gravity

It is exactly one year from when my fiance broke up with me. Fuck Zachary. He knew he was the best thing to ever happen to me and manipulated that fact to a t. And as soon as i caught on, he freaked out and got rid of me.

I'm dispensable.
Replaceable.
A being that can just be tossed aside at his whim.

He and I didn't work well together to begin with. We tried to turn a shitty mistake into somthing more. But there was no feeling, no emotion there.

Emo.
Emotion.
Motion.

He destroyed me. Zachary. know... I'm melodramatic and say everything destroys me. But, he really did. Fuckhead put me in the hospital more times than once. Beat the living crap out of me then would suprise me the next day with flowers and a hug.

He said he would never leave.
Swore.
Pinky promised.
But, he did.
Leave, that is.

Maybe I'm better off now, maybe I'm not. But, I still love him. And I know I could spend the rest of my life with him.

He understood me.
Completly.
Which, maybe, is how the problem started.

Either that or I'm just never going to be good enough for anyone.

rough gem

God I screwed up. I know I say and feel that a lot but this time it's for real. I don't know how to fix this, nor do I think it can be fixed.

Elise and I started drinking last night. Somewhere between shots #6and7, we realized that we both are going to die. Mind you, this is mostly Elise talking. She feels that I am the embodiment of the past authors, all female...from the known greats (i.e. Dickinson and Plath) to the anonomous voices.

----I mean, what did Virginia Woolf say, "For most of history- Anonymous was a woman."----

But, I am not destined to write. I am not going to become one of the greats, she says. I am destined to suffer, to be the scapegoat for all of their past frusturation and everything that goes wrong. I am supposed to suffer, be in the worst pain imaginable so in my next life...whatever being takes my form, can be the next great soul.

Elise got this vison of my death, before even knowing I owned the dress or the notebook. She said that I am going to die in a grey room with white draperies flowing all around it. There is going to be a mahogany desk and Shostakovich playing. I'm going to be wearing a short sleeve, white, floor-leingh dress (as in exactly the one I just bought for Plath-day in class) and my hair is going to be down and somewhat wavy...like it is after I don't flat iron it after sleeping on it. Elise says I am going to be writing in my black Molskine notebook with my silver fountain pen. She says I will be drinking a very fantastic vodka gimlet. I will just slump over in my seat and die. Unmarred (asise from the completly destroyed scars I already have). Unmarred by age, I am to die by the time I reach 30. And that scares the shit out of me.

I know it probably doesn't mean anything...it was just one of our fantastic, inebriated, pseudo-intelliectual discussions...but what if it does? What if I am never going to be one of the greats? What if I am destined to die alone in a dark room with almost an eretherial presence? What if I am going to die 10.5 years from now?

I haven't even begun to live.

After coming to realization that we are excruciatingly fucked up, Elise and I ended up going out to fake the happy thing. As usual though, her presence stole the attention and I became...almost invisable...to everyone there. So I went over to someone's room and drank some more. It's what I do... But my friend, Irving, who's room I went to...he had this amazing strobe light going. Not gonna lie, when youre hammered, strobe lights are amazing. But, by that point it was like 5am and I had pretty much drunken myself into a stupor so I thought it best to go back to my room and pass out.

Except that I couldn't sleep. So what do I do, but break open my notecards and study sheets for my American lit exam. I'm still disgustingly confuzed by Poe's "Philosophy of Composition". I think I'm just really bad with all of the theory stuff. I don't know why. Part of me thinks having theories and such complicates the beauty of just writing. The sheer moment of taking a pen to paper and just letting everything inside of you flow out and create somthing magical. It might not be seen as "good". But, fuck that. It's not supposed to be good, nor is that what writing is about.

