something tastes different/maybe it's my tongue...

...something tastes different/suddenly I'm not so young.

I've been awash in so many goings on, both in and out of my own mind, that I've been too inundated to do much more than keep my head above water, show up at obligations, drink the more-often-than-occasional whiskey, have important conversations, and occasionally zone out at Z'otz. Which is where I currently am, sipping an iced lavender mocha, because sometimes a girl needs a fancy drink to type out her pithy thoughts.

Getting engaged has really messed with my psyche, y'all. On so many levels. One of them is coping with the idea of getting engaged. When Ravi and I broke up, it was partly because he was steadfastly opposed to the idea of ever getting married. I never thought I was ready to get married when we were together, but I thought for certain it was in my future. And somewhere along the way, I stopped believing that. I don't mean that in a morose way. I mean, I lost the insistent belief that I would one day get married. Even when Richie and I decided we wanted to get married, even when we got the rings from my parents and had them repaired, even when I gave them to him, knowing their purpose...I never fully embraced the idea that I was now someone who wanted to get married. The morning Richie proposed, I told Erin, Christie, and A.L. how BIZARRE it felt. How I had honestly asked Richie to repeat the proposal, because I felt like I'd flubbed it (my response was a slack-jawed "umm...okay. yes. okay. I'm sorry, I totally screwed that up.")

Every day, I ask myself if this is something I want to do. I know that sounds awful, but I think that's a question worth asking. An affirmation, if you will. Because the answer is always yes. I just need to...familiarize myself with the situation. But on the other hand, there is the pressure of bliss. As in, I feel like a fraud for not being constantly blissed out about my engaged state. I'm not. I'm happy, I'm excited, I think about other things, I am occasionally sad, I'm indulging in nostalgia on unprecedented levels, I'm opening what are apparently some delicately healed wounds with regards to my family, I'm on flirting with some dangerous thoughts in regards to eating habits (but working very hard to keep them in check). I am a bundle of emotions. I suppose it makes sense that I've spent a lot of time reflecting on my early college years, because that's the last time I really felt that exhilarating mix of joy and depression. 

Because, there is something sad about going into another chapter. I try and tell myself that I'm still me, that I don't change in relation to my married state, and that's fine, but it's still A Big Change. I want to honor that and I feel like honoring that comes with a certain amount of pathos. 

Along with all that are a slew of other weddings, travel, wedding planning, the truly nightmarish task of shopping for a wedding dress (which has pushed me to accept A.L.'s offer to make my wedding dress), my hair is falling out (no, for real. like, bald spot falling out!), being really busy (but really happy) at work, trying to carve out time to be a well-rounded person (i.e. I read books late into the night and don't get enough sleep), yelling at myself for falling prey to the rat race of corporate life, still being happy, dancing to the point of dehydration at wedding receptions, filming silent movies, feeling guilty about missing out on dance parties and dinners, feeling guilty about not writing here, having so much on my mind that writing here seemed impossible...you know. All that. 

I don't know who still reads this (or who is still reading this truly mangled entry), but if you are, thanks. Maybe now that I've barfed all over the page, I'll feel a little less like there's too much for me to even get into here. I hope it's like getting back in the habit of writing in general...you get all the bullshit out of the way, so you can get to the good stuff. (This is why you should never turn in your first draft of a paper! Unless you're me and you procrastinate, then stay up rewriting the same paragraph five times. But don't do that. It gives you ulcers.) 

A letter I can't or won't actually send.

Mama,

When I told you I was engaged, you rolled your eyes. Literally, you rolled your eyes. This was a better outcome than what I expected, which is shocking to most everyone to whom I've told that story. 

Usually my response is to just say something along the lines of, "That's just my mom. She gets stressed out easily. She's still happy for me." The thing is, I believe that. I do think you're happy for me, or maybe I just need to believe that you are. But your happiness for me is blurred by a lens that has only gotten more opaque as the years have passed.

I wonder a lot lately when was the last time you were happy. I realize I can't remember anything in the past decade or so, so I wonder if you do. Was it when Paw Paw was still alive? I can think of times when you've had fun, but I don't remember the last time that you were deeply, joyously happy about something. That is a surprisingly difficult thing to admit. 

It has taken me many years to come to terms with your unhappiness. I'm probably still not there, but at least I have the perception and the toolkit to explain some of it and rationalize it to myself. I'm not quite sure WHY it's there, but based on things you've told me here and there, I have a feeling it began with a string of loves in your teenage years and really took root when you decided that you'd thrown away a lot of opportunities by marrying Daddy. You've told me countless times what you might have been if you'd gone to school--an art teacher, an architect. Even after going into the medical field, a kid at home and a drunk husband made you feel like you needed to be at home after work, instead of going to school for nursing. But even in my childhood years, I feel like you were happy sometimes. I remember dancing with you in the living room and I feel like that was happy. I want to know what broke and why it can't or won't be fixed. 

We've been fighting a lot about the wedding and it occurred to me that I'm a disappointment to you. You'd balk to hear this. You'd tell me how proud of me you are and how much you love me. I don't doubt those things, but I have to reconcile them with your disappointment. I am not who you want me to be. You rolled your eyes at my news because you imagined differently for me. Someone who could "take care of me," to use your words, someone with money who might support me while I got that Ph.D that you're still on me about. To you, my marriage means the end of my possibility too, means getting stuck in a rut that I will spend a lifetime sitting in, a rut so deep that it's not even worth it to expend energy to get out of. Is that how you feel? It's the closest I can imagine. 

You told me once that you wanted me to get my Ph.D because you knew, when I was a baby, that I would go on to do great things. You don't want to hear that people can do great things without a Ph.D, or that a Ph.D in my field would be useless to me, monetarily. You don't really even have a defined vision of "great," beyond "better off than me." You are not great, except through my achievements. I need to be great to somehow be worth all those lost opportunities. I don't think I'm capable of being that great. 

In a way, I think you think my marriage will make me sink lower than you, because I will still be worse off financially than you are. I think your desire to dictate every aspect of this wedding comes from the idea that you can at least make it what you want to see. Maybe that will be enough to make up for that potential greatness I'm flushing down the toilet. You are upset with me that I won't wear your wedding dress. I couldn't think up a better metaphor if I tried. Somewhere along the way (or maybe from the moment I was born), I turned into a vessel for all your lost hopes. I'm not the only person this has happened to--at this point it's a cliche. But it doesn't hurt any less to be held to a standard that judges me as unworthy for not meeting standards I've never been invested in. I quite honestly feel as though you love me less for not being good enough. It doesn't hurt me to not be good enough--I think (with the help of years of therapy, a lot of love, and the power of literature) that I'm just fine. But it hurts to think that you feel that way, that I have somehow thrown away the key that could even possibly unlock your door to happiness. 

