The Wall Street Journal had an article about bomb sniffing dogs in Iraq that develop post-traumatic stress disorder or that refuse to work because they saw people shooting other people. It was one of the saddest things I've ever read. Sometimes I think dogs have more integrity than people.

This is my twenty-second spring and I'm still shocked my how long the snow is taking to melt. It has gotten above freezing for days in a row now and there is still a plethora of snow outside.

I don't think anyone can ever really adjust to winter.

Hurraaaayyyy no more Dylan Thomas class!

I started a new scarf to replace my old one. By the time it's done, it will be spring.

My poetry professor said I sound glum. I feel glum too. I lost my gray scarf I wear all the time somewhere.

Hippos always look really cute when people draw them, but they are always crabby in real life. Today I am crabby like a hippo.

I wish I didn't hate this German class. I really do. I miss liking German.

Two German class left. Two for the rest of my life. Why am I dreading this so much?

I started thinking about my parents tonight. My parents from when I was little. I don't remember having fun with my mother. I remember her putting on make-up. I started biting my nails because she did. I remember her reading to me. I remember her talking. But that's it. Mostly I remember my dad and going to the zoo and going hiking and doing things outside. Then I started thinking about my brother and how now my dad's whole life is devoted to him. I was never demanding. Even when I needed things I didn't ask. I get lectures now from my brother when I need financial support. This sounds so stupid. They aren't even here. I get upset about my mother a lot. It's hard having a parent who isn't functional. She was sick a lot when I little, then she was in law school, then my parents got divorced, and the one demand my father made was that he get exact joint custody. My mother kept the house, all the furniture. Then she got depressed, lost her job, the narcolepsy got bad.

When I was really little I always wished my mom had the mom haircut. The blonde/salt and pepper bob that everyone else's mother had. To me, her hair which was long and with bangs epitomitzed how she was different. But that was back when she was functional. It's just upsetting because I feel I could've been so much more successful. That sounds selfish. I'm sorry.

I really need a roommate so I can talk about these kinds of things when I think about them late at night.

Sometimes I worry about my mother dying. Sometimes when she can't afford her medication I don't see her for a couple weeks and I start to worry that she might never wake up. Or when she goes somewhere and is gone for hours when she shouldn't be I think ahe got into a car accident.

She wants to come visit me and I want to tell her no because even thinking about her makes me cry ridiculous amounts. I should not be upset about this.

How much is of is because of our parents? Does it bother me so much when people are unrealiable because my mother was and continues to be unrealiable? I am consistently drawn to people who like things that my dad likes like being outside, and running, and biking, and yoga, and math, and sports, even though I don't like all of those things (I like them all to some degree, but I only like math theoretically and I only run because I feel like I should).

My dad gets really uncomfortable when people cry. I cry a lot. My mother cries a lot too. I worry I am my mother. I look like her. I write. I can be loud. I can get depressed. I sleep a lot. Ugh. Fuck, I'm going to bed. This is so ridiculous.

Living with people is so strange.

Today I talked about a friend about her roommate for an hour and a half. Oh geeze. My roommates are generally always lovely, except I never see them. I am the messy loud one and I am not that messy or that loud. Tonight I came back to find a couple of notes, one above the sink telling us to rinse out the sponges and leave them on the edge of the sink so they don't get moldy (I always leave them on the edge of the sink, but I probably don't rinse them out properly) and one in the shower saying to leave the curtain closed so it doesn't grow things as well (I always leave it open) (I did not realize this was why it was growing things) I didn't mind the notes at all, because I rarely see my roommates and they were pointing out things I should actually do and they had little smilies on them. It's just so strange though, to combine multiple lives and living styles together.

I should just carry every book of poetry I love around with me.

My perception of life after college: that time in life where I will have nothing to do.

There are lots of people in here studying. I am jealous of all of their outfits.

Last time I met with the German TA we were using my computer to access a dictionary and one of my tabs said "dirty." I realized it looked like I was looking at porn, but it was actually the thesaurus. I was trying to find another way to say "crusty old man."

(On my poem my professor drew a stick figure with a loaf of bread for a head)

It is poetry time again. I would rather work on new poems, but revisions will have to suffice.

(Finals are calm, stable, it makes me think I do things, function as a human being.)

Coffee and a bagel at Kaldi's. Sometimes eating must be sacrificed.

I keep feeling homesick for somewhere I suspect doesn't exist any longer.

Katie Ford, in her book Colosseum has a poem called "Ark" that goes:

We love the stories of the flood and the few
told to prepare in advance by their god.
In that story, the saved are
always us, meaning:
whoever holds the book.

Katie Ford writes a goddamn good little poem. The book Colosseum was written after hurricane Katrina. Katie Ford is from New Orleans and she fled New Orleans before the worst of it hit. I feel like this is the predicament of Katrina: the saved were the people who are always saved, the white educated people, the ones holding the book. This poem breaks my heart. Think about all the people that didn't get away. I can hardly stand it. Goddamnit. Some times the world is just so sad.

On Saturday Dee, Julia, and Brandy and I watched a show called "Orca Killing School." In it, the orca whales kill baby sea lions. Julia argued that the wild is sad. Dee argued that the wild is necessary.

Another line from a Katie Ford poem, "What We Get":

I think this is
what we get when we asked to be saved:
a land where everything grows, and there are many killings.

This book breaks my heart. It makes me feel guilty. I do not know what it means to lose everything.

Ich habe einen neuen Hut gestrickt.

I went to the sexual assault forum. I was grinding my teeth the whole time. Now my jaw feels awful. I didn't talk. Other people said what I would've wanted to say.

When I was getting dressed this morning I realized I have forgotten what my body looks like. The winter makes everything distant, including ourselves. I know my clothes better than my skin. What the fuck is that shit?

A Note on Beautiful People:
There are so many goddamn beautiful people. Sometimes I'm in situations and I feel like the ugliest person in the room, not because I have low self-esteem, because I don't, but because everyone around me is so beautiful with their faces and their smiles and their bodies that I cannot possibly ever equal any of them. I just want to tell people that all the time too, but I don't. I should.