I have this idea that every artist, regardless of medium, is a sellout the second someone purchaces their work. You sell out when you alter your work for an audience. it no longer becomes exactly what you wanted to say, it is somewhat part of someone elses. It's not as pure. And I know I'm hypocrytical because even being in school and not having someone directly purchase my work, I made styilistic alterations towards each professer's personal preference. For instance, my Terrorism&Justice professer is writing a book on gendered political violence right now, so I know if I throw in a few quips about rape as a violent wartime tactic, she'll be like hmmmm. Or even with thesis papers. I make it a point to pick a topic that not everyone else in the class is going to write about so when it comes to grading papers, my professers stop and really see my work, hopefully resulting in a better grade for me. Hopefully, but not always.

I thought sleep would help last night. Help me realize that I am not that broken, that there is somthing good left in my life. But, I'm really just not seeing it. Everything in my life is broken.

Everything I touch turns to dust.

we don't care

SPRING PARTIES WEEKEND!!!!!!!!

So...here's the Friday night spiel (and by Friday night I mean, Friday after 2pm till around 5am when I pass the fuck out)...

I texted the Marine a few times yesterday, seeing if he wanted to chill or drink with me and my friends. Didn't get anything back from him at all. I didn't think anything of it, I mean whatever. It's totally his perrogative if he wants to hang out with me or not. I'm not that fun most of the time, but when we talked (and he WAS sober when we did), he played it off like he really was into me and was looking forward to us hanging out.

But I didn't really care. My girl, Elise, and I ended up taking a nap on the quad for a while. Beautiful days should not be spent inside, under any circomstance. So we took our cigarettes and a blanked out and just relaxed. We ended up getting Fro (regardless of if he still has the massive thing on his head anymore or not, the child will always be Fro to me) to pick us up some beer and mikes. God. I love mikes. I know they're little bitch drinks but when you dont want to get fucked out of your mind, theyre good. So Elise and I drank a bit. Just a bit. I swear. And we headed over to the Smith party. Whatever. I was completly fucked so I didn't care at all...cuz I don't dance sober.

It was chill I guess. But then Elise, Corlee and I ended up going to Irish's room for some more beers ( we were starting to sober up ) and who is there...but MARINE!!!!!!! And he is all the fuck over this other whore. Whatever. So I did the typical chic thing and tried to make him jelous. I actually think it worked out in my favor though. I met his friend, Mark (what is it with me and guys with M names?). Mark is 28 and an econ major, coming back to school after working for a while. He's smart as fuck too. I had to run back to my room for somthing and he came with and he saw where I had my books open from studying for Lit and he started (drunkenly) trying to discuss Poe's Theory of Composition with me. Sigh. Intelligence, for me, is the biggest turn-on.

And today is Spring Parties outdoor fest, Cinco De Mayo and Derby Day! So I'm legally obliged to have my Cosmos, my Jose and my Mojitos. God, I love having drinks for every holiday...every event.

....its ok cuz I'm a rockstar!

skin up pin up

God I am hungover right now. I think between me and my friends we drank more last night than we did over the entirity of the rest of the semester. At least we were classy about it, martinis and vodka gimlits to go around. No cheezy shit like Jell-O shots allowed, fuck you very much. That crap is for Cino-Del-Drinko tomorrow =)

And the Marine is staying on campus all weekend. Which pretty much means I'm not gonna get any work done. Not gonna lie, I know I study too much and use my schoolwork as an excuse to not have to put myself into potentially unfamilliar or uncomfortable situations. Sorry, that's what you get from being the shy one all through middle and high school.

I really like Marine. Idk. I mean, he scares the shit out of me, he can read me so well. It's not like I'm that hard to figure out but most people, when they realize what the fuck is going on with me, run. They run really fucking fast and far in the opposite direction. But, Marine didnt.

And there is absofuckinglutly nothing wrong with a man in uniform....

another one goes by

Met this guy last night. It's actually a really chill story. He and the guys went out barhopping and he ended up getting sexiled. I found him outside of campus commons, coming down and jonsing for a cigarette. Being the chill chica I am, I shared my reds. And then he and I just end up talking till like 8 this morning. Yeah, so because of him I didn't sleep but we shared some amazing conversation. He's coming down for the weekend to chill. So maybe...

