in my wardrobe for the seasons, too. I abided by the "no white after Labor Day" rule for some reason this year, while it's still hot and bright out... it's forced me to make some very interesting decisions in what to wear -- how to wear something light in sensation, yet less saturated. I love the beginning of both seasons. I'm grateful too, when the summer starts, and breezy dresses, wafting skirts, and thin and daring polyesters. I think, as of my last clothing exodus, that I am now much more equipped for winter wear than summer. My weight loss is also opportune in that I now have some fine slacks that actually fit me again. Finding pants that I like at all is difficult, hence that I wear skirts all the time.

You know, one of those things in the world which I find most enjoyable are pleasant interactions with women. I'm not saying this in a sexual way, or even a gay way; simply a kind smile and a bit of shared conversation can dispel stress so quickly. The girl at the coffee stand; her positivity is so infectious that I have made myself a regular there. I have more than just a Red Bull with blackberry syrup, then, to energize myself at the start of a day. But I'd also like to add that everyone at that coffee stand is ridiculously fun and warm -- something that's very important in a venue where you're in such a small enclosed space for extended periods of time, and also functions as a draw to customers, naturally. Sometimes too, it's the older motherly types that I could get in a conversation with, the few older women who don't treat me with a pat on the head. Young girls, sometimes just with a smile and regular girlish adorability might cheer me up as well. When girls are just so generous with their time and attentiveness, to make you feel special in less than three minutes.

Soft. Touch and go. Prettiness. Just enough human contact, like that, is one of the things that keeps me going. Without a best friend, I find myself savoring these tiny snippets of humanity more deeply.

The other thing that keeps me going is my fascination with male sexuality. However much less I may be physically interested in men sexually, I find the silence surrounding male sexualization to be intellectually unsettling... a mystery I must unravel. I want to know the answer to a simple question: What makes a man feel sexy? There are so many things a woman can do to feel sexy, and we sexualize women all of the time, silently, visually, almost unconsciously due to how ubiquitous 'sexy women' as a concept are. Men are most eroticized in the gay community, but even then I can't even find an umbrella answer. Male body image neuroses are incredible. It is simply something men don't speak about or admit to; vanity, insecurity. I have been told that what makes men feel sexy is simply having sex. But what gives a man the confidence and bravado to feel assured he's going to score to begin with? Is that different for heterosexual or homosexual pursuits?

I'm being bombarded with hormones right now. Every now and then I take a break from birth control to make sure all systems are in order. I regret it every time, but this is necessary maintenance. Given my streak of poor health lately, I felt this was the time to make sure not everything in my body is broken. These breaks also, for one reason or another, affirm whether or not my birth control is working. This week's mood: not pregnant! With a chance of scattered moodiness.

 I'm having an increasingly uncomfortable lately, with nothing to really turn to for comfort.  Unless you're one of very very very few people, I don't want to have to interface with you on any extended or intensive level when I'm feeling wretched and pathetic and scared.  It's easier to hide away and avoid my own problems until I'm calm enough to deal with them.  This confuses and upsets the poor roommate, who says "it seems like when you need comfort you just react by pushing me away".  

Yes, yes I do, because solitude is also comforting when you're overtaxed.  

My poor sob stories:  Accumulating the unhappy, taking them under my wing, and working (albeit haphazardly) on making their lives better.  It's only really worked once.  Twice, but the other time really had very little to do with my involvement, and was a natural process.  Every other time, I fail, they go on about their destructive behaviors and owe me large sums of money.  Worse yet, the one that worked out best is the one I was rather unethical about. 

I wonder if I should bother with this one at all, or just get away from him before this gets any worse.  The problem is that abandonment would induce enmity, and this is not an enemy I can afford to have.  It's clear from previous experiences that my expectations and speculations of people are vastly of varying quality, and this is most certainly not a game.

In any case, I've become bothered by the results of politically correct liberalism on a certain caste of academic intellectual men that cycles back into being patronizing all over again; this proliferation of apology for EVERYTHING.  "I don't mean to offend you..." "No offense, but..." "You're not mad at me for..." "This is not to sound haughty..." "I'm not sure if I should say this, but..." 

