Welcome to my Bloodfeast.

I know my previous entry is filled with optimism and eludes to the misconception that I'm grounded, so to speak, that I have a good head on my shoulders. Well, you know what? I don't.

I opened my 2 million paged biology book tonight and had a full-blown panic attack, complete with crying and hyperventilating. Monosaccharide? What is that? Polysaccharide? Maybe mono's mom? I just didn't know. Disaccharide? Yes, please! Die!

I'm sure you are all familiar with the snowball effect. One thing leads to another, piles on as you roll uncontrollably down the hill to despair, growing bigger and bigger until you finally reach rock bottom. Population: You and Me.

First it was biology. Then it was college. Then it was California. Then it was my parents. Then it was a career. Then it was having a garage sale. And then there was none.

The cheese stands alone. I'm cheese, nice to meet you.

I did something tonight I haven't done in a long time. I allowed myself to cry. I allowed myself to grieve over my lost childhood, over my overbearing, dependant, controlling parents, over the money I spent on foolishness, over the fact that I became a slacker, over the fact that I cannot stand my friends, but most importantly, I allowed myself to grieve what's now in the past...I finally, after all this time, allowed myself to grieve over the grave of the girl I once was, or wasn't, so to speak.

After being tied up in relationship after relationship (major suckfest) in the past years which were vital to my actual maturing and "growing up," I never actually got to experience myself over these periods of transition. I was too wrapped up in who I was seeing to be seeing myself. And now, here I am, suddenly alone, and I'm scared. I'm not independant. I'm not career-oriented. I'm not ready.

I don't know where to start. I don't know my left from my right. I don't feel I can do this. I can't see myself without the people who have defined me all my life. I can't see myself as a 20 year old. I can't see myself in 10 years with a career. A career. Having a job. Making a life with money I am making from my career. I am not supposed to do that. That's for other people. Not me. Too bad that way of thinking is not logical anymore, not that it ever was. I just doesn't make sense anymore. It used to.

I don't know where all this time went. The time between A and B. The time where my brother had a part-time job and lived home, to now where he has a career and a wife and lives down the street. The time when my sister wore my brother's clothes and played basketball to now, when she's working full-time, drinking and painting her toenails (not at the same time, tee-hee.) The time when my parents seemed old to now, where they actually are old. It's scary. I can see it. My dad's hair used to be jet black, and now it's way past salt and pepper stage. Where did the time go? When did I start wearing high heels and smoking cigarettes (those few times) and taking birth control? When did I start college? When did I graduate? When did I stop playing with Barbies and start playing with boys instead? When did boys stop having cooties? Damn, I knew the old adage "time flies when you're having fun," but I wasn't even having fun! When does the fun part begin? Does it ever begin? Being married, having babies and a career doesn't sound fun to me! Sounds like a bunch of work!

Does the work ever stop? Do we just spend our entire lives working for some unknown universal cause that we may never even see the outcome of? Are we all working like spiders in a web of connections that are translucent to the individuality we crave? What does this all mean? Why do we do it? Why do we have to do it? What happens if we don't?

What is the other option to not doing all of the above mentioned? Is anyone really happy with their lives? Their careers? Their choices?

I don't see why life is the way it is. Maybe I think too much about it, I don't know. 

 

Little Miss Unorganized strikes again.

Something in me snapped today.

The little voice said "enough is enough."

I went and spoke with my advisor today about why I am feeling so much pressure on my shoulders and why I feel so burned out and have a complete lack of motivation to go on any further with school.

We cleared some things up. He gave me options. He painted me pictures of what it was like for him and what would be best for me. He told me that he believed in me, as well as my work, and that we could meet up again to look for colleges together.

During this conversation, the topic of biology being a major suckfest came up. He said no matter what my major is, I'm still going to need to fulfill a requirement of two (count 'em two!) science sequences and two math sequences, regardless of their significance toward my plan of study and that if I dropped biology now, I wouldn't be able to graduate in May.

Riiiiggght.

So, what's a girl to do?

Search high and dry for her biology teacher to set up tutoring sessions to make sure she doesn't get another 20 on one of the tests. (I know, a 20! What the hell!) I found Mr. Biology, chilling in his office and we talked about why I did so horrible on my last test. We concluded that maybe it was because I spent about 20 minutes studying for 5 weeks of material. It all seems so clear now. He said I need to give him a half an hour a day, reading over notes and the chapters, on top of the actual amount of time it takes to read the chapter. At this point, I began to sweat.

I have science anxiety, turns out. Who knew? He asked me if I was the youngest in my family, in which I replied "Yeah, how'd you know?" And he said, "I can tell by the way you whine."

Game over.

After spending about an hour between my advisor and bio teacher, I was beginning to see that proverbial ray of sunshine through the storm clouds. A tremendous weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I no longer felt like teachers were out to get me, (though some are) and that they were there for my benefit completely. Their job is to help me understand what they are trying to teach, not to challenge me in conniving trick questions or to make me sweat under their rule.

I'm coming off of this bad student phase. I even may enlist the help of a tool I for so long have dreaded. A day planner. Great.

I could use a little course in time management and study skills. Funny, after being in school for 15 years of my life, you think I'd have them down pat.

Who is Pat, anyway?

And why is he down?

 

The Diary of a Slacker

 

I am such a slacker.

After sleeping nine hours, I still had a major problem trying to actually get up and start my day, mind you, I am sitting here in my skivvies sipping on my coffee when class starts in 45 minutes. Oops.

Last night I found myself unable to sleep, yet again. (Maybe its the coffee...?) So I took to reading Oprah magazine, lit some candles, popped in Milla Jovovich's "The Divine Comedy," which, by the way, is an utterly amazing cd; go here to sample some songs. (Scroll all the way down, you should see it.) Hours passed and I still wasn't finished reading all the articles in O, nor was I anywhere near sleepy. So I called one of my good friends and spent about an hour on the phone with him. By the end of that conversation, I was still far away from sleep. I just laid there in the dark, on my floor (where I've been sleeping; I do that from time to time when I get depressed) staring at my ceiling, admiring the soft green glow of my stereo's light. Milla filled the silence, but not the empty void I felt within myself, where energy and passion used to live. I somehow feel burned out, tired, slacking.

I have homework to do. Tests to study for, books to read. And somehow I just never get to it. On purpose. I hate biology. I'm failing it. BIG TIME. I haven't been paying attention in any of my classes (maybe thats because I can't afford to! Ha! Get it?!) and I have a thesis statement due by 1:00 today, yet I am still sitting here, still typing this entry, still unmotivated to get up and get a move on. What is going on here?