Today was my last American lit class for the semester. As much as that class stressed me out, I feel like it's the end of an era. I mean, I had the prof in the fall for my freshie writing class and now for Amlit. God she was rediculous as a prof. She's like 25 and already has her masters and is working on her doctorate and she's wicked smart. I can't imagine being where she is...on the other side of the desk. Only 6 years from now though (if not before) that's where I'll be.

MMMMM sleep and greys tonight.

shameless

I have to say...I am actually proud of my American lit paper. I didn't **really** freakout over it. I have a clear and creative thesis that resonates throughout the paper. I properly use secondary sources. It's organized (moreso than my papers usually are). And I have a conclusion that does more than restate the introduction. And I stayed under 15 pages--not counting the works cited.

My Moleskine notebooks are here! Sigh. I am such a loser. It's amazing how somthing as seemingly unremarkable like a notebook can evoke such a powerful responce from someone. I mean, when you first look at it...it looks like just a basic, black journal with cream pages and a stitched binding. But...it's so much more. They are a blank canvass for my work. And by using them, I feel like I am a part of a greater tradition. Although it remains unconfirmed...it is thought that Hemmingway used Moleskine notebooks. It's not even the fact that Hemmingway used them, it's that by using them, I am connecting with the creative minds who have used them and are using them and will use them.

We are all connected.

Today was the last day of Wednesday classes for my first year at college. I feel as if I should say somthing to mark the occation. I mean, I guess I've learned a lot...not only in regards to academia but about myself:

1. I'm smarter than I let on. It is ok to show intelligence...noone is going to chastise you for it and if they do, they are probably just jelous.
2. It is not my responsibility to take care of everyone. I need to take care of myself if I am going to do any good for anyone.
3. Thesis statements do not have to be at the end of the intro paragraph. Nor do conclusions have to be extremly repetitive.
4. All-nighters are a nessasary evil and are much easier when done with friends and Jolt or RedBull.
5. Noone really cares what you look like. It's ok to wear sweats to class (as long as they are appropriate). It doesn't make you any less intelligent...just more comfortable.
6. I cannot do math. Which is why I am always going to suck at science and econ.
7. It's ok to ask for help.

See...I'm maturing. Gosh. I could almost be mistaken for a fully-functioning adult.

the devil goes down to georgia

god

all fucking nighters. amazing.

english paper is done-zo...........except for the conclusion. but that doesnt matter. itll come later (and that's what SHE said haha).

even though the paper is hideously organized....i love it.


god. i love english.

wait

This is going to count as my break for tonight. Because. Because I have a freaking list of what I need to get done tonight. A LIST!!!!!!!

Tonight I must:
-finish all notecard analysis of journal articles and primary texts for American Lit paper...and finish writing the actual paper
-write a newsworthy, publishable interview story
-start finding quotes for International Relations book review
-create study sheets and organize all notes and such for Terrorism written exam study group
-pick topic and outline feature story

It really doesn't look like that much. I'm just stressing. I mean, the copious amounts of caffene in my system can't be helping with the stress level...just with keeping me awake.

How pathetic is it that I need to schedule time to sleep? Seriously man. At least I don't have lit tomorow so I can steal an hour of blissful rest...

If anything, that will be what keeps me going through tomorow. Ugh. I think everyone is feeling the advent of Hell Week...hence the widespead bitch fever that hit campus earlier today.

Whatever. It's times like these where we become extremly thankful God invented cigarettes, redbull and stackers.

Just keep the sharp objects out of my reach this week and we'll be fine. Or just don't let them hit lower than the elbows and we got this one wrapped up.

Two weeks than no more Hood drama for three months. Just home drama. Which, at least I know is all my fault (and it'll give me some good anger to get out).

fuck it

recitation is done with...passed. thank god.

lit paper time...
i'm actually having fun with this and i'm trying really hard not to stress but its just not working well and i know i should be able to write a paper without constant help but yeah its not working so well. i had to go to the writing lab earlier and get help with my thesis and i dont know...i cant seem to make any of it flow. and i think my analysis is all wrong in my section on dickinson. and i dont know how to make my part on james work with my thesis without sounding like a moron. and i havent even touched the plath sources yet, much less started writing it. i just really really want to do well. i mean, ok so i got an A on the first paper... so most normal people wouldnt be that worried about this one. but i am. because i got an A before, i know i can do it and i have to do it because otherwise my writing would have declined in quality. and that is just unacceptable.

i need to stop sucking at life...immediatly.

landslide

Recitation at 9 freaking AM baby!!!!!!!!! I thought I would be petrified...but I'm not. I'm ready. I can do this. I know theory better than I know my friend's drinking habits or brand of cigarettes. I am going to rock this.