Even before I could put those thoughts into words, I knew them on an instinctual level. It took me years to tell you I was going to therapy, because I knew you'd be disappointed in me for being so flawed and for thinking I was flawed. For not just getting over it. It is sickeningly ironic that you live in the kind of unhappiness you do without any help, just so as not to have to admit that you actually are unhappy. 

Years ago, you used to joke that you would never ask your patients, "How are you?" because it would turn into them rattling off their various ailments and complaints. I don't know how to tell you that you've turned into those people, without meaning to, without being old enough to be that damn miserable with life. 

I've had a buzzing tension headache for two weeks now. I suspect it has a lot to do with trying to shove down this rush of emotions and words that have come out of wounds long scarred, now ripped open. These are words I don't want to say to you, because I know you would only see them as a further burden, without ever acknowledging their meaning. I know you would cry and maybe you'd yell. I don't want to hurt you. I love you so much. I just wish that I could make you see. To see that your life is so rich, so full of love. To see that all I want from you at my wedding is to see you happy, for you to celebrate without barriers of anger, fear, and disappointment. You talk a lot of making the most of life, because you never know when you'll die. I don't understand how you can believe that, but treat every day like another step to the grave.

If anything, you've taught me that lesson. I don't always achieve it, but I try not to live in misery, because I don't want to bring down that burden on those who love me. I try to celebrate, to love, to experience, to be my very best, to see the best in people and in life. And I will always try, however useless it may be at this point, to make you see it too.

Love, me

frenzy, flurry, shim sham, blurry

This is what I've been up to lately:

1) A bachelorette party

From the balcony of the Hustler Club

2) A wedding

"Bridesmaids 4 Life"

3) A birthday party

This weekend, it's Running of the Bulls, biking to the Bywater, flying kites (weather permitting), and making a seafood gumbo. And a little rest too.

"A disposition fell over me"

You know when you're so sick that you reach that dazed state where you feel like you'll never not feel this awful? I felt like that this morning. I have bronchitis and, on top of that, a sinus infection (and suddenly, out of left field, a sore throat that is hopefully from sinus drip and not a manifestation of some other ugliness). I'm going on Day 5 of sickness. Every other morning, I've felt progressively worse, so when I woke up this morning and DIDN'T feel like I had 50 pounds of mud sitting in my chest, I thought I was getting better. But it crept up on me, and I ended up having a coughing spell so bad that, when I tried to get up and go get water, I nearly fell into the kitchen counter and my knees buckled from dizziness. Richie admonished me and led me back to bed, where I spent the next 3 hours. I'm at Z'otz now, drinking honey-spiked lemon ginger tea and trying to avoid others while I do thesis work (or, you know, procrastinate.)

I finished all of my Ph.D applications, so at least I don't have that to worry about anymore, unless I don't get accepted anywhere. And maybe not even then. I called my dad about some car problems (more on that in a second) and he asked me about the Ph.D stuff. My parents both REALLY want me to go to LSU because they don't want me to leave home, but I keep trying to impress upon them how much a Ph.D program matters for later job prospects. It's a little amusing, in a way, because when I've gotten down about this whole business, particularly the "getting a job afterwards" part, they've both been practically appalled that I would dare question my own ability. My parents believe in me a lot more than I believe in myself, which is sort of annoying in its way, because they're so naive about all of this. To my concerns about a job, my mom said, "You can always be a writer!" I asked, "A writer of WHAT?" "I don't know, like a journalist?" *headdesk* Nevertheless, as much as they can upset me, I also appreciate their unwavering support. Thank god for people in my life that have put up with me while I've continually stressed, complained, rent clothing, etc.

In the end, I applied to 3 English programs and 3 WGS programs. LSU, Stanford, and Vandy for English and OSU, Rutgers, and Indiana for WGS. I'd be happy to get into any of them, especially (obviously), Stanford. I thought I'd end up applying to some cop-out schools, but when it came down to it I decided that I was just going to go for it and apply to places I really want to attend. The thing is, I still have a fair amount of ambivalence when it comes to the Ph.D. I applied, in the end, because I felt like I owed it to myself to take the chance. I feel like I would regret it if I waited or didn't do it at all. If I don't get in, I will probably still find a job I'm more interested in and I'll bum around New Orleans a little longer.

This no longer fits with the rest of this post but since I mentioned it above, my car is quickly falling apart. The radiator is malfunctioning again (after months of dealing with this last year), someone busted the glass in my side view mirror, the passenger side inside door handle came off (making it the second handle-less door in the car, the first being the driver's door), the airbag sensor light keeps flashing at me and a parking light is out. I'm tempted to go drive it to the projects, leave the keys in the ignition, and claim the insurance money.

I suppose that's enough procrastinating for now. Back to the grind and here's hoping I don't blow out my bronchial tubes.

juxtaposition

I had a really really bad day yesterday.
I went to the funeral on about 4 hours of sleep. I spent most of the time beforehand talking to my cousin Joe, the one who recently lost his wife to cancer. The funeral itself was very very hard, made more so by the preacher who spent the entire time trying to convert people to Christianity and making comments like, "I've never had anyone I know die in...this manner but..." I wanted to stand up and shout, "NO ONE GIVES A FUCK ABOUT YOUR LIFE, YOU SMUG FUCK."
One bright spot was hanging out with my 8 year old cousin, who regaled me with tales of how his sister loves cookies, how he loves cookies, how he does a great dog impression, how the Tigers are going to go all the way unless they lose to Arkansas. At one point, he solemnly looked at me and said, "Mandi, you sure did grow a lot since I saw you." I replied, "Well, no. I'm just wearing heels." I took them off and he said, sagely, "I thought so. You're pretty short. I'm almost as tall as you."
On the way back to New Orleans, the front tire on the truck blew and there wasn't a jack in the truck, so my mom and little brother had to come out and Alex changed the tire. Then the spare was flat. So we filled it but it's leaking air.
I finally make it to Richie's and he went to Bayona to pick up his paycheck so we could go out that night for dinner. But his check was postdated, so no one would cash it and I ended up just giving him the cash to pay. Both of us were so frustrated by that point, that we almost skipped dinner and stayed home drinking.