I feel like I'm just sitting back, being unproductive, watching time as it moves by me, as if I'm watching a train pass from a patch of grass in the field. While it's moving, it's getting nearer and nearer to its destination, and I'm just in awe of how quickly time flies by, unrealizing that I'm losing time. I'm wasting time. I'm sitting back, watching, instead of jumping on the train, moving with its rapid pace to destiny.

Maybe I'm just not ready.

Maybe I never will be.

Praise the Picketers

As I finished up looking through my last rounds of daily reads here on JLand, I knew it was time and I could put it off no longer.

Time to update.

I didn't know what I was going to write. I didn't know what would become of this blank space, with no title. Would I be so witty as to come up with something clever by the end of it, like I usually do?

Or would I breathe my dark words of nonsensical wisdom all over for everyone to see?

Sorry to disappoint you, folks, that is not what I am going to do.

Today was a step up from the past few, though not by much. Life decisions stand in my way of doing anything truly productive which just counteracts everything that keeps me busy from day to day. I feel like I'm standing still as a misplaced dot on a map, insignificant with it's tiny hopes of becoming important one day.

I sat and talked with this kid I went to high school with today while I ate lunch. He sat with me and stared intently at my chest as I ate my over-priced BBQ chicken wings. I let it go, intially, thinking maybe, just maybe, he was looking my necklaces, but I knew better. He talked and talked and talked as I casually inhaled the chicken wings (It was 4:00 and I had not eaten ALL DAY!) and took sips from my water bottle. What was he talking about? At that point, I couldn't tell you. I stopped listening after "I, me, me, me..." God, some people can just talk about themselves all day. Me, on the otherhand...

I knew what he was talking about. I'm not stupid. He was asking me about my sex life and talking about my breasts and his anatomy and blah blah blah...So, doing what any other sexy girl would when she finished eating her chicken wings, I got up, looked at him, spewed out a few choice words and walked out of the cafeteria, shaking my ba-dunk-a-dunk as he watched me walk away.

I wondered what he was doing in college. After all, there is a place called prison for those types of crude remarks and vulgarities.

Anyhow...

BFF accompanied me to Planned Parenthood today where we encountered a wise, saucy woman in a turquoise shirt unafraid to give advice to anyone willing to listen. Her target this afternoon? Me.

"Don't you ever clean your man's house. He will never do it himself and will always expect you to do it for him. Don't let him take advantage of you like that, you are better than him. Tell him to do it himself or sit amid stacks of beer cans. After all, he's the one willing to live like that. And if you don't like it, don't go there."

MmmmHmmmm I muttered, thinking to myself, AMEN SISTA.

Marissa...is an infernal morosity.

I got a letter in the mail today from my friend Gabi. Gabi lives in California, goin' to college out there, working, being her beautiful self. She recently bought a motorcycle and decided to dye her long dark dreadlocks blonde before going purple. In this letter she told me, "We must learn to embrace our dark sides, without it we wouldn't be able to see the white lights of heaven." (Heaven in the nonreligious sense, I'm sure.)

I'm sure you have all witnessed my dark side. And if not, scroll down and take a look at the previous entry. It's filled with morose goodness.

This is my dark side. This is my wasteland. My battleground.

I am a train wreck.

I wish I could turn my back on everything, on everyone, start over again. That way I'd be free of this guilty conscious, of being too selfish, of making the same mistakes over and over again, night after night.

I don't love you. Any of you.

Erase me. Delete me. Forget me.

 

 

Don't look at me.

Spent most of the day behind my dark sunglasses, trying to hide the dark circles and the reminants of the last two nights. Today, my head is pounding, my body aches and I am the home to many bruises left upon me by the fists of love. Or something like that.

I trudged into bio, being late and far from fabulous, collected up my test and walked out. That test was all I needed as proof to my failures. In life. No matter what I do, I just don't get it. I'm angry with everybody. At any moment, I could snap.

I talk too much about myself, I know.

 

"I hate goodbyes!"

I saw Mario last night and my convictions were confirmed; it's over.

I'm not taking it as hard as I thought I would, in fact, I think the drive going to see him was harder than the ride home. It wasn't magical. It wasn't at all like it was before, but then again, it never is. He's not at all how I remembered, in mannerisms, in looks, nothing. Perhaps it was the proverbial sands of time that corrupted yet idealized my visions and certainty that he was everything I've searched for, the boy I was going to marry.

I don't know if we were victims of circumstance, I don't know if what I once felt for him was entirely in vain, hollow behind the facade of the pressures of love. And it was last night, that I also realized, that maybe, just maybe, the feelings were completely one-sided. He had, and still has, his girlfriend to love. I loved him. There was no room for me there and there may never be and that's fine. There are others.

I am searching for the validity in those feelings I drowned in for so long. Was what I felt real? Was there ever anything even there? What did he see in me, if anything? And in turn, what did I see in him?

I have let go. He's no longer the definition to my lonliness. He is no longer the center of my universe. I never needed him. I just simply wanted him.

Funny this entire ordeal happened last night, on the one-year anniversary of my singledom. Just as one year ago, I let someone I love go and I did it again last night, though this time with a smile, not with bitterness or pain. And when I crawled into my bed after all was said and done, I slept. It felt like the first time in years.

SSS---Suddenly Single Syndrome

I'm sitting here, hours away from that dreaded milestone---one whole year of "suddenly single syndrome," or, SSS.

You know, when you're anticipating being with someone until, well, forever, I suppose, and they just cut you loose unexpectedly? That's SSS.

The "L Word" is dancing before my eyes, mocking me with all my Cinderella-bound naivete`. For so long, I searched high and dry to find that L Word and when I got it, I realized, it's not all it's cracked up to be. And now, even as I sit here, sipping on a beer, hair pulled back, clad in sweatpants and a stained t-shirt, I clasp my ringless fingers and pray to Athena, Goddess of the L Word, to not fall in love, not fall in love, not fall in love. (Three times for emphasis!)

I will take this time (and this entry space) to clear up a few common misconceptions about the infamous L Word. We, as a society, as women and as idealists, have had the burden for over thousands of years on our shoulders to find love. And through all the hardships, abuse, loneliness and whatever other ailment may have found its way into your heart throughout these times, were our fault. Sure, there may have been added pressures from other sources but the greatest sources were ourselves. And I wonder, without all of those self-induced pressures would our relationships have stood the tests of time? Would our identities as women be as corrupt as they are today?

Does being single make you an old maid or a spinster? Or is it slowly becoming okay for a woman to just love being with herself enough to be satisfied?