Honistly...I'm a little scared. But, I'm not going to worry about it. If I stress about it, I'm going to work myself up in all of the wrong ways. As of now, I'm pumped. And I just need to stay positive.

I even felt confident earlier to put down my study sheets and do more work on my lit paper....

I love how with this paper...I thought I was starting out really well but then after rereading my analysis of my Dickinson works...they're probably all bullshit. God. I need to stop sucking at literary analysis...especially if I want to...idk...MAJOR IN ENGLISH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

caffene is my life, mk?

heaven on stilts

Wow. Just wow. I stumbled upon what is probably the last picture taken of Chandi. She was so beautiful. We were sitting outside during Passover break on my balcony. It was raining, otherwise we should have been at the park or just walking around somewhere. But no, the torrents falling from the sky leant itself to nothing more than simple conversation and snippets of our respective creative medium (Chandi painted while I wrote...she always had all of the talent). Her blonde hair flowing almost to mid-back, cascading over the back of the cerulean blue rocker she sat in, contemplating her next brushstroke. Her white top was one of my old ones...an old cotton men's dress shirt picked up at a thrift store with the sole purpose of just lounging around in it. Unknown to her, just yet, her taupe carpender's pants were lightly spotted with flecks of caramel paint dust from when she opened the first tube. Caramel paint faerie dust. God she was beautiful.

In the photo, Chandi's legs are draped over the armrest of the rocker. Her head is back, neck arched in a way to make her hair just barely touch the hardwood floors of the balcony. For once she was smiling. But, it wasn't one of those "oh great, now I have to smile so let's have it look really fake and cheesy now, shall we?" smiles. No. She looked genuinely happy.

Chandi's smiles were a rareity but when she did smile (and meant it), it would light up the room. Nay, the world. I know it's such a cliche, but they really would.

It's so weird now, her not being here. I feel like a huge part of me is gone. For the longest time, it was Chandi and Lilith, Lilith and Chandi. Albet, others would enter our midst but we were the origional two. Regardless of who we pulled into our little clique, she and I were the only two who followed all of the rules and lived it.

God she was beautiful. God.... I miss her.

save me

I needed a change of scenery from recitation hell (what I'm calling my dorm room till after 9am Monday) so I went over to the Apple Lab with Rae to work on my lit paper. Needless to say, after writing two pages and analyzing like 15 journal articles written by guys using really big words and really big terms that I've never heard of that I needed a cigarette (or three). Went outside and had one on the way back to hell and got some pretty sweet cotton mouth from it. As soon as I get back here, I grab the first (and only) water bottle from my frige. Unbegnounst to me...it's not a water bottle...it's a happy bottle. Happy meaning vodka put in a water bottle so it's socially acceptable for me to bring to class or sit out on the quad with...created especially for those days when being sober just isnt going to cut it. Except I wasn't so happy when I chugged half of it before realizing it wasn't water. Shit.

After debating for all of three minutes what to do about the approximatly six shots I had just unknowingly bequeathed upon myself, I ended up running to the bathroom and sticking my fingers down my throat. I know I said I wouldn't do that anymore but I have a lot of work to do tomorrow...I have to study some more for my recitation and I have to get a rough draft of at least 8 pages out to my lit prof (meaning I have 6 more to write...). I really can't afford to be hungover or even slightly out of my mind. I just don't have time. And I figure, after doing it constantly for six years after everything I put in my body I can't do much more harm to my self.

