Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Skin Picking
I overheard my mother talking to Larry about picking at the skin on her face. Now I know where I get it from. Any ways, senior year I wrote a monologue about it. It's technically not me.
I pluck my eyebrows a lot. It makes me feel better, like I am achieving something. Each eyebrow hair I pluck, I put on the edge of the mirror. It’s a locker mirror, but I’ve never put it in a locker. I think it might actually be my brother’s. I laughed at him because it is pink and sparkly. My brother tries to take my tweezers from me. He says my eyebrows are already too little; I need to let them grow. Maybe he’s right, I mean, I know that my eyebrows are too little, but seeing the little black points of hair sticking out of my pore, I can’t help but pluck them,
Actually it has been hurting lately to pluck them. I think some hairs are becoming ingrown, like that little black spot, just above where my eyebrow starts. Once I read a book about a cocaine addict who plucked her leg hairs, but the hairs became ingrown, like mine, creating swirls of hair underneath the skin, plucking leg hairs sounded like a good idea before that. I don’t want that to happen to my face, but I can see it happening. I think it might already be happening, I can see more of the black dots forming around my eyebrows.
God, I’m becoming so vain. Even my vanity is compulsive. Compulsively I pluck my eyebrows and pick at my blackheads. My forehead ends up looking like a human pincushion, all of my pores swollen and red. Every night I fall asleep, hoping, wishing that I’ll look okay tomorrow, like somehow everything will change over night, major transformation. When I was little I used to think about what it would be like to wake up as someone else. When I blew out the candles on my birthday cake for years that is what I wished for. Honestly though, seven year olds aren’t supposed to think things like that, they are supposed to be happy with themselves. I’ve spent my entire life being unhappy
This picking at skin, it all really started with zits and yeah I know that’s disgusting, but it’s the truth. I could sit for hours trying to pop all five million zits on my face at once. I used to put a green mask on at night too. It probably didn’t help because it had mint in it and mint irritates my skin. Once I used mint conditioner and it felt like my entire head was on fire. I don’t really like mint toothpaste either, but it gets rid of bad breath and so I tolerate it. That’s another thing that I’ve become compulsive about. I never was worried about bad breath until I tasted it on someone. Now I chew mint gum, but like I said I hate mint, but I am so worried, because bad breath can change how you see the composure of a person. Not that I am composed. I hate the way that I move. In second grade I decided I moved differently from everyone else. All my movements are so awkward and sharp, and all I want to be is this subtle, demure person, but the most I have managed is to pluck my eyebrows down into lines that don’t match up and it’s funny because I didn’t used to care what my eyebrows looked like, that’s the one thing that I thought I didn’t have to worry about. Then I went to get my hair dyed when I was fourteen and the hair stylist told me that I needed to get my eyebrows waxed and she could do it for me. I mean, maybe she just wanted money. Now that I think back that makes sense, but at that moment it was like the entirety of my being was reduced down to the fact that my eyebrows were too hairy. I got a third degree burn when she did it, a red arch underneath my eyebrow. It didn’t hurt when she pulled the wax off. Not anymore than it hurts to stick a needle through your ear and I am almost as compulsive as that as I am about my eyebrows.
I don’t really know when I started plucking. Probably when I saw the miniscule hairs creeping upon my nose. I just started with the middle, between each of my eyebrows. Right away I discovered a problem. We are covered in little hairs. Look at your skin, anywhere on your skin, look really closely, go under a light, and you’ll see them. Little transparent hairs, like the hairs on a spider. I felt it necessary to try and pluck all these hairs as well. I would sit down, just with the intent to pluck my eyebrows, and I would get frustrated, because it was like they were growing back while I was plucking them. So I just kept plucking them. Eventually I found how fun it was to pluck the really long hairs, the ones with a crimp in the middle, and then of course there are the dark hairs, the really dark ones that grow the slowest. It’s so satisfying to get them when they are just a bud, just a little dot. When you pull it out it’s longer, the little white ball of a root at the end. I mean, when you see that, you have to wonder how many other things are hiding underneath your skin.
I pluck my eyebrows a lot. It makes me feel better, like I am achieving something. Each eyebrow hair I pluck, I put on the edge of the mirror. It’s a locker mirror, but I’ve never put it in a locker. I think it might actually be my brother’s. I laughed at him because it is pink and sparkly. My brother tries to take my tweezers from me. He says my eyebrows are already too little; I need to let them grow. Maybe he’s right, I mean, I know that my eyebrows are too little, but seeing the little black points of hair sticking out of my pore, I can’t help but pluck them,
Actually it has been hurting lately to pluck them. I think some hairs are becoming ingrown, like that little black spot, just above where my eyebrow starts. Once I read a book about a cocaine addict who plucked her leg hairs, but the hairs became ingrown, like mine, creating swirls of hair underneath the skin, plucking leg hairs sounded like a good idea before that. I don’t want that to happen to my face, but I can see it happening. I think it might already be happening, I can see more of the black dots forming around my eyebrows.
God, I’m becoming so vain. Even my vanity is compulsive. Compulsively I pluck my eyebrows and pick at my blackheads. My forehead ends up looking like a human pincushion, all of my pores swollen and red. Every night I fall asleep, hoping, wishing that I’ll look okay tomorrow, like somehow everything will change over night, major transformation. When I was little I used to think about what it would be like to wake up as someone else. When I blew out the candles on my birthday cake for years that is what I wished for. Honestly though, seven year olds aren’t supposed to think things like that, they are supposed to be happy with themselves. I’ve spent my entire life being unhappy
This picking at skin, it all really started with zits and yeah I know that’s disgusting, but it’s the truth. I could sit for hours trying to pop all five million zits on my face at once. I used to put a green mask on at night too. It probably didn’t help because it had mint in it and mint irritates my skin. Once I used mint conditioner and it felt like my entire head was on fire. I don’t really like mint toothpaste either, but it gets rid of bad breath and so I tolerate it. That’s another thing that I’ve become compulsive about. I never was worried about bad breath until I tasted it on someone. Now I chew mint gum, but like I said I hate mint, but I am so worried, because bad breath can change how you see the composure of a person. Not that I am composed. I hate the way that I move. In second grade I decided I moved differently from everyone else. All my movements are so awkward and sharp, and all I want to be is this subtle, demure person, but the most I have managed is to pluck my eyebrows down into lines that don’t match up and it’s funny because I didn’t used to care what my eyebrows looked like, that’s the one thing that I thought I didn’t have to worry about. Then I went to get my hair dyed when I was fourteen and the hair stylist told me that I needed to get my eyebrows waxed and she could do it for me. I mean, maybe she just wanted money. Now that I think back that makes sense, but at that moment it was like the entirety of my being was reduced down to the fact that my eyebrows were too hairy. I got a third degree burn when she did it, a red arch underneath my eyebrow. It didn’t hurt when she pulled the wax off. Not anymore than it hurts to stick a needle through your ear and I am almost as compulsive as that as I am about my eyebrows.