The past events of this year have proved the latter to be true about me as a woman, as a person. Sure, I've had my share of mistakes in these last months but I have learned to grow from them, rather than dwell on the hit or miss's, like I like to call them. Instead of keeping a scoreboard of every five mess-ups to one good, I let them go as easily as I let them happen. But of course, like many things, that is easier said than done.

The person I was a year ago is a far cry from who sits at this very computer tonight. A year ago, I didn't know my left hand from my right. I say this figuratively, of course, which in literal terms can be defined as being lost in a lonely revere that coupledom failed to advertise. But then again, if you advertised beer as "piss in a bottle," would anyone drink it? My point exactly. Today, I know who I am. I know my likes and dislikes and I know where I want to be one year from today. (Though I also realized that it's much easier to adapt than to try and stick to your original gameplan when circumstances arise and cause a MISSION ABORT! type of situation.)

I have learned the importance of me. And that there is a me outside of an us. When I feel comfortable and happy with myself, I can allow myself to be comfortable and happy in relationship, when the time comes. (Don't fall in love, don't fall in love, don't fall in love!)

In simpler terms, I can be quoted as saying, I like me. And that's the only L Word in my life right now.

And really, that's all that matters.

Raise your glasses, this is my toast.

Touchdown.

My stomach is in knots.

My bet is it will stay that way for the next few days.

I could really use an antacid.

I know what you're thinking. "What is she talking about now?"

Well, after that detailed-yet-vague intro, I will tell you.

I recieved a text-message today. Yes, I engage in the occasional text message, I'm not going to lie (though I will try to play it off if you call me on it). This text message reads as follows:

"Guess who is hanging out at the airport bar..."

Any guesses?

Since I'm not hearing much banter amongst yourselves, I will tell you who!

Mario, that's who.

He's coming home, away from Hurricane #4 in Florida.

Upon reading this, I call him up and confirm my convictions. Yes, it's true. He'll be here tonight. Oh, my, God.

Allow me to elaborate on the thoughts speeding through my head at this point:

"What?" "How could you come here?" "Do you want to see me?" "What's your girlfriend think?" "What should we do?" "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!" "Wow, well, okay, see you soon, then." This made for a tearful conversation. And if I cried on the phone imagine what'll be like when he shows up in one of my classes Monday? I smell a heart attack, or, at least, a faint smell of, well...faint. *sighs*

I made up my mind. I will see him this time. I can handle it. I've gotten over him once, I'll simply have to do it again, right? Man, I need to work on my pep talk...

Weekend Assignment #25

Weekend Assignment #25: Share a favorite story that features you and a sibling. For those of you that are an only child, you can substitute a cousin or a best friend.

 

Ah, just what I wanted to do. Conjure up some bad memories about all the teasing and trauma of being the youngest in my family. Are these supposed to be good stories? Ones that will make you shed a tear at the end ala` The Brady Bunch? This is not that kind of story. In fact, These stories may explain why I turned out the way I did. Messed up.

Picture it---a brisk evening in dismal Upstate NY in 1989. (Hey, I'm assuming it's brisk. It always is.) Pan in through the livingroom window, witness 3 small children playing on the floor, while the male parental unit reads "Automotive News" in the recliner in the corner. The other female parental unit can be heard singing "Kokomo" while doing the dishes in the kitchen. A twelve-year old boy can be seen playing "Pinbot" on the old-school, but then brand-spanking new Nintendo Gamesystem. A four year old girl is sitting on his back. A six year old girl is coloring in the corner, by herself for the reason being she is a tempermental beast of a child (some things never change.) I am the four year old.

In a moment of pure insanity, I am lured by the brown spokes of hair that cover my brother's head. I am fascinated simply because I did not have hair at the age of four. Yes, it's true. I went to kindergarten nearly bald. I looked like a cabbage patch doll. Anyhow, I run my little fingers up through his scalp and begin pulling the little wisps that were softer than they appeared to be! Oh, how fun! I thought to myself and began going crazy with glee in a pulling frenzy. And then it hit me.

His elbow, that is. Right in the stomach. I gasped, losing my breath. I stood up, quiety and walked away. And passed out in a nearby corner.

 KNOCKNICAL TECHOUT!

 

It wasn't until my mother ran from the kitchen, hands still soapy from the dishes, and started screaming at my brother. She ran over to me and scooped me up in her arms and hugged me until I opened my eyes. I looked around and saw this as an opportunity for revenge. After a moment of silence, I let out a shrill scream of agony. After all, I was dying.

I cried for the rest of the night. I got to stay up late and watch "Jake and the Fatman" with my parents and eat peanut butter and jelly into the wee hours of morning. Or until 10:30. Whichever.

Story #2:   New York style cHiPs

When my sister and I were younger, we'd patrol the neighborhood cHiPs style on our Huffy 10 speeds, making vroom vroom noises to get the same effect of Ponch and John's kickass motorcycles. We pedaled as fast as we could to catch the "Sticky Bandits" every morning after we stopped for our donuts and slush puppies at the corner store. (I know what you are thinking. "Sticky Bandits" are the bad guys from Home Alone. We knew that too. We were unoriginal. We called ourselves Helmet Heads. Give us a break.) Anyhow, we carried around our little walkie-talkies, and dispatched each other from our undisclosed locations. (i.e. the backyard. the bathroom. the playground. Grandma's house.) I remember once when we were on a really big chase, the Sticky Bandits almost within our reach, my sister fell off her motorcycle. (Huffy.) She dispatched me promptly, reporting her whereabouts, her injuries and that she's "stuck in a ditch, keep going."

And that's what I did.

Constellation Frustration.

 

 

I am wondering if my days could start looking up soon. I'm not sure if it's the alignment of the planets or if I had some backed-up karma coming my way but Good Lawd already, give me a break will you?

Remember this entry ? The SanFransisco Treat

And the boy? And that I took pictures? WELL...

I GOT THE PICTURES BACK TODAY AND GUESS WHAT!!!!!

Due to my poor camera skills, there is a large pole obstructing the view of my dear nameless friend. I could just die.

Well, I suppose things could be worse, I mean, I could have a giggling fit during one of my classes. No wait, that did happen. And for future reference I should try to take note on which classes that wouldn't be appropriate, like say, sex class, in which the teacher already dislikes me.

Or, howabout wearing thigh-highs that refuse to stay up? That could be much worse, thank God that didn't happen to me---oh, wait! It did! And in combination with my short skirt, didn't I look cute! Ha! And what I love even more than that---here it comes---is the silly imprint of fishnet on fishnet when you cross your legs. Not only is it red and waffley looking, but it's noticeable when they're rolling halfway down your legs as you walk. Didn't see too many episodes of Sex and the City with Carrie in that same situation did we now? Looking fashionable never looked so....uncomfortable.