So after the deed was done (so to speak) I went back to look in my frige for another waterbottle and...whoops...I'm out. Forgot to add it to the list of things to get from Giant Eagle. And all I had in my frige (beverage-wise) are vodka, Mike's Hards, Malibu, some Coronas and half a gallon of soy milk. Alright, I theoretically could have drank some of my soy milk...but I really only like it in my coffee and not to drink just for hydration purposes. This left me in a bit of a dilemma as how to get rid of the nasty cotton mouth plus now barf vibe out off my breath.

Thankfully my hallmate, Jeff, was online. Such a nice guy, he is, he wouldn't object to giving a friend in need a waterbottle. After his affirmative answer via AIM, I ran up two flights of stairs to grab it. Such a good Jeff, that child is. Always taking care of me. Anyways, I explained the situation to him and he instantly paled. Apparantly he had always assumed about my bit of an obsession with Mia and Ana but had never confronted me about it. While neither confirming or denying the goddess' presence in my life, I inquired about what would make him think I was an Ed-child. Jeff rattled off a list of things ranging from my depression (which I like to think of as my cynicism, fuck you very much!) to my obsession with my appearance and the appearance of those around me. From said occourances, he felt it was appropriate to assume that I'm a member of a special little group known as the spawn of the goddesses.

This bothers me for a few reasons:

1. What right does Jeff think he has to assume somthing like that about me. Let's pretend that I didn't have a past with those sorts of things. How would you feel if someone told you they though you had an issue? Not so fantastic, right? Yeah, didn't think so.

2. I don't show that kind of flaw to the world...or at least I didn't think that I did. If he can figure it out, can other people I'm friends with? Can my professers? Can my potential employers or my coworkers?

3. That part of me is really private. This year was the first year that I've been able to admit it to myself that I have an issue with the goddess' control over my life. I cant even say that I have a problem with Ana or Mia. It feels like betrayal to two things that have been the only things to remain constant within my life. I don't want someone who I'm not that close with knowing (or thinking he knows) all about me because he happened to stumble upon two details of my life.

4. I don't want him (or anyone else for that matter) to define me by two elements of my past. I am more than the child of Ana or the child of Mia.

But, I mean, there's not much I can do about it now that he knows. Hopefully he'll have some decency and not display it to the entire campus. People talk enough shit anyways.

Oh...earlier I totally splurged and bought new Molskine notebooks. I'm running a little low in the one I use just for poetry and with the one I use just for prompts and observations I'm almost at the point where I'd need a new one and the one I do my sketches and prose in I'm going to need a new one pretty soon. So I went out and got three more. Yay. But also though, on my little shopping expadition, I got a really cute black tank top with really tiny white pokadots on it. It's a cami with a rouched princess seamed bodace but it's not trashy which is always a plus. And I figure, since it's not that low cut I can wear it to work during the summer with a cardigan over it. And I also snagged this white halter. It's super cute...it has a red scalloped trim and little cherrys all over it. I definatly won't be wearing it to work but I diserve something nice for myself. Somthing cutsey, just a feel-good top for the beach this summer or when I'm hanging out with people.

Ugh. I don't even care if Jeff tells people. It's not like they can't assume shit on their own to begin with. I'm just glad that I won't be here in two weeks. But then, I'll have to deal with a whole different set of people talking crap about me.

I LOVE how people never grow up. Ever.

Shitheads.

mourir est un art et comme tout d'autre je le fais exceptionnellement bien

I've been working on my recitation stuff all day. But after a while, I decided I needed a break so I started work on my American Lit paper. Albet, my prof was absolutly awesome and said I could have an extention if I need one...but I'm gonna try not to need one. I mean, if i get it solid enough to pass in on Thursday then there really is no excuse for me not to. But, that's only if it's tight. After rocking the first paper (despite my freakouts), I have to do really well on this one....cuz like now my prof knows that I'm not completly incompitant and I'd like to maintain that standard...