Prefacing statements with statements that infer that the intended target (i.e, me) could not handle them, and then saying them anyway is an insulting pat on the head.  And I encounter it over and over again; simpering and fearful of feminism and social justice and political correctness to the extent that you're pathetic and even more of a pain to interact with for all of your caution.

At the very least, I'm so far separated from actual life difficulty, that I have an appreciation for my current struggles as if they were some sort of novelty.

Oh, neat, this is what it's like to be lonely and poor! I can finally do that whole starving artist thing! I can't wait to develop some kind of boho cred.  
(That last one is a lie, I have no intention of really accepting the bohemian thing, I'm too much of a dandy at heart.) 

Telling the roommate "I wonder if ten years from now, I'll reflect on this period of life with you as the worst or the best part of my life."  He seemed aghast: "The worst, I hope..." All of this poverty and bad luck, I'm spoiled enough to be amused at the change of pace, and also pleased at whatever tawdry progress towards responsibility I have made.

I'm fine.  Fine enough, confident I won't sink unless someone goes out of their way to sink me, including myself.  All possibilities, but not grating likelihoods.  Currently physically and mentally exhausted.  

I have a savior complex.  I want desperately to help someone succeed, to ensure their survival, but every time they drain me for a bit and then continue on their own destructive ways.  I'm not yet that good.  

The only thing I can do, apparently, is try to ameliorate the pain, even if only for a little while, before everything collapses.

Lately: I've watched La Femme Nikita, FLCL, 8 1/2, and Little Miss Sunshine.  Please discuss these items in my general direction if you have the impetus to do so.  I can produce thoughts on all of them.

I can barely stand up today and it's for every single surreal reason at once.

Lesbians! I went out to a girl bar last weekend, my first time ever going to clubs in the U.S.  The night started out slow, but picked up by the end, and next time I'm out, I'll stick less closely to my chaperones, and let myself accept various "hey, I think you're cute!" approaches.  A girl bar is a remarkable place, wherein I have learned it is possible to both get all slutted up on the dance for while wearing comfortable shoes.  The club scene + comfortable shoes seemed like two worlds that would never mesh.  And yet, there I was, in the thick of it.  

One girl took a special liking to me, a server there.  She gushed over me, telling me and everyone around me how I reminded her of a David Bowie music video.  We locked eyes as soon as I came in, and cast glances throughout the night.  Since she works there, I know I'll see her again.  That's a nice thing to think about.  It's also nice that I've finally found a context wherein it isn't terrible and awkward to tell girls you think their look is cute while waiting in line in the bathroom.   

I was wiped out for two days following, having not been drinking en masse or working out for a while, and having done both in the duration of that night... much to the dismay of my body.  

I've been on top of my workload in class.  Job situation is still untenable, but I've got this Horatio Alger who's been offering me legit work for the last year, who actually has a position for me behind the bar on a Latino theme night once a week at his restaurant.  I could use some bar experience, and tips are instant money.  He seems like an actually nice guy, and not a predator; used to own a diner in New York, feels the current socioeconomic climate is depressing. 

Forty-five.  I miss having an outlet for my effusive adoration.  If I try to direct it all into myself, I create bizarre superstructures of standards, physical and psychological, without any justification for them, and start to destroy myself.  I need a better direction, but nothing seems worth the cost of investment.  Not to mention that I'm simply not a good person, and I'm terrible and hurtful and its best I keep myself from other people, at this point.  

I've been doing lots of deconstructed self-reflection.  I've been writing.  And I don't post it here, I horde it in my personal correspondences or in a network of highly chaotic, disorganized documents.  I've learned a lot out of it, asking myself questions in the process of reflection, which is an activity too intensive to really do here.  I identified something that's really universal, and typical, and common in myself.

"I feel good about doing things that I am good at."

For the most part, even if you've grown tired of the activity (like me and tutoring), you receive a bolster of self-esteem for being masterful at something.  It affirms your functionality.  