I don’t really know when I started plucking. Probably when I saw the miniscule hairs creeping upon my nose. I just started with the middle, between each of my eyebrows. Right away I discovered a problem. We are covered in little hairs. Look at your skin, anywhere on your skin, look really closely, go under a light, and you’ll see them. Little transparent hairs, like the hairs on a spider. I felt it necessary to try and pluck all these hairs as well. I would sit down, just with the intent to pluck my eyebrows, and I would get frustrated, because it was like they were growing back while I was plucking them. So I just kept plucking them. Eventually I found how fun it was to pluck the really long hairs, the ones with a crimp in the middle, and then of course there are the dark hairs, the really dark ones that grow the slowest. It’s so satisfying to get them when they are just a bud, just a little dot. When you pull it out it’s longer, the little white ball of a root at the end. I mean, when you see that, you have to wonder how many other things are hiding underneath your skin.
An adventure of the death kind
My dad, my brother, and I are going to Milwaukee today to see my Grandpa. It didn't occur to me till last night how much this could affect my dad. I mean, it's his dad.
We have to do an open mic when I get back.
I will be back Monday afternoon. I'm not bringing my computer. It doesn't work well enough to make it worth it and I am going to try and force myself to work on German this weekend and finish reading "Dracula" for Victorian Literature (I gave up on Bleak House for awhile) (The back has words on it like "complicated," and I already can't pay attention to Dickens.)
We have to do an open mic when I get back.
I will be back Monday afternoon. I'm not bringing my computer. It doesn't work well enough to make it worth it and I am going to try and force myself to work on German this weekend and finish reading "Dracula" for Victorian Literature (I gave up on Bleak House for awhile) (The back has words on it like "complicated," and I already can't pay attention to Dickens.)
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Merry Christmas
First off, happy holidays.
Second, my grandpa is dying and I have to decide if I want to go to Milwaukee for Saturday through Monday. I probably will I guess? This sounds terrible. I just haven't seen him in years and I kind of want to keep my memories pleasant. Not good Christmas news.
Second, my grandpa is dying and I have to decide if I want to go to Milwaukee for Saturday through Monday. I probably will I guess? This sounds terrible. I just haven't seen him in years and I kind of want to keep my memories pleasant. Not good Christmas news.
Monday, December 22, 2008
I watch you watching my face indifferently
When I go back to school I am going to go to the counselor and rant about my mother. I want to rant now, but it seems innapproprite here. It also seems inappropriate to do so to my friends, but I do it any ways. Here is how it will go: I will talk about my mother and how guilty she makes me feel and then I will say I know I shouldn't let her make me feel guilty, that I am doing nothing wrong and she is fifty years old and should be able to take care of herself. The counselor will tell me that I seem to have a good grip on things. Perhaps I shouldn't prejudge, but the last two times I have tried to go see a counselor about my problems this is what has happened. Ironically (I don't know if ironic is the right word to use here), my mother is a licensed psychologist.
Friday, December 19, 2008
I am not actually dreading my victorian literature class anymore
I wish I could be like Jane Eyre, you know, without all the religion and sexual repression. For being an ugly girl (that's why that book is fantastic, they spend like half of it talking about how unattractive she is) she achieves quite a bit.
But I could never be Jane Eyre. I've never been good at repressing things and I would never tolerate Mr. Rochester's cheesy language as much as she does.
But I could never be Jane Eyre. I've never been good at repressing things and I would never tolerate Mr. Rochester's cheesy language as much as she does.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Three AM
It's those things that are said at three in the morning,
a question, three in my morning may have lost its significance
through daylight savings time and leap year.
When three in the morning becomes not, but becomes
as ambivalent as all the other times.
It was better in the sense that it was more real
when these morning words were said together.
It was worse in the sense that I was scared,
but I articulated it through the cold and shivers,
the air itself seemed to freeze and at the same time
whisper in a cacophony of the piles that surrounded us
(books and notebooks, old tests that we became ashamed of).
But still, three in the morning seems to carry more.
The furniture becomes heavier until it crushes us through the floor.
Gravity becomes important like time, though both of those
always weigh too much.
a question, three in my morning may have lost its significance
through daylight savings time and leap year.
When three in the morning becomes not, but becomes
as ambivalent as all the other times.
It was better in the sense that it was more real
when these morning words were said together.
It was worse in the sense that I was scared,
but I articulated it through the cold and shivers,
the air itself seemed to freeze and at the same time
whisper in a cacophony of the piles that surrounded us
(books and notebooks, old tests that we became ashamed of).
But still, three in the morning seems to carry more.
The furniture becomes heavier until it crushes us through the floor.
Gravity becomes important like time, though both of those
always weigh too much.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Help
I am stuck in my house. It's one degree outside and my car is at my other house. I watched "Muppets in Space," which has an excellent opening scene of all the Muppets getting ready for the day. I even attempted to play video games, but somehow all the controllers in my house are broken. I've decided the winter is like giving birth; you always forget how bad it is until you are in the middle of it.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Nutrolls are really popular in prison
We ventured to Morris and sure enough there was a blizzard. The windchill was -41. We spent a lot of time inside. We did try to go to breakfast on Sunday morning. That did not go well. It was a very nice weekend overall though. I will post more and put up pictures once I am on my own computer. I must keep this short though because I am on my brother's computer and he does not like that at all and my dad is picking him up from swimming practice right now. Driving back was rather scary, but Danny did an excellent job as you can tell because I am alive. Right, more later.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Hands
Another thing I wrote when I was seventeen. I read it at a reading. That was the night my brother stopped talking to my mother.
Her hands were skinny. Her hands were always skinny, even when her body swelled with childhood insecurities. Her hands were awkward and she hated them, just as I hate my hands now. Her hands were olive with bright blue veins sticking out. When she flexed her fingers you could see her joints move.
Skinny hands turned into bony wrists and long, thin agile fingers. Her nails were bitten and bleeding with anxiety. She bit her nails most when she was around her mother. She painted on clear bad tasting nail polish to try and stop herself from biting her nails, but she had grown accustomed to the taste and so the bitter peppery taste constantly filled her mouth and she thought that she must be very unpleasant to kiss.
When she was at peace with herself she was able to stop biting her nails, but these were short intervals. Her brittle nails broke easily and she couldn’t help picking at them.