Instead, we ended up having a really fantastic night. We went to Cochon (Richie's birthday present to me) and I had some prosecco while we waited for a table. The food was absolutely incredible--we split the boucherie plate (cured ham, salami, prosciutto, pate, hogshead cheese, crutons, bread and butter pickles, pickled tomatillos with dijon mustard), followed by a amuse bouche of grilled oysters and a bowl of seafood gumbo Richie ordered. For dinner, I got a seared pork belly on a bed of mashed turnips and garlic green beans, while Richie got the cochon with braised cabbage and turnips and topped with cracklins. We split a dessert of a chocolate ice cream "sandwich' filled with caramel ice cream and topped with chocolate strudel and peanut brittle. I seriously almost cried, the food was so good. Hands down the best meal I've ever eaten.
Afterward, we met up with a couple of friends and had a little coffee and a few beers at Avenue Pub.So, a really wonderful way to end an incredibly shitty day.

Unfortunately, I forgot my camera last night, but here are some pics from birthday celebrating:
Ladies at my Fancy Pants Party
lady p-i-m-p
Jason and me...I'm drinking from a "woozie"--a wine glass with a coozie--and he's drinking from a wine glass made from a Mason Jar
Nancy and I posing with Margaret Atwood books. Nancy is so gorgeous.
Richie and me, wherein I look exceptionally drunk
Nano and me, after lunch with the family. I am hungover.

overload

So, I've got bronchitis and the GRE is tomorrow morning and I'm having a party tomorrow night and Marla woke me up at 6:45 trying to puke on my head and she's got worms in her poop and I got a call from my mom this morning telling me that my aunt blew her brains out this morning.

Aunt Pam and Uncle Gene at Pam's son's wedding

why don't you sit right down and make me smile

Lately I feel like my life is this constant cycle of getting really fucking stressed out, having a few brief moments of clarity, then sinking back under. Or, for a more-than-cliched metaphor, I feel like I keep breaking the water and sinking back under.

In this past week, my radiator has gone out twice. I've been reduced to carrying gallons of water and a roll of paper towels in my car. It is chugging along with water and prayer. I'm thinking the radiator will need to be replaced next week, which means getting it to Baton Rouge.

My mom has had the first round of injections in her back for pain management of her arthritis and a slipped disc that is causing some nerve damage.

The family dog has cancer. A surgery was performed last week to remove a tumor but biopsy results have come back and shown that they didn't get all of it, so they have to go deeper. The dog is 2. My parents are devastated.

Um, I gained like 4 or 5 pounds. Not a big deal in the scheme of things but I'm already stressed so, you know.

A very dear friend is having some heart problems, right on the heels of her mother having a health scare. My childhood best friend's father (who was like a second father to me) is having to undergo a heart cath after having had quad bypass 4 years ago.

I have a sinus infection.

I have been having a pretty bad bout of stress-induced insomnia and have been averaging 4-5 hours of sleep a night.

GRE+ school shit. ugh.

But.

None of this scary shit is happening to me. To people I love, yes. But I can be there for them. Fall is coming up and with it: my birthday, Voodoo Fest, Halloween, the holidays, NYE in Oklahoma to see Flaming Lips, Alyson's wedding, the Angola rodeo, cooler (hopefully) weather. I went on a couple of dates with a real sweet dude, someone Alyson described as "one of the nicest people I've met in awhile." I have a fantastic support network. I did some freelance work and it became a bit of a big deal. I saw Ani Fucking Difranco at Target.

so, life ain't all bad. But I'd still take some calmer waters.

all that feeling

After the wake, I went to Barnes and Noble. I wanted to browse the poetry section and see if I could find some new poets. As I was scanning, I noticed Codrescu's It Was Today out of order, in between two Blake collections. I pulled it down to scan through it and the first poem I opened to was an elegy titled "for lynn luria sukenick." The first few lines are:

What if there is no story
only a feeling?
Of course there are many stories
in that feeling
only they didn't happen to me

I stopped and held the book for a bit, feeling almost overwhelmed. Being at the wake of someone you're not particularly close to produces that kind of feeling. I didn't know all of Sandy's stories or even many of them, but there combined was a wealth of memories that created a feeling of love and, with it, a cutting loss. The person those stories happened to is gone. And now, we are left with a feeling.

I grabbed the book and decided to purchase it, on the strength of that poem. As I was walking off, another cover caught my eye and I kept walking but then turned back around to see who the poet was. Laura Mullen, my other poetry teacher. Sometimes I like to think that God is coincidence.

After that, I had an insane urge to write. RIGHT NOW. When I walked downstairs, I saw a sketchpad and some graphite pencils, so I grabbed them because they were the first writing materials I could find. I need to get back in the habit of carrying a pen and notepad. Then I stood looking out the window for a minute and, because my mind was in a morbid place anyway, I took a photo of reflection because I thought it looked ghostly.

I checked out (after having a conversation with the cashier about the color of my blouse--she thought it was coral and I maintained it was a dusty pink and either way, I felt ambitious wearing it because I rarely wear colors other than black/gray/purple) and walked outside in all my sad girl glory: clutching a poetry book and a notepad, in mourning, into the night. And I almost got hit by a kid flying through the parking lot, blaring "Smack My Bitch Up." I laughed.






for lynn luria sukenick
by: Andrei Codrescu, from It Was Today
What if there is no story
only a feeling?
Of course there are many stories
in that feeling
only they didn't happen to me
they either just happened
to someone else
or happened a long time ago
and so recent and ancient
the stories hung in that feeling
like clusters of grapes
refreshing and intelligent
& I had the honor to drink in
their presence on one or two occasions
in the sap-filled and haunted
days of the late nineteen sixties
in the haunted late city of Santa Cruz
in the soon-to-be haunted state
of California just waking up
in those days in the embrace
of Ronald Reagan future
President of Star Wars winner
of the Cold War
& in that sexy intelligence
of Lynn's there was both wisdom & escape
through there was no story
only a feeling
& in those days most feelings came
before there was a story
so we bumped into stories
just to have something to hold
all that feeling
there were many stories
but with Lynn & for Lynn
only a feeling

in peace

My cousin's wife, the one with cancer, died yesterday. Her memorial is here.

As I've written about before, this whole situation was pretty heartbreaking for me. The idea of dying so young and knowing your children will have to grow up without you, watching your wife or mother die, the fact that her mother died of the same thing...it's just terrible. I'm driving to Baton Rouge tomorrow evening after work to attend the wake on Monday night and the funeral on Tuesday morning. I hate funerals. I hate the fact that I have to plan out what I'm going to wear (which feels disrespectful and distasteful in a sense, even though it's necessary). I hate the logistics of it. Something about making death neat and tidy and well-dressed and organized just strikes me as totally fucked. We come in screaming and bloody and we leave nicely dressed in a proper box.