And I wonder about where I belong.  I tried so long to be a geek girl; to embrace the geek culture... but I'm too aware and adept for that.  I don't belong there, physically or psychologically, I have a lot of geek interests -- 'I dabble in the geek arts'; I am geeky, but I can't really take that on as my identity.  I don't have the attitude for the geek girl trope, and I don't really want to be it, ultimately.  And since I feel good doing things I'm good at, and having studied and forced myself to understand what that culture is and how its members function, I pretty much lingered on seeking out those people.  And I was good at it.  No, fuck, I AM good at it.  I know how to talk to those shy, introverted, awkward, terse, white nerdy boys with brown hair and some specialized interests -- how to get them to loosen up.  I can encounter so many of those people, and make them friendly towards me.  

I like those people, too.  But I know that I can more than certainly, go in directions other than that in terms of social niche; I am lately interacting with others in this ethereal identity -- the 'post-geeks'.  Those who ARE into gaming and anime and whatnot, but who veered out of the social trope and present themselves more mainstream, the kinds of guys who design RPGs but also developed into being more athletic and charismatic.  The girls who voraciously debate over classical literature and also get into the swingers community (for being hot).  I never was intense enough.  I wonder where I might have more felt naturally at ease, rather than attempting to pigeon hole myself, a triangle peg in a round hole -- I could never fully occupy a place like that.  

Frankly, I'm prissy and vain and hyper-feminine; loveliness.  Often been asked why I wasn't associating with the more typically popular people in high school.  I wonder if I could have been one of the Pretty Spoiled Smart Girls, had I pushed myself in that direction.  

But I probably couldn't, due to my skin color and sexuality.  

Right now, I'm kind of just "literary faggot".  I read, and I'm gay for words, and I actually am kind of sexually oriented (but I won't ID myself as that being my primary identifier.  I identify as a writer much much much higher on the list than I do 'into girls').  And it evokes the images of the very self-absorbed poncy fancy Oscar Wilde.

(By the way, that's a gigantic pet peeve of mine.  Oscar Wilde did SO MUCH MORE than be gay.  I am hard pressed to find any literary discourses on him that aren't all about "ways in which Oscar Wilde showed he was gay with these words." He was a critic and a media personality, and we wouldn't think of him as such a famous persecuted homosexual if it weren't for the fact that he paved his way to notoriety with his critique and persona and his works.  I hate that you academic people boil him down to such base simplicity.  The man has more talents than being gay! Talk about them!) 

And I am into fancy, aesthetic, femme, self-absorbed things... I identify myself in those things and turns of phrase.  Nobility and arts.  "bastard poet-prince" "threshold King of Everything -- a  comical absurdist" (Saul Williams, in Niggy Tardust.  I love that album.  I love that he makes rap intelligent and hard and urban all at once).  I think of having a section of my friend group in my book shelf.  

Anyway: my intellectual high-school drop out friends.  I accumulate you guys.  And you're smarter than systematically educated academic performance types, and I resonate because I can't let myself learn as a rote memetic system.  I WANT to care about what I'm learning, and take it seriously and personally rather than just spouting off answers for tests.

I had to escape the academié. I know there is more passion to learning than these impersonal structures, and things that matter much more than test scores.  I had to see for myself, so I separated myself so much from being identified with the academic world, and more with the world of ideas altogether.  

The world is smoky; thick and dark and weaving, curling and twisting around.  

[I just interjected that tangent of my social group because I think an awful lot about class ignorance.  I want to be a comprehensive person.  I think about what causes me and him to have gone so differently, and why I'm okay to talk to about stuff, why I'm a good confessional.]

Oh, speaking of which, I had a chemical fire today.  Put on the kettle for tea, tea that would wake me up, and went to check my e-mail.  The cat started screaming.  I came out of the bedroom, the entire condo was filled with smoke, and it was coming from the stove, and lo and behold, I didn't put the kettle on, instead I turned on the element for a glass pot that had a plastic spatula on it THAT WAS MELTING.  OH GOD.  I pulled the pot off the stove, and put it on the counter.  It started making the counter pop and left a burn mark, eroded the counter top.  FUCK.  I put it in the sink, where there was water, where it wouldn't burn up more things.  I opened the door to the balcony and urged the cats outside, turned on fans and vents for the smoke.