She loved things that smelled good, and so she put on lotion every morning and night after her shower to clean her deoderant allergic skin. I used to love the feeling of her smooth hand in mine and wondered how she made them so soft. I started biting my nails, thinking that it would make my hands like hers, and now my nails bleed too.
Her fingers are bleeding again and she wears finger condoms to keep dirt out of the cuts. The finger condoms make her fingers smell like rubber, and I am reminded of hospitals and sex.
Her hands are skinny. Skinnier than when she was teenager. The joints in her fingers stick out grotesquely and her olive skin looks like a thin glove over her bones. Her skins looks glistens because of the extra-strong moisturizing lotion she slathers on her dry cracked skin.
Her hands shake now. She can barely hold onto the red gel anti-depressant capsules she takes everyday. She says that chemicals have burned through the skin on her hands and everything she touches makes them sting.
Her hands were skinny. Her hands were always skinny, even when her body swelled with childhood insecurities. Her hands were awkward and she hated them, just as I hate my hands now. Her hands were olive with bright blue veins sticking out. When she flexed her fingers you could see her joints move.
Skinny hands turned into bony wrists and long, thin agile fingers. Her nails were bitten and bleeding with anxiety. She bit her nails most when she was around her mother. She painted on clear bad tasting nail polish to try and stop herself from biting her nails, but she had grown accustomed to the taste and so the bitter peppery taste constantly filled her mouth and she thought that she must be very unpleasant to kiss.
When she was at peace with herself she was able to stop biting her nails, but these were short intervals. Her brittle nails broke easily and she couldn’t help picking at them.
She loved things that smelled good, and so she put on lotion every morning and night after her shower to clean her deoderant allergic skin. I used to love the feeling of her smooth hand in mine and wondered how she made them so soft. I started biting my nails, thinking that it would make my hands like hers, and now my nails bleed too.
Her fingers are bleeding again and she wears finger condoms to keep dirt out of the cuts. The finger condoms make her fingers smell like rubber, and I am reminded of hospitals and sex.
Her hands are skinny. Skinnier than when she was teenager. The joints in her fingers stick out grotesquely and her olive skin looks like a thin glove over her bones. Her skins looks glistens because of the extra-strong moisturizing lotion she slathers on her dry cracked skin.
Her hands shake now. She can barely hold onto the red gel anti-depressant capsules she takes everyday. She says that chemicals have burned through the skin on her hands and everything she touches makes them sting.
Friday, December 12, 2008
I feel it in my fingers
Tomorrow Danny and I are driving to Morris, Minnesota. Lovely place. It has about three residents and a coffeeshop built on God's love. I'm very excited to visit people there. This could very easily turn into an "I love everyone" post and I haven't been drinking so I have no exuse. The weather is supposed to be bad on Sunday, but I am not letting this stop the trip.
They're a little too loud for me
Story one
My room at my mom's house averages between 51 and 59 degrees fahrenheit. The rest of the house averages between 61 and 65 degrees fahrenheit. My perfect temperature is around 80 to 85 degrees fahrenheit. So, you can probably gather I am cold every minute that I am home except when I am under my down comforter in my freezing room. I walked into my mother's room to get a pen (all of them seem to have gravitated to her desk) and it was like a fucking sauna. This is after she tells me not to use the space heater every night in my room because it's expensive. Oh, but she did turn up the heat in the bathroom for me. Great, so now I can be warm while I pee.
Story two
I went to the dentist today for a teeth cleaning. Who did I see there? Larry (my mom's boyfriend). Coincidentally, my mother was also at the dentist. I've noticed they like to schedule as much of the Coryell/Lamberto family at one time as possible, probably so they have to deal with us less. We all have bad teeth and hate the dentist. Larry asked if I could pick her up and I reluctantly agreed, knowing my mother was having a root canel, probably fell asleep on the chair, and thus would be half asleep and in pain. So after I have a horrible teeth cleaning, in which my gums bleed an excessive amount and somehow half this blood winds up all over my face, I wait around Border's for awhile reading knitting and baking magazines (I know, I'm about eighty years old), and then I go back to the dentist's office. Who did I see there? Larry. He said, "Oh, Dollene forgot her keys so I thought I would pick her up just to be sure." That man has no logic. I have keys. I have had keys since I was five years old when we first moved in. He just wanted to be sure that I would let her inside the house and not just run off to one of my friend's houses. Yes, because I am a complete bitch of a daughter and would leave my half asleep in-pain mother outside in the freezing cold.
Okay, I'm done ranting. Now I am going to make lunch and figure out how much German I have to study each day.
My room at my mom's house averages between 51 and 59 degrees fahrenheit. The rest of the house averages between 61 and 65 degrees fahrenheit. My perfect temperature is around 80 to 85 degrees fahrenheit. So, you can probably gather I am cold every minute that I am home except when I am under my down comforter in my freezing room. I walked into my mother's room to get a pen (all of them seem to have gravitated to her desk) and it was like a fucking sauna. This is after she tells me not to use the space heater every night in my room because it's expensive. Oh, but she did turn up the heat in the bathroom for me. Great, so now I can be warm while I pee.
Story two
I went to the dentist today for a teeth cleaning. Who did I see there? Larry (my mom's boyfriend). Coincidentally, my mother was also at the dentist. I've noticed they like to schedule as much of the Coryell/Lamberto family at one time as possible, probably so they have to deal with us less. We all have bad teeth and hate the dentist. Larry asked if I could pick her up and I reluctantly agreed, knowing my mother was having a root canel, probably fell asleep on the chair, and thus would be half asleep and in pain. So after I have a horrible teeth cleaning, in which my gums bleed an excessive amount and somehow half this blood winds up all over my face, I wait around Border's for awhile reading knitting and baking magazines (I know, I'm about eighty years old), and then I go back to the dentist's office. Who did I see there? Larry. He said, "Oh, Dollene forgot her keys so I thought I would pick her up just to be sure." That man has no logic. I have keys. I have had keys since I was five years old when we first moved in. He just wanted to be sure that I would let her inside the house and not just run off to one of my friend's houses. Yes, because I am a complete bitch of a daughter and would leave my half asleep in-pain mother outside in the freezing cold.
Okay, I'm done ranting. Now I am going to make lunch and figure out how much German I have to study each day.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
It's in the special way we fuck
I will post new things eventually. Not things I wrote when I was seventeen years old and absolutely absurd. Granted, I am still absolutely aburd. I keep meaning to post fiction, but I look at it and it's all so long and unfinished. Does anyone have any idea how I can post fiction anywhere from 5-75 pages long without have it be overwhelming?
(Home is excellent.) (I knit a hat. I will post a picture.)