But. I hope it serves well as a memorial to her life and grieving of her death; that it puts her family at peace. I hope her sons and her husband don't remember the face in the coffin, but the face of their beautiful and vibrant mother. I hope that her death doesn't destroy them, but inspires them to live their life in a wonderful way.

hat's a keeper

Convos with Moum:
Me: So I bought this gorgeous white, silk, beaded, tiered, BCBG skirt...for $9.
Moum: That sounds beautiful! Where will you wear it?
Me: There's a Running of the Bulls thing this weekend and you're supposed to wear white and red, so I think I'll wear it with a black tank top and a red scarf in my hair.
Moum: That sounds really pretty. Do you know how to do a turban knot?
Me: Yeah but actually, funny you should say that, because I just bought a turban today!
Moum: From where?! I was looking at them on Anthropologie and they were almost $200!
Me: No, this was $25.
Moum: Well good. I might buy a couple.
Me: Only we would be shopping for turbans on the same day.
Moum: Mother-daughter turban bonding.

<3

faith, love and finality

I mentioned, in this post, that my cousin's wife has cancer that has spread to her spinal cord. I've felt pretty down this last week, and I think a big part of it is this whole situation. I can't stop thinking about it. On Sunday night, I was driving back to New Orleans, doing 90 down I-10 and blasting Third Eye Blind (don't judge me; their self-titled album is amazing), just sobbing because the whole situation is just so. fucking. sad.

On one hand, I feel almost like a hypocrite because I'm not exactly close to my cousin or his wife. We see each other on holidays, we kind of keep in touch via Facebook, but it's pretty telling that I'm only hearing this information third-hand. I remember when Candace died and all these people showed up at the funeral, like they were close to her. That still rubs me the wrong way, though I understand better now how far grief can extend, how it shocks people and how they need some sort of closure from it, even when it's not directly a part of their lives. But I still feel kind of guilty about being all, "oh I'm so distraught."

On the other hand, I am pretty distraught. Because it's is an incredibly sad story. Apparently S, my cousin's wife, lost her own mother to this exact cancer when her mom was in her early 40's. So when S found out she had it, she had a radical mastectomy to prevent the same thing from happening to her kids. But the cancer has spread to her spinal fluid and now she's having to explain to her kids, who are young teenagers, that she's dying. I can't even begin to imagine the grief. The anger? The complete and utter sorrow. I keep thinking, "What if it was Alex and me? Having to hear it from our mom?" We're older than those kids are and still, the thought alone drives me to tears.

The one bit of comfort I find here, and I can thank William James for this, is that they have something to believe in. I found myself wanting to pray or SOMETHING, wanting to do some small thing that ultimately probably wouldn't matter but would make me feel better and I thought back to William James and his idea that it doesn't matter if God exists or not if people's belief in a higher power makes them happy. So I prayed/hoped/thought to myself that I was so glad, so thankful that they have something to believe in, something that I hope makes this horrible situation just a bit more bearable. That it helps S to believe that she has an afterlife to look forward to and it helps her kids to think that she is in heaven.

all lit up

Earlier I decided that, in spite of feeling miserable, I was going to walk to Little Tokyo to get some soup. I'm pretty sure I have strep throat. All these people around me have it (2 coworkers, a professor, my mom) and, judging from my polka-dotted uvula and low-grade fever, I probably do too. I Googled it at the MLK/S. Claiborne stoplight while nervously hoping one of the cops on either side of the intersection didn't check out my been-expired-for-a-year inspection sticker.

When I stepped outside, I thought it might be raining. I stuck my arms out, felt drizzles, then turned around to go back inside. "Getting the car keys?" my neighbor asked. I think I've conditioned them to realize headphones equal walking. "No, the umbrella." I replied. They gave me a funny look but didn't say anything.

This marks my second walk in the rain this week, the first one being Monday. I left Z'otz and made it half a block before the deluge began. I ran back and the barista, the cute one who thinks I sound like I'm from another country, invited me to wait it out and gave me some water. Things cleared up and I gave it another 15, which was a mistake, because this time I made it 2 blocks before it started pouring again. But, my walk today was nicer. Most of it was a drizzle, so I didn't even use the umbrella. And yeah, maybe it's stupid to take walks in the heat when you're ill, but it felt refreshing, healing, to walk fast and breathe in short bursts and sweat a little. It's not necessarily about "getting some fresh air," but just getting some air at all. One interesting thing about New Orleans is the litany of smells. Everyone knows the Quarter smell, that smell of old piss and trash and beer and food. Sometimes, I get a whiff of the CBD, like today, when I had to walk across the Saratoga parking garage to get checks and this sickly sweet smell of garbage and heat (yes, heat has a scent) wafted by. The smell tonight seemed familiar too, very familiar, and I kept trying to pick it out. I finally realized it smelled like old timber, making me think of my dad, the carpenter. Specifically, I thought about the time that he and his crew were gutting and redoing the old Heidelberg Hotel back in 2005 and he let me come in and take pictures of the inside (some of those can be seen here).

I've thought about my dad a lot lately, specifically relating to my desire to learn to sew again and to build stuff. He's always been a man who worked with his hands, who created and worked, many times thanklessly, always with a fierce pride and determination to never half ass it. I have a lot of conflicted feelings about my dad, but he's definitely imbued me with that same determination...a kind of drive that comes off casually but burns deeply, making me infuriatingly stubborn about doing something with my life. I've always attributed my stubbornness to my mom, but he played a big part in that side of my personality.

So, anyhow, the skies open up right when I'm about to cross Willow, so I skip the last few steps and I guess my little burst of energy convinced me that I could eat more than the soup I'd come there for, because I ended up ordering soup, seaweed salad and 2 sushi rolls. While I waited on my take out order, I texted myself to remind me to blog. I wrote, "Walk in rain, umbrella, old wood smell, why am I writing blogs instead of poems?" except "blogs" autocorrected to "blobs," which seems like just the kind of pretentious observation about life that this blog/blob is all about. ;)

A girl at Little Tokyo complimented me on my red hair scarf, which made me laugh because I'd worn it to class tonight and gotten some commentary on it there too. I almost skipped class tonight because I felt like shit, but it was our last class and I'd skipped the one on Tuesday, so I felt compelled to show up. When I walked in, 10 minutes late, Horowitz stopped talking and said, "How are you?" I said, "I'm okay?" and he said, "You look grumpy." I said, "I don't feel well." Another guy said, "You didn't ask me how I was when I walked in!" and Horowitz said, "But she looks like she's in a bad mood!" and other guy said, "Oh sure, it's all an attempt to woo her." A couple of people snickered and I blushed, because I already think that people in the class think Prof and I are fucking, because he mentioned me coming by his house to drop off a book and letting me borrow movies and stuff and he always wants me to talk in class. I assure you, dear readers, I have had no improper relations with my professor, not even a chaste hug.