But enough about me.

The Unofficial Incomplete List of Marissa's Favorite Things

1. Mr. Clean Magic Erasers. Let me just say, these things are magical. What's not to love? It's an eraser disguised as a sponge! It removes scuffs from your favorite white high heels after a drunken night on the town!

2. The Intuition Razor. I don't know comupters, I don't know iPods. I do know these, and they are revolutionary. All the technology we ladies need are chock full of shaving lotion goodness. Say later to nicks! Buh-Bye razor burn! Hello smoooooooth legs! (Think I have a career in advertising? I could make genital warts look good.)

3. Chai latte's ala` the only Starbucks in Utica. And it's hiding in the only Barnes and Noble in a 60 mile radius. What's not to love? Not only do you get a warm beverage, but you get an instant artsy attitude by walking in there. I feel like I should dye one side of my hair purple and wear huge scarves while I sip on my newfound intellect and gaze lovingly at the sci-fi books. (Click on that hyperlink by the way, I found it in a search. It's hysterical.)

4. The Spice Girls. Not gonna lie, I am, and have always been, a BIG fan of the Spice Girls. They promote Girl Power! They wear bright skimpy clothes and huge platform shoes! They wear glitter, for Chrissakes! Glitter! (Which, by the way, was cool until Mariah Carey took it's sparkly goodness and pissed on it with her poor singing abilities and crossed eyes.) But I digress. The Spice Girls songs are fun. And they actually had the ability to sing a nice, slow song. Not everything was laced with estrogen and feministic attitudes.

5. Bandaids. Boo Boo Covers. However you want to look at it, I love them. I don't know why. I don't know when I started my crazy fascination with them, but here I am.

6. Ashlee Simpson. This girl can rock out and look totally hot while doing so. I love the dark hair, I love the classy punk chick persona and I love the attitude.

7. Bravo, which, matter of factly, is slowly turning into GET (Gay entertainment). BFF and I spent the afternoon yesterday watching "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" when we saw previews for a show called "ManHunt," which is filled with beefy goodness. Holler.

 

8. Oprah Magazine. Cover to cover is filled with inspiring words of wisdom, plus a monthly column by Maya Angelou (whom I adore). Something about reading this gives me hope that one day I will reach full circle status and become who I want to be.

9. Hackey Sac. PSYCHE!

10. The Rabbit. 'Nuff said. Consider this your warning: Adult Content.

 

Strangle me with your black tie, please.

Such a waste of a day.

Not only did I skip 2 of my classes (on top of that I missed the Vagina Monologues!) But I engaged in the consumption of KFC.  (KFC does chicken wrong.)

Could I feel any sicker?

The seasons are changing. I can tell. Not by the drastic change in the weather (30 degree nights for Chrissakes!) But by the way I'm feeling. Its not that same calm that washes over me from time to time. It's more like a sense of panic, dread.

I'm sick of school. I'm sick of where I am. I'm sick of going around and around and getting nowhere further than where I was before. I always come back to the same set of footprints I left behind years before. They're the same, just bigger. Like the hole in my heart.

I don't know whats been going on lately. My emotions are unstable. I'm not okay. My "support system" I tried to develop while I was still in therapy is dwindling. My web of friends is slowly turning to dust before my eyes. I don't know them. They don't know me. A stranger is closer to me.

Have I mentioned Saturday is my one year anniversary of singledom? There will be champagne and cheesecake. Black tie is not optional, it's required. Something tells me I'll be spending it alone. Which is fine, I mean, I made it this far, right? Can't turn back now!

 

Thinking about the final days of my relationship one year ago is almost impossible. I cannot grasp the idea that while I was saying "I love you" he was thinking to himself "I don't." There are many things in my life that I cannot handle and that I cannot get over, and this is numero uno. How could he ever say he loved me and then hurt me the way he did? How could he be so goddamned rude to me when I was nothing short of wonderful to him? Does he not remember all I did for him and all I sacrificed to be with him when he moved away? Does he not realize I was the one who stood by him for two fucking years? (Yes, that's right two FUCKING years! Take that AOL TOS LAWS! HA! I strike again!) I will never get over this anger. NEVER. (There's a back story, here. Right quick, check it...The "I love you, Sam" entry I posted about a month ago was for ex's father. Sam suffered a severe heart attack and has been diagnosed with congestive heart failure at the age of 58. During my entire relationship with he who shall not be named, his father and I were closer than I ever was to my then boyfriend. While exboyfriend was away for work, I stopped by his house a few times a week to chat it up and make lunch for his dad. I loved him like he was my father. And all those tears at the end of our relationship weren't cried over my lost love, some were for Sam. That I'd never see him again. I knew that time would take it's toll and all those greasy hamburgers and cigarettes would catch up with him and take his life. When I found out, I knew I had to call the ex, to see if there was anything at all I could do. And as bitter as I am toward him, I set it all aside, and called him. And what did I get? Nothing. He hung up. Enter: my inner rage.)

I don't see how someone can take back an "I love you." Just don't say it if you don't mean it. Don't say it if you "thought you did" or "thought you could." Don't lie to yourself like that and, furthermore, don't lie to me like that. Ever.

Anyhow, yes. A party. I am having a party for myself to celebrate who I'm slowly becoming and all I have accomplished over the past year. Plus it's an excuse to have a cheesecake.

 

 

I am a social phenomenon.

I felt the sensation of motivation today.

There I was, sitting in class, doodling in my notebook. And it struck me:

I could write a novel. A book. Hell, I could write a new dictionary if I wanted. I could write a screenplay, or a movie or a cartoon.

I saw clips in my mind of what my movie would entail. I neglected the pen that lay aching in my hands, and paid no attention to the blank piece of paper staring up at me. It was all in my mind. It played like a movie. Every detail was there. Nothing went unnoticed.

And it was then I realized that it's true.

The possibilities are endless.

The Date Debate: Part Deux

Ah, I know. You are sitting on the edge of your seats with anticipation as you read. You are asking yourself, "How did the date go?!" "Skip the intro stuff! Just get to the details!"

The date went, well, great. It wasn't awkward nor was I uncomfortable considering the circumstances we had met each other under. By circumstances I mean the drunken state we were in.