(Home is excellent.) (I knit a hat. I will post a picture.)
Remember
I wrote this when I was seventeen. It reeks of that age.
Do you remember? That day on the beach. You must remember. Me, leading you down to the water. It was cold that day. You looked at me when I said I wanted go to the beach, you looked at me and I could see the worry in your eyes. You shouldn’t have been worried though.
You remember don’t you? Driving us down there. I didn’t talk much, even though I knew it would upset you. The intent of my silence was not to sadden you. I just wanted to look at the leaves changing colors in the trees and you know you wanted to look too. I tried to show you, remember? When I leaned down and picked the leaf off the ground. It was my favorite kind, the ones that turn vibrant red. I picked it up and handed it to you and you nodded and dropped it back onto the ground.
And remember? When I took off my shoes and dipped my toes in the water. I told you to take off your shoes as well and join me and you said no; that you didn’t want to get your feet sandy. I laughed at you and pretended that I didn’t care, but I wanted to show you. I wanted you to feel the chilly water rushing against the nerves in your toes. There are a lot of nerves in toes you know, and when the water crescendos and swiftly recedes, you can feel it. The cold sneaks up through your legs and stomach and your body shivers instinctively, and then the cold evaporates, coming out as a tickle in the nose.
Do you remember when I kissed you? I think it surprised you when I just ran up and kissed you like that. The sand was cold underneath my feet. You watched as I made shapes in it with my fingers. I told you to help me. That we could build a sand castle. You said no, the sand was cold and wet and dirty. So I made a castle by myself and watched it until the waves overcame it.
I made you stand with me by the water’s edge. I held your hand, even though I could feel it shifting uncomfortably. I wanted to feel you. I wanted the shocks to move from your hand to mine and I wanted us, for one moment, to have serenity.
The wind was sharp that day and when it blew through me, I wondered if I was hollow. If all of the bone marrow had been sucked out of my bones and I was as frail as a toothpick statue.
Do you remember when I picked up a seashell and put it in my pocket. You asked me why I wanted an ordinary seashell. I told you to look, to examine the flawless ivory surface. You tried to feign interest and then you handed it back to me, without saying a word.
Do you remember how our silence feels? How it wraps around us in all of its uncertainties. Do you remember? When I told you that if the sun froze at that moment, that we would be stuck, holding hands along the water, and when they world warmed again, they would find us like that. You laughed and told me that I was weird, that you didn’t know how I thought up such things. But it is not like I spent several days or even hours or minutes thinking about it. It just occurred to me, that they would find us like that and they would believe it to be perfection. I just wanted to show you.
Do you remember? That day on the beach. You must remember. Me, leading you down to the water. It was cold that day. You looked at me when I said I wanted go to the beach, you looked at me and I could see the worry in your eyes. You shouldn’t have been worried though.
You remember don’t you? Driving us down there. I didn’t talk much, even though I knew it would upset you. The intent of my silence was not to sadden you. I just wanted to look at the leaves changing colors in the trees and you know you wanted to look too. I tried to show you, remember? When I leaned down and picked the leaf off the ground. It was my favorite kind, the ones that turn vibrant red. I picked it up and handed it to you and you nodded and dropped it back onto the ground.
And remember? When I took off my shoes and dipped my toes in the water. I told you to take off your shoes as well and join me and you said no; that you didn’t want to get your feet sandy. I laughed at you and pretended that I didn’t care, but I wanted to show you. I wanted you to feel the chilly water rushing against the nerves in your toes. There are a lot of nerves in toes you know, and when the water crescendos and swiftly recedes, you can feel it. The cold sneaks up through your legs and stomach and your body shivers instinctively, and then the cold evaporates, coming out as a tickle in the nose.
Do you remember when I kissed you? I think it surprised you when I just ran up and kissed you like that. The sand was cold underneath my feet. You watched as I made shapes in it with my fingers. I told you to help me. That we could build a sand castle. You said no, the sand was cold and wet and dirty. So I made a castle by myself and watched it until the waves overcame it.
I made you stand with me by the water’s edge. I held your hand, even though I could feel it shifting uncomfortably. I wanted to feel you. I wanted the shocks to move from your hand to mine and I wanted us, for one moment, to have serenity.
The wind was sharp that day and when it blew through me, I wondered if I was hollow. If all of the bone marrow had been sucked out of my bones and I was as frail as a toothpick statue.
Do you remember when I picked up a seashell and put it in my pocket. You asked me why I wanted an ordinary seashell. I told you to look, to examine the flawless ivory surface. You tried to feign interest and then you handed it back to me, without saying a word.
Do you remember how our silence feels? How it wraps around us in all of its uncertainties. Do you remember? When I told you that if the sun froze at that moment, that we would be stuck, holding hands along the water, and when they world warmed again, they would find us like that. You laughed and told me that I was weird, that you didn’t know how I thought up such things. But it is not like I spent several days or even hours or minutes thinking about it. It just occurred to me, that they would find us like that and they would believe it to be perfection. I just wanted to show you.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Peter the Vampire*
Peter wanted to be a vampire. This seemed silly, "Peter the vampire from Australia." But nonetheless, Peter wanted to be a vampire. Peter tried as hard as possible to be a vampire. He moved to Florence, Italy, where time seems to stretch on forever (as it would if you were a vampire) and got a job handing out fliers (which is almost the same as sucking blood). Peter spent his nights with many women hoping he would find one that was a vampire, but sadly they were all vapid tourists that only wanted sex and not blood. Poor Pete. He started working in a bar hoping alcohol could fill his cravings, but it was not enough and now he spends his days earning money so he can go find vampires in China.
*A completely biographical tale.
*A completely biographical tale.
I wrote something on the airplane
I struggle with this idea of being "in-transit." It is easier in the car, staring down at the white lines and the green mile markers or even on a ship, which despite its rocking it still feels firmly anchored to something.
But airplane travel. This could be equated with limbo. The plane takes off from the runway (I still don't understand how and will not understand how) and it is lifted into nowhere. On the flight from Rome to Jersey they had diagrams showing the position of the plane in the sky, but the scale of the plane was about one eighth of the Atlantic Ocean, rendering those images unbelievable. A dot might be more appropriate, but a dot small enough to portray the airplane over the world would not be visible on the screen.
Halfway through the ten hour flight I began to question the reality of flying. How did I know that the airplane, the size of one eighth of the ocean, was actually flying midway trhough the Atlantic between Canada and Ireland? I had no window, this added to the perception of an illusion, but even when windows existed I considered the possibility that the things seen out of them were only images on a television screen. I felt about flying the way some people thought about landing on the moon; that it was far too fantastic to be real.