So I sat down and Horowitz said, "You know, I think it the hat, the...bandanna?" I touched it and said, "My bandanna?" and he said "Yeah, you know, Rhoda always wore them, they'd put her in them when she was mad and she was kind of the contrast to Mary, because she was always happy." And then I was delighted, because, guys, I spent a lot of time watching Nick at Nite as a kid. I even had a Nick at Nite board game. I own the complete Lucille Ball collection on video. I remember specific episodes of Taxi. And Rhoda was, by far, my favorite character on The Mary Tyler Moore Show.

I got home with my large food bounty (after another long walk in the rain. I finally abandoned the umbrella and just walked in the rain because it had died down some and it was easier to get wet than try to hold a bag of food, an umbrella and a purse) and realized, halfway through eating the seaweed salad, that I wasn't hungry, but I hated to waste all that food, so I kept trying to eat the sushi. I'd chew it and quickly swallow while trying not to think about it (insert euphemism of choice here), then I tried peeling off the rice and finally I threw the rest away. What I really really wanted was a Sprite, but my walk exhausted me to the point where going anywhere was no longer an option. I posted a whiny FB status that said, "I really want someone to bring me a Sprite :(" Within a minute, my friend Blake texted and said he'd bring me one. I texted back and told him I was sick, that he didn't have to, that I was whining but I didn't want to get him sick and he wrote back, "I'm immune. What's your address?"

I felt kind of like an ass at this point because a) I felt too shitty to entertain anyone (the idea that was going to have to put on pants was enough to make me want to pass out) but I felt like it would only be polite to invite him in and b) I really wanted a fountain Sprite, but one does not make special requests of one's friends when they are going out of their way to fulfill your bitchery.

About 20 minutes later, I hear a knock and I open the door to find Blake holding not just a (delicious, wonderful, life-giving) fountain Sprite, but a Powerade, a bottle of cranberry juice and a Hubig pie. I was so touched, I almost started crying. I was also kind of astonished that someone would be that nice to me. He gave all of that stuff to me and then said, "I'm not going to stay because I have beans on the stove and I know you probably feel like shit, so gimme a hug and I'll check on you tomorrow."

It's been an enlightening day.

one step forward, two steps back, in the hole, broken leg.

me: I am tired.
and I feel stagnant
Steve: in general or today?
me: sometimes I want to do so much that I get paralyzed by it and then I do nothing at all
both
I dunno. I think part of it is some residual sadness from things happening around me
one of our dr's wives had to get an abortion this week because they found out the baby had no cerebellum and wouldn't survive outside the womb
then I found out my cousin's wife has cancer that's spread to her spinal fluid and she has 2 kids and he's trying really hard to deal with it and they're treating it but, you know, you always think the worst
and then I keep...fantasizing (for lack of a better term) about attending her funeral and just the idea of it makes me feel guilty
I don't know. its not just that. it's just the idea that we will never be able to achieve everything we want to in life, that we will always have to settle for less and hope that what we settle for is fulfilling enough, that we make the "right" choices
I'm normally okay enough about this stuff, optimistic enough that I can and will be happy, but sometimes it gets to me.
Steve: It's hard to face that you have to settle and it's hard to ignore the could-have-beens
me: yeah it is.
and, in thinking about all this, I start thinking about loose ends, etc.
like, there was this guy (I think I told you about him?)
Steve: the abusive guy?
me: and I feel...fucked up about the way things went with him. to the point where I still think about it, still think about contacting him even though he cut off contact with me and probably has absolutely no desire to hear from me
no no, this is a different guy
*stuff here*
me: and, I don't know. it kind of broke my heart, surprisingly so, because I really LIKED that guy.
and I hate the abruptness of shit like that because I feel like contacting him isn't going to do ANY good, will probably just make it worse...but I still want to
Steve: I'd recommend against it at this point in time
me:yeah. I'm not going to. I know it's stupid. But it just saddens me.
because there are other situations like that. you were a situation like that, for me, for awhile and that saddened me too
but I guess it was different because I was angry at you and I'm not angry at him
(not that I am anymore )
I guess I tend to tie those situations in with the bigger picture of trying to be happy and it's hard for me to be happy when I feel like I've hurt someone.
it just...frustrates me about myself. that I can't let shit go, that I seemingly self-sabotage myself when things are happy and good
I feel like things can never be good enough
and sometimes that's a motivator, you know? to make things better. other times, it just makes me want to crawl in a hole.
you were laughing at me and calling me zippy, but there is something inside me that insists I be productive, that I not run in place. because the biggest depressor for me is feeling stagnant. it is absolutely my worse trigger.
sorry
I obviously needed to spill 
Steve: np
me:thanks
Steve: act like bp

Times like this, I like to listen to Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald's "Tenderly" and try to remember to be kind to myself.

run like hell

On Saturday night, I ran into my abusive ex.

Blair and I were eating at Louie's around 2:30am. We'd just finished up and I was explaining to him how I knew the girl who had just said hello to me, the one who was now sitting by us at the bar. As I was talking, the door behind us opened and he (let's call him A for Abuser) walked in. And sat next to me. And started talking across me to the girl I knew.

I ddin't really register what he was saying. My words started to run together as I tried to explain what was happening to Blair. I think I said something along the lines of, "and we used to go to church together *glance up* oh my god oh my god that guy that just walked in is my abusive, horrible ex, oh god he is sitting next to me." Blair, for his part, handled things wonderfully. He didn't try to question me or soothe me. Instead, he said, "go. go to the car right now. I'll take care of the check." I grabbed my things and walked out as quickly as possible, trying not to make a scene. As soon as I was out in the parking lot, I ran to the car and hid behind it. And shook.

Honestly, I was surprised at my reaction. The thing is, I've seen him since the breakup. I even talked to him casually for awhile after it happened. It took therapy to realize how much he'd fucked me up. It took being in an equal and respectful partnership with Ravi to realize how horrible that relationship had been. It took reading A's blog to realize what an awful and sick person he was. We've communicated twice in about 3 years, one time being this (about 2 years ago):

I was reading though my friends list today and came across your post titled, "Hmmm, so THAT'S how it's done! (according to the experts)." After I read it, all I felt was disgust. I thought about commenting but I figured its probably not worth doing. I just don't understand how its "humor," to quote your tag on the post, to compare torture to sex.