Then I proceeded to start to try to make tea again.  My roommate got worried about the odd smell and the cats bawling, and came out and yelled at me; I explained I melted a spatula.  He yelled at me more to stop standing around in the kitchen and inhaling chemical smoke.  

I really wanted tea though, even at the expense of my lungs.  

But I went back into the bedroom with him, since I guess I can understand how my lungs matter more than a bit of sugar and caffeine, if pressed.

I should have skipped class and gone to the doctor's to check how bad the smoke inhalation might have been; it was thick, I was in it for at least 15 minutes, I was struggling to breathe and it felt weird to inhale, but I didn't feel so significantly weakened I should do anything about it.  
I do that... beat myself up through negligence to my humanity.  I learned it from my mother.  She wouldn't have let me skip class, if it were up to her -- and she owns me. Better people would have given me a sick day or compassion, but she thinks I have to at least push myself as hard as I can to perform in these short term tasks in order to demonstrate I am a Hard Worker.  Hard Work is important; and if you're not succeeding, you're not working Hard enough.  It's a largely bourgeois and pig-headed attitude. Straining yourself doesn't necessarily mean that you're doing whatever it is well.  It just means, necessarily, that you're strained.  If I can keep straining myself, I'm a better person, right?  I don't actually believe that, but it's a habit of existing I've had implanted in me.  

And I feel a lot of guilt when things are easy for me, and my friends struggle; I have more than I "deserve", I impulsively believe.  It's not true.  There is no "deserve", and I'm not a bad person for... being capable of doing things.

I'm a bad person for throwing those opportunities to do things away.  

And if I don't make the gesture, of Common Decency, of at least straining myself, I don't really "deserve" to have my Human Needs met... because Human Needs are secondary to performance in anything.  Performance, mind you, and not mastery or experience; simply displaying myself as if I have.  

She'll deny that she raised me to believe those things.  She never directly said it.  But she's bad at articulating what she does believe, bad at demonstrating her actual motivations.  And so, that's the message I took away from her performance.  And the message she takes from my performance is that of negligence and apathy.  

Ultimately, I like me.  And I like what being me gives me the opportunity to do and experience, and I see its limitations, but also its privileges.  It's the best I can do.

Anemia, ear infection, or drug-induced hepatitis. It looks like most medications I take induce hepatitis. How lame is that?

I actually am scared.

Letting myself have lazy days is always a much more weighty endeavor when there is an element of danger to it. When I ought not, when there's something at risk for letting myself be languid and thoughtful in no particular direction -- it isn't due to a lack of activity that I fall into such days, but rather, for an active decision I pursued. Somehow, that makes the whole day feel more important, or rather, the course of (in)action that ensues as a result of what I chose. Pretty much always, no bad comes of this decision, and that offers me just enough peace of mind to be able to follow through with... not following through. I have to choose something, I have to be serious and devoted to something, and that something is often the very pseudo-French exercise of my right to be lazy.

So today, I rather wonderfully accomplished the creation of a quesadilla with bacon and chives for two, under 280 calories. Turkey bacon is amazing, albeit terrifying in its own reassembled processed meat way.

Yesterday, I absolutely snapped and spent all of our survival money on buying myself some proper shampoo and conditioner. I've been using two-in-one crap for two months already, and my hair was becoming despairingly dry -- styling products took more and more necessity with this new cut, because the terrible shamditioner induced a violent state of frizz. Having only recovered my preferred products (and not even the ideal ones; using 'Glossy Volume' instead of 'Smooth Intense') yesterday though, I find the status of my hair to be vastly improved, being able to forego the use of poisonous pomade in lieu of the natural smoothness of moisturized follicles.


( thoughts on the relationship situation... )

Thus... I have come to evaluate my life so far in lieu of this new light. And that tends to lead me to not a lot of really decisive action, aside from deciding to not do much.

I had a hilarious dream that I was watching some 80s style literary summary kids' cartoon -- you know the sort, like an animated Wishbone, like your Don Coyote and Sancho Panda types... this one was about a ghost, who was friends with a little girl, who traveled through time and space to help her with her homework.  It may have been an imported cartoon, for there was much about it that felt stilted.