I was nowhere for approximately thirteen hours that day. I might as well have stayed where I was in Florence and sat in my room for those hours. I would've gotten equally as much accomplished and at the end of the day I could've stepped out of my room and beam-me-up-Scotty style been in St. Paul.
Flying would be more real if airplanes didn't have roofs. I have this vague suspicion we would all be sucked out and memories of a movie I watched long ago with my mother where half an airplane had lost it's top and everyone was screaming. My mother said this was the smoking half of the airplane. But still, it would be like driving a car with the windos open in an area relatively void of oxygen. I should be sick: I am moving hundreds of miles per hour and can't feel it.
The Rome airport is a good reflection of Italy itself. The train was alright, besides just missing the one which would have delivered us to the airport at the recommended two hours ahead of time. We arrived at the airport to find we had to take a bus to get to the correct terminal and of course we had just missed that one too. While on the bus I began to blame the entireity of Italian culture for our tardiness and decided they probably wouldn't let us check in at that point. However, timeliness is not an Italian habit and much of the plane seem to be in the check-in like with us. We got to the counter and they announced that our flight had been booked with their airline by a different airline. We went over to the counter for the other airline with the assistance of an old Italian woman who spoke to us in half Italian and half English (at that point I was so worrried I couldn't understand either- I just nodded). She handed us an abundance of tickets- six to be exact - and we got through security, rode up and down a mulitude of escalators only to be confronted by another bus, which took us to yet another building. Once at that building we rode up and down several more escalators before reaching our gate and then rode down one more escalator to board. I must've been wearing my worried wrinkled face; everyone kept calling me "sweetie."
When I was nowhere I forgot about my hatred for Italy and started to complain about the lack of Italian written on things on the airplane- Spanish and English written instead. It's easier to love everything that's somewhere and exlusively hate the airplane when you are nowhere. The noise of airplanes makes me fall asleep, just like the noise of overhead projectors. My neck, which has been equated to that of a giraffe, addes to this, finding it no trouble to lean over and rest on my shoulder while I slumber. It hurts when I wake up, but I simply shift it to the other shoulder. I didn't dream on the flight from Rome. I tried not to think about Florence; it was already giving me culture shock on the airplane.
Everyone has a special relationship with their home airport. The first time I ever picked my dad up from a business trip he remarked that it was a sign that I was getting old. After 9/11 the baggage claim is the meeting place. I have yet to see the baggage claim in movies: airport rules don't apply in nonreality. There is very little that is romantic about baggage turning in circles. i imagine running through the airport to see my dad and my brother. I will not do this. The way I imagine them greeting me is accurate though. My dad's smile, somewhat like mine: naive and excited. My brotjher will be sassy. He will lecture me about my terrible time int he Rome airport. Tell me my legs will be cold because I have no clean leggings and it is warm in Rome. We willb e happy, in the way I was never able to be with my family untilI started leaving.
The woman next to me is reading a book about riding hourses. I looked over her shoulder a couple of times in order to learn that, "If you think your horse will freak out it will." Our flight is small. The boy across and up one from me is doing high school homework. He is making of those carts with all the connecting circles. The solo flight attendent sounds like a woman. I stared at him for a long time trying to decide if he once was, but the male-pattern baling gives his masculinity away. He sits in a sit that faces the entire airplane cabin. He doesn't looked at me. I imagine that other peopel are looking at him as well.
The clouds from New Jersey to Minnesota look like ice. A giant lake with snow drifts on it, the type one can find in February and March in Minnesota. Everytime I leave home I decide that no one understands the concept of lakes like Minnesotans., something integral to live in simple ways. I always appreciate stationary water when I am away from it.
How strange. I went up into nowhere and will come down at the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport, where it is fifty degrees colder and everyone is pale and many of them are fat. We need eduction on airplesn, an instructional video that reminds us where we are goign and where we came from. Perhaps statistics, such as, Minnesotia: land of 10,000 lakes with a capital city of St. Paul. It has the Mall of America and lots of snow. Some parts have farms, others are heavily wooded. Some areas used to have prairies, but I suspect this is where the farms are now. There are a lot od cows, which makes for good milk. Tasha Coryell grew up here. She has a strange tendency to idealize it when she is gone.
But airplane travel. This could be equated with limbo. The plane takes off from the runway (I still don't understand how and will not understand how) and it is lifted into nowhere. On the flight from Rome to Jersey they had diagrams showing the position of the plane in the sky, but the scale of the plane was about one eighth of the Atlantic Ocean, rendering those images unbelievable. A dot might be more appropriate, but a dot small enough to portray the airplane over the world would not be visible on the screen.
Halfway through the ten hour flight I began to question the reality of flying. How did I know that the airplane, the size of one eighth of the ocean, was actually flying midway trhough the Atlantic between Canada and Ireland? I had no window, this added to the perception of an illusion, but even when windows existed I considered the possibility that the things seen out of them were only images on a television screen. I felt about flying the way some people thought about landing on the moon; that it was far too fantastic to be real.
I was nowhere for approximately thirteen hours that day. I might as well have stayed where I was in Florence and sat in my room for those hours. I would've gotten equally as much accomplished and at the end of the day I could've stepped out of my room and beam-me-up-Scotty style been in St. Paul.
Flying would be more real if airplanes didn't have roofs. I have this vague suspicion we would all be sucked out and memories of a movie I watched long ago with my mother where half an airplane had lost it's top and everyone was screaming. My mother said this was the smoking half of the airplane. But still, it would be like driving a car with the windos open in an area relatively void of oxygen. I should be sick: I am moving hundreds of miles per hour and can't feel it.
The Rome airport is a good reflection of Italy itself. The train was alright, besides just missing the one which would have delivered us to the airport at the recommended two hours ahead of time. We arrived at the airport to find we had to take a bus to get to the correct terminal and of course we had just missed that one too. While on the bus I began to blame the entireity of Italian culture for our tardiness and decided they probably wouldn't let us check in at that point. However, timeliness is not an Italian habit and much of the plane seem to be in the check-in like with us. We got to the counter and they announced that our flight had been booked with their airline by a different airline. We went over to the counter for the other airline with the assistance of an old Italian woman who spoke to us in half Italian and half English (at that point I was so worrried I couldn't understand either- I just nodded). She handed us an abundance of tickets- six to be exact - and we got through security, rode up and down a mulitude of escalators only to be confronted by another bus, which took us to yet another building. Once at that building we rode up and down several more escalators before reaching our gate and then rode down one more escalator to board. I must've been wearing my worried wrinkled face; everyone kept calling me "sweetie."