But the thing is, I realize I feel disgust or anger a lot when I read your posts. Part of it comes from an inherent disagreement with a lot of your content, part of it stems from my own feelings about you in general, specifically knowing what I knew of you. People change, of course, but those feelings are deeply imprinted and many of the things you write on your journal only serve to reinforce them. That's not to say that I think you are an inherently "bad" person (ed. note: this has since changed and I think it wasn't even something I believed at the time), just that I have many fundamental disagreements with your stances and how you have chosen to conduct yourself in the past.

That said, you are who you are and, of course, many people like you just the way you are. I don't feel that publicly tearing you down is beneficial for either one of us, even though I think some of the things you write, such as the aforementioned post, are worthy of it. Also, more than that, I'm just tired of feeling disgusted and angry. I also feel that someone that I have those kinds of feelings towards probably isn't someone I want reading the more personal details of my friends-only entries, which are becoming increasingly more common. I just don't think we're really "friends" anymore, despite our very occasional conversations. I don't feel like we really know each other anymore.

So, I think the best option is to remove you from my friends' list. I wish you no ill will and hope that you continue to enjoy your life, as I am enjoying mine. Feel free to continue reading my public entries if you wish, though I certainly wouldn't blame you if you removed me from your friends' list as well.

I'm struck now by how polite I tried to be to him. Like years of being told I didn't matter, that I was "neurotic," that I didn't count, years of being thrown against walls, of being slapped, pushed down stairs, humiliated, screamed at...years of that and I still tried to be polite to him. After awhile, as my relationship with Ravi continued to grow, as I slowly built my psyche and self-esteem back up and learned to push parasitic and cruel people out of my life, my disgust and anger at him grew. It cemeted itself into this firm little area of my brain that I try not to access too much because the rage there is too much to deal with at times. What I didn't realize was how much fear and anxiety I still held there. That's what came out Saturday night, not a fear of him physically hurting me but a fear of being spoken to, of having to confront someone who did that much damage to me. A brief and sharp reliving of all that pain. It was like I had tunnel vision when he entered...I sort of remember seeing Blair's face, but the periphreal went black and things started to spin. All I could think of was "run."

I shook, hiding behind the car with my knees pulled to my chest, until Blair came out and held me, told me I was safe and that A couldn't hurt me. Even then, I was scanning the parking lot, terrified he would walk out, that he would speak to me and cut me down with some pithy, shitty remark. And I hated myself for letting him still control me that way, for having the ability to drive me out of a public place for fear that he would hurt me again.

Later that day, my sweet younger cousin called me about a very brief but shitty fling she had with some dude. The dude came over and my grandma chased him off, yelling at him to "get! get out!" J and I laughed about it but I told her, "That guy is going to get sober tomorrow and he's going to call you. Don't answer. Don't listen to his bullshit. You deserve better than that." It's something I need to keep reminding myself of. Even when horrible people come around, I too have people who love me, who will defend me and chase those people off. Who will help me remember that I don't have to listen to that bullshit.

wreck yo'self

I've been meaning to write about this whole incident where I got hit by a car, but life got in the way. So this is a little delayed, but I wanted to get it down for posterity.

On the 31st, I was studying at Z'otz. I left around 11:30 and began biking home down Carrollton. I was in the bike lane, approaching Spruce St., when I registered the car.

I don't quite remember exactly how this happened but I remember seeing the car in my periphery, realizing they were turning right. Braking as hard as I could and thinking "I am going to get hit" while simultaneously thinking "it's okay, it's okay." I remember the back end of the car slamming into my front tire and I vaguely remember thinking I would just fall over, even as I went soaring over the handlebars.

My face and shoulder hit the street first and there was this feeling of sick dizziness as I realized I was conscious but that something was very wrong. I looked up and saw the car driving off. Then I spat out a chunk of my front tooth. Two guys that had seen the whole thing ran over and one of them picked me up off the ground. He kept asking me if I was okay while running around frantically...propping my bike up on its kickstand, retrieving my shoe that had flown off in the road and putting it back on my foot, yelling about how those people drove off and they must have been drunk. His friend stood by quietly and asked if he should call 911.

At this point, my brain kicked into what I refer to as "crisis reason mode," wherein I start thinking in this very detached, "logical" way. I realized I probably wasn't concussed and nothing felt broken (except my tooth). I told them not to call the police because it wasn't going to do any good without a license plate number. I kept repeating, "My tooth. My tooth broke. It's really fucked up." The frantic guy made me show him and then assured me I looked "beautiful" and "gorgeous." They told me their names and I nodded and said I was just going to walk home, that it was only 2 blocks. I never cried, which I remember thinking was strange. I felt like the whole thing had happened to someone else. I called my mom a few times but no one answered. Then Blair called and I told him what had happened. He wanted to drive out to New Orleans but I told him I was fine. I talked to Erin online a bit, then started to undress.

I'd almost worn a sundress that day but the air had chilled a bit, so I wore jeans and a long sleeve shirt instead. Even with that, I had skinned my knee, shoulder and foot pretty badly, as well as road rash on my forearms. My face had begun to swell up. While I looked at all this, I began shaking and slowly realized I was probably in shock. Blair called back around this time and I calmly told him I thought I was in shock. At that point, he insisted on coming to New Orleans and I stopped arguing with him, because I was starting to feel really fucked up.

I took a shower and called the police, finally, only to be told what I already knew: that nothing could be done, that the cameras on Carrollton were disabled, that without a license plate number there was no hope. The cop was nice about it. Blair showed up and and hugged me before taking me to Walgreens to get soup and Orajel and some sort of protective cap to cover the exposed nerve in my front tooth. As we walked in, I started laughing and turned to him. "You know, people are going to think you beat the shit out of me." I was right; the cashier looked so angry when Blair was checking out that he could only glare at his register between sneaking horrified glances at me.

Back at home, I mustered a few sips of broth before giving up because of my tooth. Blair and stood in my bathroom while he tried to make the gum to cover my tooth malleable enough to apply. We thought we got it at some point, but when I put it on, it just fell off. Our laughing at how ridiculous it looked probably didn't help. I gave up, took some Ibprofun and squirted a ton of Orajel in my mouth before finally going to bed around 4am.

We got up around 8:30 so I could start trying to find a dentist to fix my tooth. I called my mom and told her what happened. Telling your mother "I got hit by a car" is a pretty difficult thing to do, especially when your mom is as emotional as mine is. I finally convinced her I was okay, no I wasn't wearing a helmet, stop YELLING, I KNOW. Once she calmed down, she called her endodontist and  got me an appointment that morning for a root canal and a build up to cover the tooth. The next day, she bought me a helmet. She would have gotten me a full body flashing protective suit if she could have.