Anyway, I found out that for some reason this cartoon had an episode about Anais Nin and I was like OMGWAT because I can't fathom Anais Nin being fathomable to the Saturday Morning Cartoon crowds, or really that acceptable to their parents.  What the hell can they say about Anais Nin in some G-rated, cartoonish and friendly way?  

Apparently, something.  The dialogue was very stilted and overly wrought, too grammatically lilting.  I wasn't sure if this was to prove the point that she wrote in strange and lyrical purple prose, to embody the sensitive and sensual but still elegant womanly writing-thing of hers or what.  And the animation quality was horrible.  But that may just be a product of its era. 

The episode ended up being something like ANAIS NIN AND FRIENDS.  This is Ian Hugo, he's Anais Nin's husband and he is a film maker.  This is Henry Miller, he is Anais Nin's friend and he is a writer.  Oh, this is June Miller and she is friends with everyone.  These are pictures of her parents, they were both musicians. :D LOOK AT HOW MANY FRIENDS ANAIS NIN HAS. YAY.  

I'm lol'd forever.

And that the Impossible Dream didn't really come true; he died, fully aware of the fact that he was no knight errant, that he was a feeble old man who had read too many books. 

About the move: I hate it here.  I hate the one and a half hour commute to school.  I hate the public transit here being so awful as to increase that one and a half hour commute.  I hate that everything pretty closes at about 9 PM -- which I hate in this state in general.  I hate my own destitution, emotionally and financially.  I hate that this condo feels poorly ventilated and suffocating.  I hate that I'm not in the suburbs or even a living city -- both of which are safe to walk around in at night.  I hate my mom for moving me out to this terrible place to feed her real estate hobby and cutting her investment on my education.

The only thing I like, I guess, is that this place is so far out of the way that it should be inconvenient for her to see me.

I hate that I can't make fast money.  I hate eating.  I hate that I'm not good enough yet to feel that I deserve to have goals.  I have to be a fully formed, developed creature, and that I'm not and that this is hard is so ungodly depressing to me.  That I see the logical steps out but that it is hard to take them makes me feel despairing.  

I hate that I'm alone, and questioning if I always ever was alone.  That's the most harmful part, I think... at least internally.  Externally, the danger is simply in my failure to understand reality life circumstance, how money works, jobs, people...

When will I change enough to make something of this? 

Using only titles from ONE WRITER, cleverly answer these questions. Titles of any work [prose, poetry, oration, theatre] are acceptable.
Pass it on and include me. You can't use the author I used. Try not to repeat a title. It's a lot harder than you think! Repost as either "My life according to (Author)," or a joke on a title.

My Life According to William S. Burroughs

Are you a male or female?
Queer

Describe yourself:
Word Virus

How do you feel:
Ghost of a Chance

Describe where you currently live:
The Place of Dead Roads

If you could go anywhere, where would you go:
The Road to Western Lands

Your favorite form of transportation:
The White Subway

Your best friend/s is/are:
You're The Man I Want to Share My Money With

What's the weather like?
Tornado Alley

Favorite time of day:
Naked Lunch

If your life was a TV show, what would it be called:
Blade Runner: A Movie

What is life to you:
The Electronic Revolution

Your favorite color is:
Break in Grey Room

Your fear:
Apocalypse

Your relationship:
Spare Ass Annie

What is the best advice you have to give:
Destroy All Rational Thought

Thought for the Day:
So Who Owns Death TV? 

How I would like to die:
Sidetripping

My soul's present condition:
Drugstore Cowboy

My motto:
My Education: A Book of Dreams

More job interviews; freelance work.  I hate old people.  I hate being picked up on by Horatio Alger; I'm grateful for it, I'll never starve so long as somebody likes the look of my face and will pay to keep it around, but god damn is Horatio Alger always a creeper.  

Old men love to sweep me up, offer me a job and call me sweetie, give me candy, a ride home, and ask if I have a boyfriend; it straddles the line between being spoiled and being sexually harassed, but it veers closer to the latter.  They want to be my daddy or my uncle and make sure I'm taken care of in hopes of molesting the little helpless youth with that great ambition.

I'm going to finally set up a pseudo pro-writing blog. 

I hate it here.

Oh.  Goddamnit.  I think I'm anemic. 

