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Have you ever recommended your favorite book/album/movie/whatever to your best friend and then they don’t like it and you’re just like ‘who the fuck do you think you are’ and then you hate them forever?


Uh, me neither.

Incidentally, I no longer talk about things I really like with people I want to keep as friends.

Hello lj

Been a while.

I don't think I can do anything consistently any more. This includes the things that I actually enjoy.

I stopped taking my birth control pills a couple weeks ago. I thought they might be influencing my moods.

I believe that I can now safely say that, no, it wasn't the pills. I am just a naturally gloomy individual these days. It's strange to think about the fact that right now (and fairly often these days) I find myself wanting to listen to sad music and weep. I don't actually cry, but I want to. This is not to say that I'm actually sad, either: it is simply an active desire to do sad things, I think. It is difficult to express. I'll work on it.

On the bright side, I've been more social lately! That's a good thing. On the other hand, being social ain't cheap, and it gives me tiny little panic attacks. Probably I should just tell my new friends that I'm a fuck up, and work with their lowered expectations instead. Less pressure.

Today I did something productive! It wasn't much, but I at least wrote a little bit. Allways look on the bright etc.

I drank close to a goddamn gallon of coke today, and my blood pressure went from normal to 128/90 (high diastolic for me) down to 103/77 (low systolic/normal diastolic). We have a sphygmomanometer at home, which is fun to play with.

ETA: Wait, so now my flist only shows the most recent post from each of my friends? Or something? When the heck did that happen? (I am trying to censor my cursing more, because I think I taught a whole lot of children some very bad language in the past ten days or so; also it's the sign of a poor vocabulary, so I should definitely fight that.)

Too much coffee combined with too many feelings.

So, me being female, it is time for my monthly crazies (like a werewolf, but with less slaughtering sheep and running around in woods, mostly). This on top of the already ubiquitous emotional instability I've been rocking lately, combined with a much larger cup of coffee than I should have had, means that I want to read poetry and burst into tears and shout at someone and write an entire novel, and I want to do all of it right now, while at the same time running down the street as fast as I possibly can.

I had a job interview on Monday. The position was posted on Thursday morning, I applied that afternoon, they called me Friday. The interview was the first one I've ever had where I didn't come out and go 'well I completely fucked that up.' (Let's be honest: in my entire life I have had a grand total of three actual interviews for employment, including this one.) I was a bit concerned, because it is a part-time minimum wage book-sorting position, and the people I spoke to in the office were like 'Youuuuuuuu have a Bachelor's degree? And, um, you're here.' Yes, vocational school library. yes I am.

But, the next morning I woke up to a call offering me the position. Hooray. So then I've been submitting tons of paperwork, and once that all gets processed (a week minimum, at the blazing speed of academic administration) I can start working.

So, things are on an upswing, I guess? But this isn't progress, or anything. It's not an improvement. I could have dropped all my classes at Athens tech and gone back to grading high school writing exams. The money would certainly be better. This is just a thing. Resume fodder. Experience so that later on I'll be more marketable for other jobs that I don't really care about.

I was sitting around reading the other day, and I had a notebook on hand to keep all the characters straight, and I realized I had written down a note on another page. "this all just feels so fucking futile" Nothing to do with what I was reading, just how I feel about what I'm doing right now. I'm finishing the second course of anatomy and physiology, because I did the first half, but I really don't care at all. Getting this job? I mean, on some logical level I suppose I should be happy, but I don't really care about that either. It's just not registering. Or rather, my relevance scale is all screwy these days.

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While thinking about writing quite a bit, I realized that I do like first person narration, because it forces the writer to take on the persona of the character, and find that character's true voice. However, I find that this means that the manipulation of prose is not limited to the author's creativity and skill, but rather to the poetic inclinations of that character. In fact, understanding is limited to the character's capabilities, description limited to their vocabulary. While writing as someone who is distinct from yourself may be quite a challenge, and may provide a more consistent absorption into the narration, it also makes it very hard to justify the beautiful wordcraft that the third person can be so inclined to.

"Giving her some small, orphaned kisses in the hollow of her wounded hand, he opened up the most hidden passageways of his heart and drew out an interminable and lacerated intestine, the terrible parasitic animal that had incubated in his martyrdom."
(One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez)

The only reason I am even writing this entry is coffee that otherwise I would just be pacing and pacing and pacing and pacing.

My name, should you know it, remains unspeakable, and is spoken - malediction

I looked through my pen-and-ink journal today, and read the entry from right after my meltdown. It's seventeen pages long. All I could think of, flipping through it, was 'holy hell, I wrote this?' It's beautiful and painful, and there are phrases in there that I can't believe came from my head. That I can't believe are a first draft, as rough as they can be. It doesn't read like I was writing it for myself, though I certainly didn't have the intention of ever showing it to anyone else.

I think that I like the way I put words together.

I've never re-read any of my private journals before, but it's a practice that I may cultivate.