Overall, damages were a broken front tooth, facial abrasions, skinned knee, shoulder, foot, and arms, bruised cheekbone, ribs and kneecap (which is still bothering me :/). I'm very lucky, because it could have easily been a head injury. I'm pretty grateful for the kindness of those dudes who helped me, for all the concerned messages, texts and calls I got, for Blair being amazing enough to take off of work to come play nursemaid to my stubborn self and, mostly, that I'm still alive and okay.

About an hour post-accident. Pre-swelling and before the abrasions really started to show up.

Friday, after temp. tooth placement and swelling setting in. Kind of hard to tell here but the abrasions looked quite a bit nastier in person (though have since healed completely!) and the act of "smiling" here and trying to open my left eye all the way were pretty godawful. This was in my mom's car, on the way to get a helmet :)

monstermash

Marla really wants to lay on the keyboard. I have moved her 6 times.

texts from tonight:
Me: A nice young man just asked me out on a date in this here cawfee shop. I turned him down, but still cute.
Alyson: Whoa :)
Me: Guess the strung out student look is sexy to some! (not kidding here. I was curled up in a chair, wearing an overly large cardigan, scrawling notes and randomly muttering to myself.)
Alyson: mmm heroin geek chic. Mandi, Queen of the Coffee Scene :)
Me: hahaha "her glassy red eyes shone like rubies; the grinding of her teeth, the sweetest symphony!"
Alyson: I love you :)
Me: I love you too :)

Me (to my mom): Listening to B.B. King while studying and thought of you. Hope everything is ok. I'll try and call you tomorrow after class. Love you.

I'm so worried about my mom. She's so so close to totally losing her shit and I don't know what to do other than try and be in touch as often as I can, but sometimes, it's just too much for me to hear everyday. After I sent her that text, I started wondering what I would do if she did harm herself. It's becoming more and more of a tangible thought for me and the reality of it is terrifying. I had to stop thinking about it because I was choking up in the coffeeshop. I think the worst thing I can imagine happening to me, short of dying, is my mom dying. Even the thought of dying myself is tempered by the sadness it would cause her. I remember when Candace died and she told me, "I'd never be able to go on if something happened to you. I would just stop functioning. I would die too." In some ways, it's my motivation to be good to myself, not to harm myself. In other ways, it's repressive; I'm loathe to show depression around her. But I'm torn between my worry for her and my complete lack of desire to be around my family situation because it's so painful.

This happened today:
Justice Department to Stop Defending Federal Law on Gay Marriage

President Obama, in a major legal policy shift, has directed the Justice Department to stop defending the Defense of Marriage Act - the 1996 law that bars federal recognition of same-sex marriages - against lawsuits challenging it as unconstitutional.

Attorney General Eric H. Holder Jr. on Wednesday sent a letter to Congress to inform them that the Justice Department will now take the position in court that the Defense of Marriage Act should be struck down as a violation of gay couples' rights to equal protection under the law.

"The President and I have concluded that classifications based on sexual orientation warrant heightened scrutiny and that, as applied to same-sex couples legally married under state law" a crucial provision of the Defense of Marriage Act is unconstitutional, Mr. Holder wrote.
-NY Times

Currently reading J.L. Austin's How to Do Things With Words in prep for indie study + research paper + thesis. Excerpt:
Yet I will content myself here with pointing out that one of the things that has been happening lately in philosophy is that close attention has been given even to "statements" which, though not false exactly nor yet "contradictory," are yet outrageous. For instance, statements which refer to something which does not exist as, for example, "The present King of France is bald." There might be a temptation to assimilate this to purporting to bequeath something which you do not own. Is there not a presupposition of existence in each? Is not a statement which refers to something which does not exist not so much false as void? And the more we consider a statement not as a sentence (or proposition) but as an act of speech (out of which the others are logical constructions) the more we are studying the whole thing as an act.

So, I tend to walk around wearing headphones a lot. I like having a soundtrack of sorts, plus when I'm reading, music helps me concentrate. As I was walking to my car earlier, I was listening to "Beginning to See the Light" and drumming with my hands and, apparently, singing aloud, judging from the surprised looks of 2 passerby. I just smiled at them and continued on my way, which I hope was a good mask for my embarrassment.
Well I'm beginning to see the light.
Well I'm beginning to see the light.
Some people work very hard
But still they never get it right
Well I'm beginning to see the light.
There are problems in these times
But none of them are mine
Baby, I'm beginning to see the light.
Here we go again,
I thought that you were my friend.
Here we go again,
I thought that you were my friend.
How does it feel to be loved?
How does it feel to be loved?

tl;dr

My brain is slowly peeking out of its writer's block fog...the other night, in the shower, I started thinking about a new non-fic piece. It might actually work better as fiction, but I'm an awful fiction writer, so I'm nervous about taking it there. We'll see. Reminder to self: write notes.

Things are slowly improving with my parents. My dad took my mom out to dinner the other night and got her a card for Valentine's day, along with some roses. I want to say that it's not enough, but I hope that little things lead to big improvements here. I hate having so much resentment toward my dad...but I hate that he insists on drinking until my mom has a nervous breakdown too. I've still been volleying the idea of writing about that whole situation on here, but there are still some things I need to work through. Too much comes flooding out when you start repeating the worst moments of your childhood.

I had a fun conversation with B.W. the other night about Bob Seger, Lil' Wayne and Irish wakes that somehow led to me downloading Van Morrison's "Wild Nights" and Leroux's "New Orleans Ladies," both of which I've been listening to almost non-stop. I wonder when my neighbors will tire of hearing "allllll the waaa---ayyy/from bourbon street/to ES-pla-naaade/they sashay by/they sassshay byyyyyyy."

Yesterday, compelled by who knows what reason, I decided I absolutely needed A New Dress. I ended up buying a cute little black dress with white embroidery (and SLEEVES!), prompting Erin to comment, "you need another black dress with white embroidery like a hole in the head." (this will bring the count to 4 if you count the black dress with an embroidery-style print.) I also got this insane 70's esque red printed maxi dress. Generally, I hear short girls shouldn't wear maxi dresses but I'm a sucker for anything that makes me feel like I could be sipping drinks on a lanai (also the sole reason I own a red muumuu).