Anyways...I'm actually having a lot of fun with this paper. I've realized, if I care about a topic (or if not care, at least am mildly interested in it), its so much easier to write. I found this really cool critic, Janet Buell, who says at one point that Dickinson's fear of death lead her to turn to poetry because its very nature made it immortal. I can see that, I mean her family was deeply religious and the fire & brimstone dogma of the Puritan faith didn't leave any room for questions about the afterlife. The critic goes on to note at one period of Dickinson's poetry, presumibly after the death of her brother, she shifts the focus of a lot of her work towards deathbed manner. Dickinson was able to find beauty in death...even if beauty itself was murderous device.

I didn't really start analyzing my Plath critisisms yet, but just for the hell of it I reread my primary texts. The weirdest thing happened though. As I was looking at Lady Lazarus and got to "Dying/ Is an art, like everything else,/ I do it exceptionally well", in my head, I instantly translated it to the French. Weird. I mean, yay for being fluent but I wasn't even doing anything ieven somewhat related to France earlier today...aside from having a really good glass of Pinot Blanc. Maybe it's just my subconscious telling me that I am in dire need of some Parisian snootyness this summer...if only for a weekend.

Honistly, I haven't even began to look at the criticisms for my third text-- Daisy Miller: A Study by Henry James. I mean, I skimmed them but haven't really delved into them yet. I figure...I'll check them out later and knock out some flashcards for each source. If I have energy or need a break from terrorism theory, I can always write a bit after I have the cards done and somewhat organized. Aim to have at least 3-4pages by 3am to shoot off to my prof for some feedback. Finish up the rest of it tomorow during my recitation breaks. Then just spend the rest of the week focused on the language.

See...I got this. NO FREAKOUTS this time!!!!!

tricycle

I tried to finalize my schedule last night for next semester. I got into Latin, Contemporary Philosophical Topics, Women & Politics, Comparitave Governmental Systems and I'm on the waiting list for Creative Writing and English Rennisance Poetry. But I'm going to talk to the professers of the classes I got waitlisted for and see if they'll let me in. If not, I can add other classes in place but I'm not too worried.

This morning has been...eventful. I got into a really big fight with Katie over absolutly nothing. The girl just loves to try to piss me off. But even if its working, I'm not one to show it. Which I think just makes her more angry. I'm done trying to be nice to her. There is no point when she is constantly trying to bring me down. I dont have the time nor the energy to deal with someone like her...especially not during Hell Week.

As much as I bitch about having to do my recitation, I'm actually really excited for it. If I can do well on it, it just proves that I am not wasting my time here. Last night Michael was helping me study (I know...we're dorks like that!) and he basically was just having me explain different theorum to him, their critisisms and having me apply them to different events....I was doing pretty well. I love the challenge. I love the pressure...standing in front of a lecture hall with 10 sets of glairing eyes belonging to some of the most brilliant minds I've ever met, borring holes in me...waiting for me to crack under the pressure. But that's not going to happen. I am going to rock this.

Because...I have no other option.

bound by love

I'm soooooo excited.

I'm just about to totally dork-ify myself but...my college has a used book sale every year starting on Shakespere's birthday and lasting for a week after. I went the first day and picked up some Dickinson and some theory stuff...nothing major. Didn't really have a ton of time to look, you know?

But, this afternoon I got an email saying they were now letting us fill up a grocery-bag sized sack for $5. As much as we can fit in the bag. So, being the good English major....I went. For $5 I got:
The Study of Literature
Classical Readings in American Politics
Norton Anthology of English Literature
The Awakening
American Literary History
Favorite Poems of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Approaches to the Novel
Zadig/ L'ingenu
Robert Browning-- A Collection
Psychoanalytic Literary Criticism Theory in Practice
American Short Stories
Seventeenth Century Prose and Poetry
English Poetry and Prose of the Romantic Movement
The Literature of the American People
William Faulkner-- Three Decades of Criticism

So for $5 that's really not bad at all. God I love used book sales! The only problem is now I'm not gonna want to do any work. Oh well...reading can be my reward.

danger of the water

Ugggggggg. Last night...bad idea. I needed to study last night for my recitation and work on my lit paper and my polisci book reviews. Fuck. Didn't do that. But, I did manage to go all emo on my arm, burn my thumb, email my prof pasking about a rough draft and using hte most hideous grammar ever, call Alex after he tore any positive self-image I had out with a rusty nail, eat an entire mini chocolate bunny, call Tori and tell her she will never be Mary-Kate or Nicole cuz she's too tall and too imperfect....god the list contines....that was just the "best of lilith drunk off her ass" highlight reel.