Here are two lists that I am working on

Things that I really, really like when I'm emotionally unstable:
1. Poetry of all sorts
2. Journaling
3. 80s music (sentimental British altrock esp) (what the fuck, I'm listening to The Smiths)
4. Punk music
5. Exercise
6. Philosophy, including:
6a. Michel Foucault
7. Surrealist paintings
8. Birds
9. Learning a new language

Things that I normally like but really, really don't when I'm emotionally unstable:
1. Television (any sort)
2. SciFi/Fantasy ANYTHING, apparently
3. Any and all video games
4. Metallica
5. Almost all people (though I actually can't tell if the misanthropy is a new development or not)
  • Current Music
    The Smiths - Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want
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New year, new post, same old? Maybe not.

I can't remember if I had any resolutions from last New Year's, but whatever. My priorities now are very different from what they were a year ago.

I am unhappy. I don't like the way my life is going. I don't like the way me is going. It took being physically unwell for me to finally become honest enough with myself to realize it, but whatever. I've finally figured it out, as well as I can. I'm not making New Year's resolutions, because that's fairly arbitrary. Instead, I'll go with the date of my meltdown, December 5th, because that's when I made my resolution decision.

I am going to fix this.

2011 was a fucked up, miserable year (made even more fucked up by the fact that I didn't even notice), and I hope that 2012 will be better, but I'm going to try to avoid the trap of thinking that a new year means a fresh start.

I make my own fresh start. It's not the year that needs to change, just me.
(though it looks like that won't get going until summer, so fml)

Happy fucking new year.
tenth doctor - he gets mad sometimes

Graaaaargh. Grrr.

Dear potential employers:

I understand that you are so swamped with applicants that it is impossible for you to grant each one the consideration that they actually deserve, and that very few of the many qualified candidates will ever hear back from you or have an interview at all. But seriously, people. It is common fucking courtesy to at least send out a form letter (It doesn't have to be long! Two sentences is more than enough!) confirming that you received and read my cover letter and resume, and another one (equally short!) to inform me that the position has been filled. Jesus. It's not difficult.

How many people have actually done me this courtesy? Maybe two out of a year and a half of applying, and only one of them was at all timely.

In other news:

I was looking up Shakespeare quotations last night, because my bffkj has decided that she wants some Shakespeare for her 3rd tat. I'm personally rooting for some Hamlet. Anyhow, I went from messing around on my favorite web site (around 9:00 PM) to looking up poetry (because as my emotional state deteriorates, my appreciation for poetry and the craftsmanship of beautiful prose increases exponentially), to looking up that one thing I read that one time that quoted that poem what was it called to reading amazing bullshit until 8 in the morning. So, I slept for a couple hours, and I've noted that my filters are a little less... assiduous? when I'm tired (assiduous is not the word I want; exhaustive? precise? something)*. So I've been writing, and thinking about writing, and writing about thinking about writing.

Unfortunately, my vocabulary (and ability to craft a sentence that doesn't run on) is also weakened in this state, which is a bit frustrating. Lots of the tip-of-the-tongue going on over here.

However, I have great hopes that later I shall throw some feelings into the mix! And then I shall have feelings about feelings, and then I shall be thinking about feelings about feelings, and then maybe I can start writing about thinking about feelings about feelings (and then I can think about that).

*1/03/2012 ETA: efficient would probably be a good descriptor to put here.

Henry David Thoreau - Walden II

The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation. From the desperate city you go into the desperate country, and have to console yourself with the bravery of minks and muskrats. A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind. There is no play in them, for this comes after work. But it is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things.
spn - i like to stare at dean a lot :)

oh look i'm doing something again

1700 words - almost three pages of punctuationless, poorly developed, rambling, nonstop stream of consciousness outline, and over 3000 words of so-so actually fleshed-out narrative (which I like, and have reread several times already, and have been editing like mad but it has some problems because I don't know how to end sentences and when it's a bad idea to continue them within parentheses). Not a bad day, all told. I hate the last half of the outline somewhat; some of the thoughts in there are good, but it needs to be different, because there's something wrong, so I'll get back to that. There's a scene that I know needs to happen (I have already picked out the soundtrack for it and everything), but how it gets to that point and the context is a problem.

So probably I'll go for a long walk tomorrow so that I can think about that.
  • Current Music
    grey does matter - life from under
  • Tags
trek - starship enterpoop


I feel awesome as hell.

So, it turns out that I'm not one of those people who is super sensitive to needles and cries and moans and barfs and passes out (I guess everyone's nerves are different). Honestly, I really, really, really enjoyed getting my tattoo. It. Was. Awesome. Holy shit. I still feel pretty awesome, but really now. Wow. Though I worked the math out and I payed that guy like $5.02 a minute. Fuckin' worth it.

Also! I successfully socialized today! I met new people! They were all gigantor nerds! I was minimally awkward! I have new facebook friend requests as a result! Towards the end of the evening, my friend's husband turned to her and said 'I like your friend; she's funny.' AWESOME. It is a good day.

Also, I was indeed wise not to let on what exactly I was getting inked in advance, because once mom saw it she was like (not verbatim) 'Didn't Iago say that? You got one of Iago's lines tattooed into your flesh forever?' and somewhat horrified.

Fuck yeah, I now have a permanent, physical connection to Shakespeare.

ETA: shit, should have thought a bit more about getting that done right under the waistband of my underpants. Welp, going commando for a few days.
  • Current Music
    David Ford - Go To Hell
  • Tags