When I was nowhere I forgot about my hatred for Italy and started to complain about the lack of Italian written on things on the airplane- Spanish and English written instead. It's easier to love everything that's somewhere and exlusively hate the airplane when you are nowhere. The noise of airplanes makes me fall asleep, just like the noise of overhead projectors. My neck, which has been equated to that of a giraffe, addes to this, finding it no trouble to lean over and rest on my shoulder while I slumber. It hurts when I wake up, but I simply shift it to the other shoulder. I didn't dream on the flight from Rome. I tried not to think about Florence; it was already giving me culture shock on the airplane.
Everyone has a special relationship with their home airport. The first time I ever picked my dad up from a business trip he remarked that it was a sign that I was getting old. After 9/11 the baggage claim is the meeting place. I have yet to see the baggage claim in movies: airport rules don't apply in nonreality. There is very little that is romantic about baggage turning in circles. i imagine running through the airport to see my dad and my brother. I will not do this. The way I imagine them greeting me is accurate though. My dad's smile, somewhat like mine: naive and excited. My brotjher will be sassy. He will lecture me about my terrible time int he Rome airport. Tell me my legs will be cold because I have no clean leggings and it is warm in Rome. We willb e happy, in the way I was never able to be with my family untilI started leaving.
The woman next to me is reading a book about riding hourses. I looked over her shoulder a couple of times in order to learn that, "If you think your horse will freak out it will." Our flight is small. The boy across and up one from me is doing high school homework. He is making of those carts with all the connecting circles. The solo flight attendent sounds like a woman. I stared at him for a long time trying to decide if he once was, but the male-pattern baling gives his masculinity away. He sits in a sit that faces the entire airplane cabin. He doesn't looked at me. I imagine that other peopel are looking at him as well.
The clouds from New Jersey to Minnesota look like ice. A giant lake with snow drifts on it, the type one can find in February and March in Minnesota. Everytime I leave home I decide that no one understands the concept of lakes like Minnesotans., something integral to live in simple ways. I always appreciate stationary water when I am away from it.
How strange. I went up into nowhere and will come down at the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport, where it is fifty degrees colder and everyone is pale and many of them are fat. We need eduction on airplesn, an instructional video that reminds us where we are goign and where we came from. Perhaps statistics, such as, Minnesotia: land of 10,000 lakes with a capital city of St. Paul. It has the Mall of America and lots of snow. Some parts have farms, others are heavily wooded. Some areas used to have prairies, but I suspect this is where the farms are now. There are a lot od cows, which makes for good milk. Tasha Coryell grew up here. She has a strange tendency to idealize it when she is gone.
Funny story
Neither Danny or I have access to a car, so breakfast is being postponed until one shows up at Danny's house. I will post in the mean time. I really should be doing laundry.
There is too much pressure for a clever title
I'm home. It's fantastic and shocking all at the sametime. It was really nice to see my family and my friends, even though my mother lost a tooth and started crying (she lost a tooth the day before I came home and cried when I came home, everytime I come home she gets a little crazier). It's weird though. I am in a completely different place with completely different people. The life that was my life on Friday isn't my life on Monday and I bet there are some people that are thinking, "But Tasha, that happens to my life every weekend..." I'm not going to worry about it though, instead I'm going out to breakfast with Danny.
I have a lot of things to post. I will do this later.
I have a lot of things to post. I will do this later.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Last blog post before I am in Saint Paul (I think)
I leave today and I am considerably happier than last night. However, I haven't said goodbye to Jeanne and Fabio yet, which will be really sad. I wasn't very close with them, but they were always very nice to me, despite me coming back drunk in the middle of the night many times and probably making lots of noise. I will miss Fabio trying to force me to eat more when I have already eaten vast amounts of food. Last night I had seven and a half pieces of pizza (little ones, but still, seven and a half is a lot).
Here is my traveling schedule:
3:30: train to Roma. (We don't have tickets yet, I hope we can still get tickets...)
We have a hostel in Roma and then we have to be at the airport by 7:45 in the morning, which will probably mean leaving the hostel by 7:00, but I will be really nervous so probably 6:30.
Our flight from Roma leaves at 9:45AM and from there it's a ten hour and ten minute flight. We get into New Jersey at 1:55PM, East Coast time. We have a two hour layover and then we fly out of Newark to MSP, a three hour and twelve minutes of flight. Then I will proceed to run through the airport to the baggage claim where my dad and my brother are meeting me. Then we are going out to eat and then I am going to Border's to see people (Colin is working). Then I will go to my mom's house and fall asleep in my wonderful bed with my down comforter.
It's good I'm leaving. I am excited to see everyone at home. Most people don't get home for another week and a half, but I am going to visit Blair at Gustavus and Martin, Greta, and Tessa at Morris with Danny.
Now I am going to make one last attempt to find my dad an Italia bicycling team shirt.
Here is my traveling schedule:
3:30: train to Roma. (We don't have tickets yet, I hope we can still get tickets...)
We have a hostel in Roma and then we have to be at the airport by 7:45 in the morning, which will probably mean leaving the hostel by 7:00, but I will be really nervous so probably 6:30.
Our flight from Roma leaves at 9:45AM and from there it's a ten hour and ten minute flight. We get into New Jersey at 1:55PM, East Coast time. We have a two hour layover and then we fly out of Newark to MSP, a three hour and twelve minutes of flight. Then I will proceed to run through the airport to the baggage claim where my dad and my brother are meeting me. Then we are going out to eat and then I am going to Border's to see people (Colin is working). Then I will go to my mom's house and fall asleep in my wonderful bed with my down comforter.
It's good I'm leaving. I am excited to see everyone at home. Most people don't get home for another week and a half, but I am going to visit Blair at Gustavus and Martin, Greta, and Tessa at Morris with Danny.
Now I am going to make one last attempt to find my dad an Italia bicycling team shirt.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Always coming back home to you
I have an overwhelming amount of emotions right now. On the one hand, I am really excited to go home. I really need to leave this country and go back to the Twin Cities. On the other hand it's sad leaving people, but at the same time a lot of the people that I am sad to be leaving I also resent for a lot of things. These things are all very conflicting, and thus out of frustration, happiness, and sadness I cried, and then I took a shower, which is what I normally do after I cry, and then I cried somemore, and then I called Bobby, who was sleeping, which makes sense as it's 2:30 in the morning (he didn't pick up). Between calling Bobby and Bobby calling me back I decided once I leave things will be okay, because once I get away from this place and these people that make me crazy I have to be okay. When Bobby called me back I had changed my mind and I started worrying that things wouldn't be okay. Leaving is so hard. It's even hard when you hate the place you are leaving. Okay, I don't hate Florence. I hate living here. I hate how it and the people here make me feel. I want to be with people that love me again. This is all very presumptuous as I am assuming that people somewhere love me, but whatever. I am just going in circles. This is terrible. I should go to bed. I will post something more comprehendable after I am sober and more awake.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Gender (poem #10)
The skinny girls in their boots don’t have eyes anymore.