Remember that toga party I mentioned about a month ago? (If I even did mention it? Oh, well, I don't know. But I can get some pictures here to post of me in my lovely little Toga and Versace skirt!) Anyhow, that is where we met. I noticed his toga seemed slightly different than everyone else's standard bedsheets, some with flowers, some tattered, some Martha Stewart 300 thread count. His stood out. His appeared to be a...hospital bedsheet?

Indeed. I felt the urge to go up the complete stranger and ask him, "Where did you get your sheet?" I tried to sound as "there" as I could, seeing as how my good friend Tequila and were inseperable that night. He laughed. "How'd you know?"

We started talking. We talked for the remainder of the night. After the torch races and beer-drinking triatholon (in honor of the Olmypics returning to Athens) we'd come back to each other to chat it up. Each time, I was getting drunker and drunker. As we engaged in meaningless conversation near the "bar" (or countertop, however you want to look at it) the tiny dixie cups of bittersweetness never left my hands. And what do you think happened next?

No, not yet. I will get to that.

WE DECIDE TO GO DANCING! HOLLA!

We hit it up club style. Arriving by Anthony's taxi service, picking up our good friend Harley on the way, with Gina in tow, we show up tp our favorite club, as fabulous, and, as drunk as ever. (Anthony was DD that night.)

We trip up the stairs to the dancefloor. Gina is holding onto my skirt. Harley is slightly tipsy from the miniature bottles of alcohol I forced him to consume in the parking lot. I am inebriated. I didn't know my name. I thought my name was Versace.

I try to dance with Anthony and Gina. They won't let me in. So I start dancing by myself, in tiny circles, around the dancefloor.

There's a tap on my shoulder.

It was hospital-sheet-clad toga boy, sans toga. I turn around and start dancing with him. Now somewhere in between David Bowie Remasters and Abba's "Dancing Queen" we were left alone on the dance floor. To make complete fools of ourselves.

I fell on the dancefloor.

I heard through the grapevine (or from Anthony's mouth) that he COULD NOT dance for the life of him.

After dancing our little hearts out it was time to return to the toga party. Without my toga. In my Versace skirt. Without Gina, Anthony and Harley.

I walked past him on the patio. He was BBQ-ing. I was on my phone. I walked back into the party, oblivious, holding a bottle of the cigar smokers' cognac. Life was a blur, at that moment. And it was good.

I didn't see him again that night. Maybe it was due to the fact that I walked into the other room with Sean and passed out. Maybe it was because I puked in a litter box. I don't know.

But was I suprised to hear my phone ring and hear his voice on the other end the next day.

So, after four weeks of phone tag, we finally made an offical date. It was nice.

There was food, laughter, great conversation. Sugar and spice, and all the other crap.

Will there be a second date?

I think so.

 

*shakes butt*

 

I still got it!

The Date Debate

Oh, my, God.

It has been 2 1/2 long years since I've been on a "date."

Tonight, I shall return to the scene.

Wish me luck.

A Crash Course in College.

Rude Awakening #115:

Liberal Arts is not a real major.

Funny, I thought MVCC knew what they were doing. Just goes to show you can't trust anyone, regardless of their accreditations.

This explains why I can't find any colleges I am interested in. No, wait, that's just because I'm too fickle when it comes to where I want to spend my $30,000. A year.

I could shell out all that money, which, by the way, I can't even begin to try to save since, I mean, let's face it, the price of textbooks for this semester alone set me back damn near $450, not including the ones I couldn't afford to buy. Thanks again, Financial Aid. Couldn't have made it without your generous donation of $200 to the Marissa Education Fund. I'm thinking about hanging around the movie theaters and walking up and down the aisles with a Dole Pineapple can to take donations for my selfish cause.

And what I love even more than all of that---!---Is that I'm not even remotely interested in going to college for business. Or accounting. Or teaching. Or nursing. Nor do I exhibit any talents in anything! So, I don't have anything to fall back on. I can't even color inside the lines. Which is fine, I heard all the positions for kindergarten students have been filled, anyway.

I know how to shop. I could spend other people's money for a living. Nah, too good to be true. I could, um, start that business I wanted to...no, that wouldn't work, need a business degree for that. That's a moo point. You know, a cow's opinion. It's moo. I could run a campaign to stomp out the enormous costs of recieving an education. We'll eat alot of starchy food the night before the walks of protest, like pasta and bread, then we'll get up and march up and down the streets throwing money down the sewers, just as we would do if we could afford to go to college. We'll even give out some dumb certification at the end to show that you completed the course and now have an empty wallet.

I'm not interested in a career anyhow. I'm not into computers, except for blogging purposes of course, I'm not into answering phones or making $0.75 to every $1.00 that a man makes. I don't want to do one thing for the rest of my life. I don't want to pay buttloadsof money for a piece of paper that can tell any potential employer whether or not I'm suitable for the job. If I wasn't suitable, I wouldn't have applied. I wouldn't show up at a fashion magazine begging for a job if I didn't like fashion or if I didn't have any ability to write whatsoever. I wouldn't show up to a construction job just to wear the hard hat. Maybe this just isn't for me.

Maybe Chris Farley had it right. Live in a van by the river. Sounds good to me.

I can shoot at birds for my dinner then roast them all day over a lighter I stole from the Nice 'N Easy up in town. Then I'll wash it down with some polluted river water and then I'll give back to nature what nature gave to me when it called. And if I'm feeling extra bodacious, I'll do it in front of some tourists for giggles.

Ah, that's the life.

At least I wouldn't have to live modestly in a broom closet - sized dump with my Swedish hooker roomate Svetlana, trying to pay off my outrageous student loans with the low-income job I managed get through a friend of a friend after college. And while I'm scraping together enough dough to make it to SanFransisco, I'm eating rats that I caught with a wire hanger and some chewing gum. Thanks, McGuyver, for the tip.

Maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe my vision is so clouded by the frustration that my ability to think rationally has failed me. Like it always does.

And where is the name on the ballot of the guy who believes that college education should not cost more than you will make over the entire course of your life?

Harvard vs. MVCC. Who would you choose for the job?

Me too.

Eyes of a Tragedy

I barely have a moment to myself, and, when I do, I sleep. I'm exhausted. I'm busy. And I feel like I'm busy doing nothing. I am fed up with trying to find a friggin college with a Liberal Arts major. It seems simple enough, no? I've been through every college search, pin-pointing exactly what I want and still nothing. Nada. Zero. Zilch.  Maybe it's a sign that I shouldn't go, I don't know.

My mother said the damndest thing to me today. She said, and I quote, "I can't wait until you move out."

I was taken aback. What did she mean? Hasn't she always been the one to beg me to stay here forever? Why the sudden change of heart?