Again. 

I haven't been anemic since my early teens.  But my lower limbs have been going numb, and I've been light headed, and I was spotting for two weeks last month, and I just couldn't figure it all out... but I've kind of been on a diet of anti-depressants and water and energy drinks, mostly due to the fact that I didn't wanna have food in the house to have to move or anything, and hate spending money on food, and mostly only eat when I have too cook for my roommate, cause he's still human and likes to eat daily, whereas I need a bowl of cereal every 20 hours, pills and water, and then want to go to the gym/pool/activity.

But this numbness thing is annoying, and it's the kind of lightheaded where you don't know if you're about to fall over or if you're getting a sudden rush of energy. 

I guess I'll go see a doctor on Monday. blergh.

I'll write about moving later: in short though, I do hate it here.  Bromides and fast cars indeed.

11:20 Lucas: make your font smaller so your smiley faces don't look so fucking gay.

11:20 Me: :)

11:20 Me: :)

11:20 Me: :)

11:20 Me: :)

11:20 Me: :)

11:20 Lucas: Ugh.

11:20 Lucas: It's like the village people all over my screen.

Packing is a fine activity for me, if it's done for the sake of a vacation, but this is packing up my entire life again.  I've only done this once before, when I started university and put anything that wasn't coming to the dorms with me in big labeled brown boxes.  

"You don't need to pack it all up, you'll come back here eventually..." My stepmother tried to persuade me. 

But I knew in my heart I'd never really live with my family again.  I knew that at worst, I'd sleep in that house between semesters, and that as soon as college started, I'd live in the dorms, and have to establish some new idea of home.  

And this was it.  My mom got me this place currently, and my name is on the mortgage; it's mine.  Not wholly mine, but it's my home.  I've debauched all sorts of company there, spent so many months alone in my bedroom, and spent a few nights in the other bedroom.  It was somewhere I could bring my love and have some sense of privacy and autonomy; you can't quite make the moves freely in your parents' attic.  It was where I learned and lost so much.  It's where I hid from college life when the banality of the average student grated on my nerves.  And it's where I got to take care of kitties.  I'm on my second set now.  In fact, one of the main motives for getting my own place was so that I could take care of the cats instead of letting them be neglected, outdoor only half-pets with my family.

But I'm leaving this place, moving sometime in the next week or so.  The new place is ridiculously luxuriant, but a bit smaller.  I've got to downsize; abandon some of what I packed the first time; namely, the paper/text archives.

I love my archives.  I love having a history of every whim I ever put on paper, a testimony to my massive inability to finish anything, as well as a museum preserving the various ideas I've had over the years.  Thus far, I'm pretty sure I've got a garbage bag of 60 lbs of memories I'm not going to keep outside my door, and I'm not even half done going through my life.  There are Christmas cards, love confessions I never sent -- and are now vastly outdated; character designs mostly, and sketches of women with large to moderately sized busts and narrow but shapely hips, as it seems that's always been the kind of woman that's easiest for me to imagine (from age 10 and up).  

I observe other patterns; collaborative stories end up taking their final residence in my own notebooks.  Relationships are either four years or six months. 

I tend to end up in very insular, claustrophobic or codependent clingy interpersonal relationships.  I get one love confession a month, on average.  People get irritated at each other in my presence; jealousy issues.  And I am no Helen of Troy. 

The most upsetting part of this is trying to figure out why exactly being close to me seems to usually mean for people that they stop being close with anyone else; this isn't romantically exclusive, I also run into this problem with friends.  Somehow I either attract unhealthy people, or something in how I interface promotes alienation.  

This is the first time that packing up my home and moving forward in a new stage of life involved also bringing along another person... and it's not really the person I had hoped it would be.  But that's just how things work.  What's most remarkable to me after all of this tumult is that life goes on.  I'm not a wreck; I have down moments, but I'm still living, and the world is making no dramatic stops to flourish.  This is pleasing to me; and on an existential philosophical level, affirming.  That's how I always believed the world would work...

As for the archives that will follow me from bedroom to bedroom in my life, I wonder what stories those that make it through another ten years will have to tell about me.  And who else they'll tell something about.