I am really fucking impressed with myself. I needed to do work...more than any other fucking night this semester so far and I completly blew it off. I was fucking irresponsible. WHAT THE FUCK IS MY PROBLEM???????????? I'm almost 20. I cannot, under any circomstances, be doing that anymore. Seriously. If i want to be out of college by '09 so I can start my masters program...finish that in a year and a half then jump on my doctorate program and do that in three years--counting my dissertation--I dont have time to be stupid like that.

I think though, as much as I hate to place the blame for my absolute disregard for my plan (and my liver)...what Alex said the other night really fucked with me. Maybe he's right. Maybe I don't know how to love...I don't know what love is...so I make it impossible for people to love me. Maybe I push people away because I'm scared of hurting or losing them so its easier to never have them be a part of my life to begin with. Thats what I did with him. As soon as I started having serious feelings for him, I did everything in my power to erradicate them. But when that didn't work...I started being "crazy, obsessive girlfriend" and freaked him out to the point where he left me.

And the funny thing is...I still care about him, maybe moreso than when we were together. I know I shouldnt talk to him after the other night...but I do (and I actually am right now while I'm writing this). There's somthing about him...I dont know what it is...but it draws me in and makes it impossible to let go. And when we're together, there's this vibe between us that is like nothing I have ever seen before. We completly feed off one another...if we're arguing it gets really bad because we know what the other person is going to say before they do. If we're just talking it's amazing. He gets me. Alex and I are really alike...which is not always a good thing. We know what to say to push the other person's buttons. I know what makes him tick and he knows for me. I dotn know. Maybe I'm scared of letting him get close to me because he's so great, I wouldn't want to lose him.

There's this really strong emotional recall I feel whenever I drink vodka because of Alex. I know it's gonna make me sound really xenophobic but fuck it...I'm gonna say it anways. He's Russian and one time we were just watching movies at his house and he brought out this really good, strong, amazingly smooth Russian vodka. It has to be the best vodka I've ever tasted...and now every time I drink I think of him. It's so weird how you form this bond to ordinary sensory experiances. Like, right now I'm listening to Ashlee Simpson (shuttup, it's on my itunes rotation) and it brought me right back to sophmore year of high school, trying to be everything I'm not. It makes me think of the hours I'd spend, teaching myself how to achieve the perfect "I just rolled out of bed after a long night of partying but still look fucking awesome" look...the MTV awards parties we'd throw...god we were young.

Or like...not even a song can bring you back there...a taste,,,a touch...a smell...anything.

Rosepetal tea and cranberry scones bring me back to long summers in Maine, relaxing with my notebook and my camera on the deck overlooking Penopscot Bay, watching the lobster boats trawl in and out all day, the ferries coming in and going back out like clockwork...blasting their horns as an announcement of their constant presence off the tiny island. I would sit up there for hours...just relaxing with my tea and scones and write. From my deck I could see the main drag of the island and see all of the villagers go about their daily routine. It was comforting to see a society, not too different yet completly contrary to where I lived the other 10 months of the year. On Vinelhaven Isand, as it was called, old men would hold doors open for little girls playing with their friends. The man at the general market would know your name and how you take your coffee and if you would need to borrow a wagon from out front to take your wares home, if it was too far to simply carry....its amazing how just one or two simple tastes brings back such a memory. I really miss Maine. I should try to get away this summer just for a weekend or somthing.

Or, every time I read the first Harry Potter book, I remember falling in love with contemporary children's literature. Yeah, I was in 6th grade when I read it, but I had never been a fan of "kid books". But, Kristen Ryan did a book report on it in my Language Arts (as it was called) class and everyone else knew what she was talking about, I felt like they were in some sort of club and I hadn't recieved the invitation. The next day, a Saturday, it was raining so my dad and I went to the Barnes and Noble. Still reeling off the embarrasment of the previous day, I (for the first time in my life) wandered over to the kids section and picked up Harry Potter and started reading. Instantly I was brought into a world of (for lack of a better word) magic. To this day, I still don't know what it was but I fell in love with J.K. Rowling's writing.