They have lids, greasy and glazed with eye-shadow
and black line of eyeliner and a veil of lashes.
The skinny girls in their boots don’t speak;
I don’t anymore either.
The middle-aged women at the dinner table
with their lip wrinkles like a corpse
with their mouth sewn shut.
Jeanne had an afternoon off from helping Fabio in the store.
“Maybe I’ll bake something!” she exclaimed with enthusiasm.
I watched as she did three loads of laundry, hung the sheets,
and ironed the pants. She baked a torte and apologized
when dinner was late on the table.
Paolo can’t get a girlfriend
because every night he stands in front of a door,
smoking cigarettes and creating more dents in his face.
He waxes his eyebrows and his hair is glued upwards.
I wondered why the Italian men hit on the American girls
until I opened my eyes wide and he offered me a free shot;
“You know what I love most about this girl,” he said,
“She always leaves me speechless.”
They have lids, greasy and glazed with eye-shadow
and black line of eyeliner and a veil of lashes.
The skinny girls in their boots don’t speak;
I don’t anymore either.
The middle-aged women at the dinner table
with their lip wrinkles like a corpse
with their mouth sewn shut.
Jeanne had an afternoon off from helping Fabio in the store.
“Maybe I’ll bake something!” she exclaimed with enthusiasm.
I watched as she did three loads of laundry, hung the sheets,
and ironed the pants. She baked a torte and apologized
when dinner was late on the table.
Paolo can’t get a girlfriend
because every night he stands in front of a door,
smoking cigarettes and creating more dents in his face.
He waxes his eyebrows and his hair is glued upwards.
I wondered why the Italian men hit on the American girls
until I opened my eyes wide and he offered me a free shot;
“You know what I love most about this girl,” he said,
“She always leaves me speechless.”
Generosity (poem #9)
Sometimes in Italy your stomach is full,
but your mouth is not and when that happens
you must listen to your mouth. A common
weakness this seems; the hunger of a mouth,
a desire to feed. Mangia, mangia, mangia
a repeated command. Something applicable
beyond food, because sometimes in Italy
your mouth is still hungry long after your stomach
is full.
I caught the feeding sickness of Italy
on the second week in Firenze; a special Tuscan strain.
Mangia, mangia, mangia, this repeating refrain.
It started with a beer, and then a shot, no two, three
And the bar-tenders love to give those pretty-easy American girls
something to suck on.
Expulsion is the next symptom:
it comes in spurts, often starting with the mouth
and ending with the eyes.
There is evidence of this on the street
In stale dog shit and streaming lines of piss.
For one week and one half I found myself
Expelling liquid lines down the face,
for no reason at all outside of the feeding.
Like in a bar, when a man fresh out of the army
tells you that he just killed a man and when your eyes
open in shock, he says how beautiful they are.
My ego has been stuffed until it purges, and I am worried
that this might be chronic.
Mangia, mangia, mangia
No, basta! But my cries because irrelevant
for even when the mouth is full, things are shoved in any ways.
but your mouth is not and when that happens
you must listen to your mouth. A common
weakness this seems; the hunger of a mouth,
a desire to feed. Mangia, mangia, mangia
a repeated command. Something applicable
beyond food, because sometimes in Italy
your mouth is still hungry long after your stomach
is full.
I caught the feeding sickness of Italy
on the second week in Firenze; a special Tuscan strain.
Mangia, mangia, mangia, this repeating refrain.
It started with a beer, and then a shot, no two, three
And the bar-tenders love to give those pretty-easy American girls
something to suck on.
Expulsion is the next symptom:
it comes in spurts, often starting with the mouth
and ending with the eyes.
There is evidence of this on the street
In stale dog shit and streaming lines of piss.
For one week and one half I found myself
Expelling liquid lines down the face,
for no reason at all outside of the feeding.
Like in a bar, when a man fresh out of the army
tells you that he just killed a man and when your eyes
open in shock, he says how beautiful they are.
My ego has been stuffed until it purges, and I am worried
that this might be chronic.
Mangia, mangia, mangia
No, basta! But my cries because irrelevant
for even when the mouth is full, things are shoved in any ways.
Can you feel a little love?
Okay, here's the deal. I have ten poems due on Thursday. I have written eight. I need to revise all ten of them and make connections with the Decameron.
How you can help: read the numbered poems. Comment/message/IM me (poeticwankery or darkbrokenstar on AIM)/fly to Italy/call me and tell me what sucks or what you would like to see.
What you gain from it: I am not posting the revisions until after an open-mic. I will send them to you. Or if you are in Italy I will put you in a poem. If you are a man in Italy and you have hit on me, you are probably already in a poem. Do not let this discourage you.
Thank you or I'm guessing it will be "thank Colin" because generally he is the only commentor (however, I recognize Amelia commented on one).
How you can help: read the numbered poems. Comment/message/IM me (poeticwankery or darkbrokenstar on AIM)/fly to Italy/call me and tell me what sucks or what you would like to see.
What you gain from it: I am not posting the revisions until after an open-mic. I will send them to you. Or if you are in Italy I will put you in a poem. If you are a man in Italy and you have hit on me, you are probably already in a poem. Do not let this discourage you.
Thank you or I'm guessing it will be "thank Colin" because generally he is the only commentor (however, I recognize Amelia commented on one).
Faith (poem #8)
It is easier, waiting for no one.
Ask me what Florence is like in the afternoon
and I will tell you about the strip from Via Nazionale
through the underground tunnel, where there are holes
in the ceiling which water drips through and the same carabinieri
watch me walked by everyday,
emergence only to be assaulted by umbrella salesmen,
even on the days when I have an umbrella or it’s not raining.
The store on the corner changes its display every couple of weeks:
the mannequins always emaciated and they usually wear purple.
Sometimes a man is reproducing masterpieces using sidewalk chalk.
Sometimes an old man plays the violin.
Sometimes gypsies gather and sit on the steps of Santa Maria Novella;
even the gypsies have someone they are waiting for.
I passed by a bicycle store everyday and didn’t realize it until two days ago.
I take the slow route on days I am delaying going back home and days
when I hope to be waiting without waiting at all. Waiting with coincidence
is what bumping into someone on the street should be called.
I take the slow route everyday.
Ask me what Florence is like from the hours from four to six
and I will tell you about the different colors of sheets that I’ve had.