I asked.

Her response: "So you can take all of your shit with you. When you go to college, I'm bringing all of your stuff to your room."

Ah, yes, the common misconception that dormitories are actually mansions in disguise. "And where do you think I'm going to put all of my shit? Certainly not in my dorm room," I tell her, "It's not exactly the Plaza. I'll basically be living in a broom closet."

Then she gets snippity. "Well, this is my house and I don't want your junk here anymore. You get rid of it or I will."

Ok. Here's the line _________________________

Here's my mother.

She crossed it.

I calmly collected my thoughts, as well as my frustrations, and walked to the door. I opened it, turned and looked at the back of her head, while thinking to myself Drink Ajax, but I digress. I didn't even slam the door.

Moving out can't come soon enough. I wanted to leave next fall for school, but it seems damn near impossible. I can't find ANYWHERE. They are all Jesuit, girls only, off campus-living or they don't have my major. Great. Just suckin' great. I'll just die here. Alone. In the rain. That's all.

Isn't that tragic?

 

How Close Are We?

So be it, i'm your crowbar
if that's what i am so far
until you get out of this mess
and i will pretend
that i don't know of your sins
until you are ready to confess
but all the time, all the time
i'll know, i'll know

and you can use my skin
to bury your secrets in
and i will settle you down
and at my own suggestion
i will ask no questions
while i do my thing in the background
but all the time all the time
i'll know i'll know

baby-i can't help you out,
while she's still around
for the time being,
i'm being patient
and amidst this bitterness
if you'll just consider this-
even if it don't make sense
all the time-give it time
and when the crowd becomes your burden
and you've early closed your curtains,
i'll wait by the backstage door
while you try to find
the lines to speak your mind
and pry it open, hoping for a encore
and if it gets too late, for me to wait
for you to find you love me, and tell me so
it's ok, don't need to say it

 

I allow my disease to take over every aspect of my life. My depression affects my friendships, my relationships, my family, my health, my academics...even my sleep patterns, my driving skills and my abilitiy to focus.

I am frustrated. I am tired. I want to be alone. ALONE.

Leave me alone, I don't need you. Let me live and breathe and play on my own battleground I have created. I will sleep with the bloodstained broken pieces of glass. I will cover with the mounds of empty bullet shells. I will cry into the muddy, overflowing rivers. This is my wasteland.

I allow myself to feel this way. This is all my fault. I am the one who bounds my hands at my side and handcuffs my ability to change. I am the one who sews my mouth shut with transparent threads. Don't let my words scare you. They don't scare me.

My guitar lay musicless tonight. I apologized to her and slowly closed her case and slid her underneath my bed. My pen is restless. It aches to be used, for anything, it yearns for human connection, the way I do. Touch me, I hear it say, through black-ink stained lips, Use me, I am yours.

I know what you mean, I think.

I am a slave to my own convictions. I am jailed by my own sins. I am chained to a dirty bed and my hair is a mess. I could care less.

You don't, why should I?

I am not as crazy as you think, you know. Underneath all of my scarred skins are secrets and stories that I have hid. I am as fabulous as I say. I do have the ability to create and design and understand. I have just as many talents as the rest of you. Somewhere, somewhere.

I remember finding a piece of paper in one of my favorite cafe`s (incidentally where I met Anthony) it read:

 

Seeds To Follow

How Close We Are

Bones of the Earth

Sympathy...

 

I don't know what it means. Something tells me that I may never know.

And that's okay.

Static.

Today my words are my weapons.

Today I am not myself.

I am tragic. I am a wasteland.

You make me sick.

Not even the vastest of skies can save me and protect me from what little innocence I have left in these brittle bones and loveless limbs.

Tonight, I will return to the place I called home for years and years. And I will find solitude in it's lonely revere.

 

 

Guilty Pleasure # 106

Allow me to introduce you to Guilty Pleasure #106 :

Ashlee Simpson

Go there and download # 4. "La La."

Good times.

Depresserella Returns: Round Deux

I drive the same roads everyday and night, thinking the same things. One day, things will be different, I tell myself.

I have so many ambitions its hard to list them. The places I want to travel add up so quickly I wonder where I'll ever find the time and get the money to make it there. I wonder if I'll ever get there.

I don't know whether its fear or laziness that keeps my dreams distanced from my hands. Sure, I know I need the patience to work toward these goals, to set smaller goals that must be reached in order to achieve the ultimate goal...which is happiness. Where will I end up? Who will I become? Will I still have the people I hold close to my heart in my life? Will there be anyone new? How many shoes will I have by then?

Mostly, it's fear. No, laziness. Oh, I don't know. Perhaps its my indecisivness? Don't you think?

Slowly going nuts. I'm feeling drained.

Here it comes...

I'm not like everyone else. Or maybe I am and that's why I am so freaked out. I want to be different. I feel I am different. But really am I? Lately I have been contributing to the "moral decay of society" through the drinking of alcohol, the doing of drugs, the participating in sex. Is this really college life? Is this really a stage? Am I supposed to feel bad about it? Is doing it worth it if I'm going to lose friends? I am confused, I am slowly slipping down the drain and losing myself more and more everyday. I don't feel in control, anymore. I don't feel like I used to. I don't feel like me. Or the idea I once had of who I'd become. It's a far cry from that girl I dreamt up when I was 15. The one who'd have a happy little life with tons of friends and a boyfriend she loved. Well, guess what...

I'm not her.

Maybe the reason I'm having such a hard time choosing a college is because I know that I never stick to my plans. I realized a long time ago, that things rarely ever work out the way you expect them to. So is it even worth trying?

I'm not who you think I am.

I feel silently judged by the prying eyes of friends who for so long stood by me and finally have learned my nasty little secret. I am the typical college student. And I hate fitting into that stereotypical title.

Don't look at me. I'm suddenly not so fabulous. I'm suddenly uncomfortable in my own skin. I'm suddenly over you and over it all that I've lost a piece of me that may never come back. My trust has been broken by years of faith in doomed loves. My willingness to again mount the horse that has bucked me off time and time again has dwindled. No more. This is it. I have loved those who do not and cannot love back. I've crawled into many a bed for temporary human affection, I have been abused by words, by hands and through kisses for a feeling that feels more dirty than anything. I want to be strong and say no, I am not going back.

But I know me.

I am not strong.