Erin and I also had the following conversation:
me: I did think of you though
I was like "I'm buying a red dress! erin would be proud!"
hahaha
is it weird that I thought to myself, of the black dress, "I can wear this to the doctor's office tomorrow!"
Erin: yes
that's kind of weird :P
me: mostly because we're having warm weather out and I like wearing dresses to the gyno
but planning your gyno visit outfit is a little strange
Erin: yes
just a little

Speaking of that particular visit, I think I'm being more neurotic than usual in planning for it. I made a list of questions, mostly about potentially getting the Garadasil vaccine and about the PCOS. I also made a list of my current and former medications, with dosages and frequency, AND I made notes of the start and end dates of my last period and of the last time I had sex. I am PREPARED. I just hate that feeling of walking out of a doctor's office and remembering some big thing that you wanted to talk to them about. And I hate being disorganized and potentially giving incorrect information (as in the case of the dates). I've also worked in the medical field long enough to know how much nicer it is for the nurses when a patient has all this together. In that vein, I also had my old medical records faxed over. Which, public service announcement, you should always do. ESPECIALLY in the case of going from specialist to specialist. I know people think it's not important, but a physician is much better equipped to treat you when they have medical notes of your former treatment in front of them. DO IT.

I also scheduled a haircut, a ride from the mechanic (and lunch!) and a trip to the DMV to finally get a New Orleans license. In Baton Rouge. Getting shit done. LIKE AN ADULT.

Lastly, I got some wonderful information today. Back in July, I got in a wreck (which, let me just say, if you are in the middle of ending your 3 year relationship, quitting your job, moving out of your apartment, and incredibly worried about money, don't get in a wreck. Never in my life have I wanted so much to just exit my vehicle and step into oncoming traffic.). Basically things went down as follows: I was stopped in a driving lane. To my left was a median that turned into a left turn lane (which I needed to be in and which was empty). I merged over and drove forward, not realizing that the car in front of the car I was behind was turning left (because she was not in the turn lane). She turned into my car, probably going about 10 mph, but enough to damage both cars. We pulled into a parking lot, her passenger left the scene and went to work. I got out and asked if everyone was okay (they were) and then I called the police. I was ticketed for "improper lane usage." The other driver was not ticketed, which was bullshit.

After this, we went back and forth with the insurance companies. State Farm investigated for a month (which involved me talking to 3 adjustors and an investigator) and finally decidd there was mutual fault. When this happened, the other driver decided to tell her ins. that she and her passenger had been injured. So there were more interviews (I mean, honestly? 3 months later, with no doctor notes, no ambulance at the scene and no passenger even listed on the police report because she was gone?) and State Farm shot that down. Meanwhile, I went to court for the ticket, intending to take a defensive driving course to get it removed, only to find out that the officer had never turned the ticket in. Then her ins. decided to sue State Farm for the costs of her vehicle. MORE interviewing. Today, I got a call from State Farm telling me that an independent adjustor declared mutual fault. My deductible, which was renewed in the midst of all this, will go down and State Farm is going to refund me $250 that I wouldn't have paid if this had been resolved before my renewal. My response, after hanging up, was EAT A BAG OF DICKS, YOU LYING BITCH. An. Entire. Bag.

I had my job eval today and they told me what a good job I'm doing. It kind of made me care about that job a little. Which was nice; sometimes I feel useless there because there's no challenge. But it pays the bills for my lovely little abode and my dresses and whiskey habits and the food remnants left on those plates that I need to go wash before I leave.

ctrl + f

Me: I'm on the phone with my mom trying to explain to her that she doesn't need to install the internet
Erin: oh god
ahahah
Me:and the person next to me is dying
because I'm in a coffeeshop
Erin: ahahha
that's awesome
Me: she's like "but how do I get to my homepage?!"
and I said "you go to the internet. that's google. you can't install google."
"but how do I get the internet?"
Erin:YOU CAN'T INSTALL GOOGLE
oh god
Me: "it's already there. click internet explorer"
hahahahahahaha
and this guy next to me is shaking
poor guy
I'd be laughing too if I heard this

reminder.

There's a fair amount of Bad Stuff going on in my life right now. In an effort to keep that stuff on the back burner of my mind, here are my favorite things that have happened in the last few days:
-Lunch/margaritas with my mom
-Drinking, massages and pillow forts with Christie and (later) Travis
-Rocko's Modern Life at 4am
-Losing enough weight to legitimately have gone down a pant size (and buying jeans that actually fit!)
-Susan's birthday party and a bunch of people yelling "YEE HAW!" at a steakhouse
-Getting actual work accomplished on my prospectus.working bibliography for my independent study research paper, which I'm using as a research opportunity for my thesis. Additionally, firming up what I'm planning to do my thesis on.
-Cold weather (I like it, even though S. LA thinks it calls for a shutdown of all systems)
-Alone time at Highland Coffees

I keep debating the merits of writing in detail what the aforementioned Bad Stuff is. Most who read this already know, but I might elaborate for my own catharsis. In the meantime, trying to focus on the good.

minutia

A few other random things.

In the midst of the Althusser, I suddenly vividly remembered the first time I read this essay. It was in the coffeeshop in the LSU bookstore. I was drinking vanilla tea and scarfing a danish before class, trying to read quickly because I hadn't done the homework and Mitchie was a hardass. But I couldn't go too fast because I was fascinated by the essay, amazed with how it framed our entire way of being. Deconstruction was my introduction into my fascination with literary criticism and how it relates to our daily lives but Althusser and Foucault really cemented my desire to study it. Alyson tells me how happy I look when I leave my independent study and it's because I'm doing something that constantly challenges, amazes and fascinates me.

Nancy and I were eating lunch together yesterday and I heard someone making a odd gagging noise.
Me: Do you ever just suddenly imagine wild scenarios playing out?
N: Uh...
Me: Like, I just heard what sounded like gagging and I thought, "what would this whole cafeteria do if someone just started spewing all over the floor?"
N: Probably vomit ourselves.
Me: Gross but true.
N: Do you know why people do that? It's because when people are in groups and someone starts vomiting, our bodies immediately react to the possibility of poison being in our bodies, because groups typically used to eat the same thing.
Me: One time, I was on a school bus and I threw up scrambled eggs and we hit an incline and it slid to the back of the bus and another kid threw up as well. Everyone had to lift their feet to avoid it. Come to think of it, I had a real problem with public vomiting as a kid. I can think of at least 4 times in elementary school that I puked on myself.
N: *horrified* I'm glad you grew out of that.
Me: No, I just became a bulimic and learned to direct it!
*laughter*

My parents are probably divorcing soon. My dad's alcoholism seems to have gotten the best of him again. My mom is close to a nervous breakdown and every time we talk, I don't know what to say, I don't know how to help. I try to tell her about addiction, how my dad and I have the same personality when it comes to these things (something I loathe in times like these), how he's not trying to torture her, he's just so caught up in his own ideas of escape and control that he can't see beyond that. It doesn't help either of us forgive him. There's so much to unpack there...I alternate between feeling empty and feeling so full with my own emotions that I could gag.

Wise 'Wiss words: "It wasn't bullshit, you took a shot. Don't ever regret that."