Alex...every time I hear the Cascada song, "Every Time We Touch"...I think of him. It was the club hit last year when we were together and was on the radio when he kissed me for the first time. It was a really mild April night...I was kind of bored so I drove down to visit him at work. He was this security guard at an office building a few towns over. We went outside and started messing around and he just grabbed me and kissed me. Under the stars. I know it's so cliche but whatever.

I need to stop falling for him...again...I really do. I dont have time for this crap.

Welcome to hell, kids. We have cookies.

fuck

i'm drunk

and i just emailed my lit prof

whoops

and i lost my glasses..somewhere in my room

trashed my room looking for them post hoc

burnt my thumb

cut my left arm and hand

drunkdiledmy cousin

yeah........good fucking night

white daisy passing

So I told my dad earlier that I'm adding an English major to my polisci one and am keeping my writing minor. Needless to say he's pissed. But I don't really care. I am done letting him dictate how I lead my life.

Not just him though. It's everyone. I am completly over worrying about everyone else's happyness at the detriment of my own. I mean, of course I care about my friends and their opinion but that shouldn't be my first concern. And under no circomstances should I be listening (or even taking into advisement) the opinion or wishes of someone who, in effect, is at the root of almost all of my issues.

If being an English major makes me happy, then I should do it. Dont get me wrong, I still love politics and I am never going to stop loving campaign season. But for once, I feel like I've finally found somthing that I'm good at and I want to see where it takes me. Somthing of my own. I don't want to work on the hill...it doesn't do anything for me and life's too short to not be doing what I love. Campaigns and I are fucking fantastic together but I mean...I hate local politics and I'm not good or well-known enough to do a national (or even a statewide) campaign...yet. So until I hit that level (if I ever do), I can only work every two years. For 11 months...if that. And if I really just want to be a speechwriter, than it shouldn't be a problem teaching college literature and writing. I'm a politics junkie and obsess over governmental goings-on anyways so it's not like I'm going to be out of the loop. And a bunch of professers have their little pet projects...mine can just be speechwriting and consulting.

But...somthing that might suck is that I found out...for my English doctorate....I need two languages. I mean, ok. I can do French no problem. But I need another. And it has to be a current language. As in no Latin (but I'm still taking Latin next semester...no worries...it'll help with rhetoric and for origonal polisci texts).

and i make it impossible to love me.

sweet emotion

I am still crazy about Alex. By all accounts, I should hate his guts...but for some crazy, inexplicable reason...I don't. At all.

He and I weren't together that long but he and I both fell fast and hard. It went from just chilling to spending every waking moment together in a period of a week. But...it didn't last.

He found someone else and neglected to tell me. I find out via angry phone call, saying he never wants to hear from me again, after I shoot him a text message...just to make sure he's ok or wahateer.

And we hadn't talked since. Till around a month ago when he IMed me. And then all of the feelings I had for him rushed back. He really hurt me...but he was the first guy who I actually trusted. Ever.

And I still want to be with him. I think. I don't know. He made me so much less tense....almost normal. Maybe I like the idea of him better than the actual him? But...I do know I'm still crazy about him.

He's going to be home this summer too...

And as of tonight, according to him, it would be very easy to love me if i wasnt so fucked up. Whoops. Sorry. Can't really help that one. It's who I am. And it sucks.

It really fucking sucks...because he is way too easy to fall for. And I already feel myself
S
L
I
P
p
I
N
G
back into his grasp.

yeah right i wish

someone just told me i look like sylvia plath.

is it bad that after he said that, i went to my room and started crying because that is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. ever.

but i'm 99.99999999999999% sure he was on somthing. because...i just dont see it.

god. she was so intense. i would do anything to be half the poet she was.

anything.