How can I leave and learn to grow if I feel like I'm doing nothing more than standing still? I don't know where to go. I don't know who to run to, anymore. Is it worth leaving all of this and starting over again? Will I ever be happy? Am I insatiable? I know I'm ready for the big move, now. I've done everything there is to do here. I know that I can no longer be fulfilled in a city that has nothing more to offer me. I know that I can no longer be satisfied in these friendships that have nothing to offer me and that leave me aching for what once was there. But you cannot rekindle a burnt out flame. You cannot love the obscure image you created in your head to somehow change what is really there. I cannot cover it up anymore. I cannot idealize what was never there to begin with. I want to wash my hands and cleanse my soul so that I don't feel dirty and shameful anymore for the things I have done. And continue to do. I'm slowly realizing that all of this time I did have a conscious about what I was doing, I just never listened to it. I don't want to be who I'm turning into. Used. Dirty. Typical.

I know me enough to know that that's not me.

I don't want to be defined by my flaws, but I feel that is how I am percieved. I feel inferior, I feel fake. I know how I want to be remembered, I know that I want to leave a strong, lasting impression on those I meet, even the ones for only a moment or two. I am not better than anyone else.

I can't help but feel lost among the sea of college students on campus. They all seem so sure, so carefree, so established. Me? I just don't know. I have identity crisis written all over. I am guilty as charged. My clothes are no longer my mask. They cannot hide me nor give me a false sense of confidence. My eyes give me away. I am unsure.

Don't love me because I'm funny. Don't love me because of my smile. Don't say you love me, when you don't. Don't hate me because I'm not all there. Don't hate me because I do drugs. These are not defining characteristics. These are simple traits that I endure that add to the broadness of my personality. There are no dealbreakers, here. You take the bad with the good or you don't look at me. I know I'm not perfect. I know I have f*cked up sometimes. I know I make mistakes and I know I'm not the sharpest crayon in the drawer (see?) I'm human. Terribly so.

September 11th, 2001.

I know I've been MIA on here for a few days. So, this morning, while trudging through journal after journal on my favorites list this morning, I knew I couldn't wait until next year to post.

September 11th, 2001

Just an ordinary day. The fourth day of school. Four days away from my brother's wedding. I was excited because my then boyfriend would be accompanying me down the aisle. I remember noticing the sky that day, it seemed quiet, happy.

I was wrong.

Around 11:00 my teacher announced what had happened. Then the bells rang. And I went to lunch.

"World Trade Center?" I asked my friends. "Where is that?"

Before I knew it, I was in tears. I barely had a grasp on what was happening and watching everyone else freak out freaked me out. I consulted my history teacher. And it was with her, and in her classroom, that I witnessed history.

She made us watch the coverage, the pile of rocks that remained, the bones that were buried beneath them. The same footage played over and over in my mind, as it does even today, of the airplanes crashing at four different times, with one huge plan.

I have many conspiracies of my own, as most of us do, as to what the hell it is all about. And, we will never know. We can read what read, believe it if we want to, but I can't and I don't. Witnessing history on television and through family members who spent their last Christmas's in Iraq, can give to us the finality of endlessly searching for closure that we will never recieve. It's very rare that a history lesson is objective, but when you sit alone in your living room, glued to the TV, looking for answers beneath the debris and bodies and firemen's feet, that you recieve a true history lesson.

I have the newspapers from the weeks following the attacks. I would participate in the vigils, and, at my brother's wedding, we wore red, white and blue ribbons with our dresses. The big hole in our family photos will serve as a constant reminder of the losses endured at the trade center, the pentagon, and in the field, where the last plane crashed.

That night I laid in bed, sleepless, in fear of the war in my backyard. Trampled grass and mud and bullet shells cover the earth like a fresh blanket of snow. This is my country. This is my home. Look what you have done to it, I thought.

I can dress in red, white and blue. I can raise a flag above my house. I can pray for the families of those who perished, apologize for the gaping hole that is at the center of their families. I can volunteer to give out water to the crews working tirelessly night after night. I can sit back and soak up the devastation that lays ahead. That lays in a dusty pile at my feet. Or I can do nothing. And it was nothing that I felt I could do. My hands were tied. I was bound by the fear that overtook the country and left us each with the need to constantly look over our shoulders.

America is not the superpower.

America is not perfect, flawless. America is broken.

Words cannot recreate the plethora of emotions we all went through that day, and the many months following. We can look at our neighbor and silently say, "I know," with our eyes.

A nation that is so independant, so promising and so powerful was quiet that day. And it's not that there wasn't anything to say, it's just that we couldn't.

I am the mother who lost her child. I am the husband, without a wife. I'm the friend of a friend whose friend jumped out of the 35th floor. I am the dog that endlessly sniffed out the mangled remains of a human. I am the fireman, running on prayers, digging for solid ground. I am a nation digging for answers. I am an American. And I'm no longer scared to say that.

You, are not yourself.

I finally took a moment, stepped back and looked at myself. It's been a whirlwind these past 2 months...

California all seems blurry. Like it never happened. Or, if it did, like it was years ago. I remember vaguely these moments where I'd remind myself to back these memories up on my hardrive in my head, so I'd never forget, so if I ever felt lost in some sort of revere I could remember that there is a place for me. And it's not here.

I've been in school for 4 weeks now. It seems like yesterday was my first day. Of kindergarten. "Bye Daddy," I waved as they closed the door, his video camera on as he walked down the hall. I wore a blue and white dress and looked around anxiously. I grabbed a teddy bear and found a seat by myself and bit my nails. A girl who would remain my friend for more than 12 years would sit next to me, and together, we would pick our noses. (Thank the Lawd some things change!)

I've been going through lists and lists of colleges in New York, in Pennsylvania and Massachussettes. There's about 4 so far that I'm truly interested in, though I can't seem to get past the websites. I get a panicky feeling in my chest, shortness of breath and X it out in a moment's weakness. What is it that I'm so afraid of?

I suprise myself. My actions over the last few weeks seem to be done by a stranger. I no longer know me. Am I spinning out of control? Is this what it feels like to lose your mind? Get lost in a haze of drugs at midnight, wake up the next morning completely fine, though clad in a facade toward your family and friends because they have no idea what you've been up to or would not believe you if you told them? Does that seem like me or somebody else? My alter ego who has a completely different web of connections and friends, different language, different actions? And then, when she returns, has no guilt nor shame nor compassion for what she has done. And she just doesn't get it, I think. I can't help but wonder when I will return. I can't tell where she begins and I end.