My favorite were the ones with the imperfect pastel polka dots
with the stripped pastel pillow. None of them match the green and red striped
comforter or the red, white, and black plaid blanket I put over the top
when it got too cold. I would tell you about the insides of my eyelids;
but you know what that looks like.
When I was waiting I could tell you what Florence looked like at night.
Too many people and all of them looked like they didn’t know where they were going.
Once I got stopped by two English boys asking me where to find a disco.
I must have looked like I knew where I was going.
I told them to go straight and take a left at the next big street they went to.
Often I would pass large groups of men and the key was to look straight forward
and pretend not to speak whatever language they were speaking to you,
because after all I was waiting. Waiting is terrible alone, when all those people
who don’t know where they are going are staring at you. When you realize
how many people have the same haircut. The drunk girls that sidle up to drunk boys
and somehow I always have the clarity to label them as ugly, but when you are waiting
everyone is ugly, everyone has a blemished face, a big nose, and giant grips of love handles. But when you are waiting, you become the penultimate flaw. Waiting like
in Santa Maria Novella, as if you are worth less.
Ask me what Florence is like in the afternoon
and I will tell you about the strip from Via Nazionale
through the underground tunnel, where there are holes
in the ceiling which water drips through and the same carabinieri
watch me walked by everyday,
emergence only to be assaulted by umbrella salesmen,
even on the days when I have an umbrella or it’s not raining.
The store on the corner changes its display every couple of weeks:
the mannequins always emaciated and they usually wear purple.
Sometimes a man is reproducing masterpieces using sidewalk chalk.
Sometimes an old man plays the violin.
Sometimes gypsies gather and sit on the steps of Santa Maria Novella;
even the gypsies have someone they are waiting for.
I passed by a bicycle store everyday and didn’t realize it until two days ago.
I take the slow route on days I am delaying going back home and days
when I hope to be waiting without waiting at all. Waiting with coincidence
is what bumping into someone on the street should be called.
I take the slow route everyday.
Ask me what Florence is like from the hours from four to six
and I will tell you about the different colors of sheets that I’ve had.
My favorite were the ones with the imperfect pastel polka dots
with the stripped pastel pillow. None of them match the green and red striped
comforter or the red, white, and black plaid blanket I put over the top
when it got too cold. I would tell you about the insides of my eyelids;
but you know what that looks like.
When I was waiting I could tell you what Florence looked like at night.
Too many people and all of them looked like they didn’t know where they were going.
Once I got stopped by two English boys asking me where to find a disco.
I must have looked like I knew where I was going.
I told them to go straight and take a left at the next big street they went to.
Often I would pass large groups of men and the key was to look straight forward
and pretend not to speak whatever language they were speaking to you,
because after all I was waiting. Waiting is terrible alone, when all those people
who don’t know where they are going are staring at you. When you realize
how many people have the same haircut. The drunk girls that sidle up to drunk boys
and somehow I always have the clarity to label them as ugly, but when you are waiting
everyone is ugly, everyone has a blemished face, a big nose, and giant grips of love handles. But when you are waiting, you become the penultimate flaw. Waiting like
in Santa Maria Novella, as if you are worth less.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Another Fucking Blog Post
I think they should make a computer that I can take in the shower with me. I would never leave. The water bill would be huge. No one else would ever have hot water. I also would get nothing done, but I would be happy. That's what matters.
Time: 11:46pm Pages completed: 2 Pages still to be completed: 1 Level of depression: 5
Scale that I am measuring my depression on: I am too depressed and apathetic to make a scale.
Things done while instead of writing paper:
1. Changed my facebook status.
2. Used incorrect form of "to" (too, two) and had to change it again.
3. Found the leftover turkey in the fridge.
4. Offered some to Bobby.
5. Thought it was really funny how baffled Bobby was about where I got the turkey from.
6. Ate some turkey.
7. Put the turkey away.
8. Looked at pictures of Venice underwater.
9. Called Mariel to tell her Venice was underwater.
10. Did a crossword puzzle.
11. Discovered Bobby and Josh are useless as classics students as they don't know the seventh letter of the Greek alphabet (the 7th letter of the English alphabet is G)
12. Went home.
13. Ate dinner.
14. Checked facebook a lot.
15. Took a shower.
16. Started to revise a poem.
(worked on my paper a bit.)
17. Complained to Dan.
18. Julie IMed me saying "I don't want to do anything."
19. I will now proceed to talk to Julie.
Time: 11:46pm Pages completed: 2 Pages still to be completed: 1 Level of depression: 5
Scale that I am measuring my depression on: I am too depressed and apathetic to make a scale.
Things done while instead of writing paper:
1. Changed my facebook status.
2. Used incorrect form of "to" (too, two) and had to change it again.
3. Found the leftover turkey in the fridge.
4. Offered some to Bobby.
5. Thought it was really funny how baffled Bobby was about where I got the turkey from.
6. Ate some turkey.
7. Put the turkey away.
8. Looked at pictures of Venice underwater.
9. Called Mariel to tell her Venice was underwater.
10. Did a crossword puzzle.
11. Discovered Bobby and Josh are useless as classics students as they don't know the seventh letter of the Greek alphabet (the 7th letter of the English alphabet is G)
12. Went home.
13. Ate dinner.
14. Checked facebook a lot.
15. Took a shower.
16. Started to revise a poem.
(worked on my paper a bit.)
17. Complained to Dan.
18. Julie IMed me saying "I don't want to do anything."
19. I will now proceed to talk to Julie.
Another fucking essay
Thus far in my essay writing I have:
1. Looked through facebook pictures.
2. Looked through more facebook pictures.
3. Complained a lot.
3.5. (I forgot to put this in and I'm too lazy to change the numbers) Made hostel reservations for Saturday.
4. Pretended to be a nun.
5. Pretended to be a nun while singing the wedding song (you know; dun dun dundun, dun dun dundun, dun dun dun dun dun dun dun dundun)
6. Pretended to be a sith-lord.
7. Posted everything I've done while writing my essay.
Time: 6:24 Pages completed: zero Cups of coffee: 2
1. Looked through facebook pictures.
2. Looked through more facebook pictures.
3. Complained a lot.
3.5. (I forgot to put this in and I'm too lazy to change the numbers) Made hostel reservations for Saturday.
4. Pretended to be a nun.
5. Pretended to be a nun while singing the wedding song (you know; dun dun dundun, dun dun dundun, dun dun dun dun dun dun dun dundun)
6. Pretended to be a sith-lord.
7. Posted everything I've done while writing my essay.
Time: 6:24 Pages completed: zero Cups of coffee: 2
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