I'm afraid of not being in compliance with the AOL TOS Laws on here. Maybe one day I will offend someone and I will go to update my journal and, without warning, it'd be gone. I don't know, but the way I feel is, anything on my journal can offendanyone out there. It's just that broad. Maybe someone has an adversion to Cory Matthews, or to Denny's or to sex. Those are all topics I have written about on here and bada-bing! Someone gets offended and I'm wiped out! It's not fair! I would have no back-up copy of it and an entire chapter of my life would be gone, gone, gone. I can easily stumble across someone's journal that offends me, but I know better than to just complain about what I don't like and X out the journal. If I don't like it, I won't go there again. Ah, if only that were the Golden Rule.

The inevitable, proverbial crossroads lie ahead of me.

I feel yet another gray grass sprouting at the head of this Chia.

I'm Advertised!

FacesofAOLJLand

Check that out!

I even wrote my own tagline!

 

 

A thank you note...

I would like to thank Hurricane Frances for dropping the loads and loads of rain upon on our tiny little city for the next three days. I couldn't have made it without you---oh, wait---I could totally have done just fine without you. Rain, rain, go away and never come back again!

Leave it up to me to contract an illness the first few weeks of school. I have the weakest immune system ever.

No, No Manolo?! Are You Bloody Mad?!

I popped on AOL this morning and was instantly drawn to the AOL NEWS Headlines. It was not Hurricane Frances that grabbed my attention, nor was it God's, I mean, Bill Clinton's surgery, but THIS!

This is breaking news! But it's certainly not new news. Of course we know that high heels are bad for us! And furthermore, we know that mostly all of the shoes we wear are bad for us! Does that stop us from wearing them? Hell no, Manolo!

If you ladies out there are anything like me, (save for Jennifer, you can read about that here) you wouldn't care if the shoes really were made out of glass, as long as they looked simply fabulous with your ball gown.

I have every kind of shoe known to man. Stilettos, strappy sandals, flip-flops, clogs, sneakers, slippers, boots, ice-skates, I even have loafers for Chrissakes! I'm prepared for Y shoe K. If there's ever a shoe shortage, chances are, I'm walking amongst the barefoot in some silver high heeled number, tsk tsking at the poor, poor souls with pavement indentations on their tootsies. When it comes to shoes, Marissa has them covered.

All my 90+ boxes are labeled with pictures of the shoes in various different angles and settings. My favorites are my white Steve Madden heels (pictured above). Obsessed? Totally. Some people collect stamps, some collect seashells, some collect Donny & Marie paraphanelia. Me? I'm a shoe-collector. You hear of those people who ride roller coasters for a living? They call themselves roller coaster enthusiasts, well, I'm a shoe enthusiast.  Tomato, Tomahto.

But remember, there's only one way to say SHOE!

Bless you!

HIGHS and Lows.

I woke up this morning, dazed, with reminants of last night's unravelings throbbing in my temples.  When did it become such a sin to sleep all morning?

After a long night of ringing telephones, paranoia, fast food and cops on every corner, I crawled into my unmade bed. It was there I would experience a short chain of bad dreams that would leave me in this funky mood all day. I can't call them nightmares; there were no green monsters or boogie men or blood-soaked hands with a butchers knife enclosed in a white-knuckled clenched fist, though it may as well have been. It was even worse than that.

It was a familiar face, inches away from mine, touching the most private place of my body; my heart. Eyes blue and gaping into my soul, unknowing that I was slowly coming undone, peeling back the skins of of years of disappointment, years of lonliness, years of unloving. My lips were touched, only for a moment, and I laid back and let the tears slowly drip out of the corners of my eyes, onto the pillow. I had woken up and I was alone. The real part of the dream were the tears.

I stared up at my plain white ceiling for a long time before I got up. It was there I saw those years of disappointment, the broken pieces of my heart that turned into bitterness after sitting out too long and festering with its open wounds. Don't look at me, I thought, I'm ugly and battered and broken and bruised. I'm returned merchandise with dents in the outer shell and bloodshot eyes. You don't want me. Put me back.

I wish I didn't love. I wish I didn't care. I wish I could hide my feelings in a Pandora's box under my bed and throw away the keys. I feel used and corrupt, innocence lost over the curiosity of human nature and incapable of ever maintaining faith in love.

"If I let you in my heart, you may never touch bottom."

Ah, the joys of learning.

Wow. Sometimes I even suprise myself.

I get up at 9:50 this morning as usual, and due to my lack of remembrance for anything other than my name, I realize I have 2 things to read and write summaries on for Dramatic Literature. Greaaat.

So, within an hour, I am all read up and written and I'm not gonna lie to you, I felt like superwoman. Saved the world all in time for dinner. Or so I thought.

By the time 11:30 rolled around I was ready to go. But, since I didn't have class until 12:30, I had a half hour to putz around and do absoulutely nothing. Awesome, right? No.

I get in the car at 12:06. Then it hits...

Class started at 12! Good going, village idiot.

---But wait! There's more!---  (Always is with you, Mariss.)

Those papers that I spent all morning writing, yeah, pretty much now a a moo point. (It's a cow's opinion.) Not only did she not collect them, she didn't even go over them. The first time I actually understand dramatic literature, or so I thought, it's completely irrelevant to everything. Irrelevant to my well-being, to the class collectively, to society---TO EVERYTHING! It made me rethink my entire existence!

Dramatic Literature I somehow thought would be an enjoyable class. I love reading, writing, Shakespeare, blah blah blah. I guess what I didn't realize is that what I'm understanding about these pieces may not be whats understood without saying. I mean, what is actually meant as the purpose of these stories. How I interpret it seems to be the wrong way. I don't "get" what the other people in the class "get." It's turning out to be more frustrating than anything. I feel inferior, less and not as equipped as the others in the class. The others who can spew out Hamlet and other famous works like it's just their common language, something they talk about everyday. To me, Hamlet means only one thing: The special at Denny's. 

And is it just that class? No.According to my major, it is vital that I take Sadistics, I mean, Statistics, as well as Bio. Not exactly my specialties. And what do you think we learn about in Bio today? Not Bio. Try Chemistry. Did I read the course description wrong? I avoid Chemistry like the clap. I never took it. I dodged it all throughout high school and now it's finally caught up with me. Great. Isn't that ionic?

I know, I know. You only feel inferior if you allow yourself to feel inferior. My inferiority is my self-confidence shaken up a bit. When I take a step back out of my Steve Madden's and look at myself, I see someone who isn't that confident, who isn't as fabulous as she claims to be, I see someone who isn't all there. Someone who is too aware of the "wrong" things, instead of other "important" subject matter, like Chemistry and Hamlet. How does being "in the know" of society, love, fashion, shoes, friendship and online journaling prepare me for a career I wish to have in a few years? That's the problem. It doesn't.

What's a girl to do?