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Friday, October 3rd, 2003
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1:53 am
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I have decided that I want someone to hold me and look me in the eye and say, "shae, yes you are a fuck-up, but that's okay." and then I want this person to sit there and humour me as I explain, in great detail, everything I want to do right now. No cutting me off saying, "I don't want to hear this," or "I can't deal with this," or "I can't talk about this," or "promise me you won't do anything" and no interrupting except to say, "hey, that's a good idea" or "no, this way is quicker," or "maybe you should try this."
and I mean, yeah I could make my parents happy and find some crazy doctor around here and force her or him to listen to me but I want someone who knows me. There's comfort in spilling your guts to someone who you worry what s/he will think of you. It's like beating your head against a wall. Because you know s/he doesn't understand and s/he doesn't really agree with what you're saying at all, but s/he knows you need this. It's like a slow painful death for both people involved. I think that's what I want: to hurt someone emotionally and mentally. Not fair of me at all and I know this and I would never purposely do it but god I want to. Do you ever feel like that? You just want to torture the fuck out of someone? These are negative thoughts, I know, because they always ask you, the crazy doctors, "have you ever thought about hurting another person?" and I think they mean physically and no I don't want to punch anyone or stab anyone or shoot anyone but I do just want to cause someone pain and anguish.
and I know I could do that right now. Call up my parents and they'd be up all night worrying, calling me in the morning to hear my voice. I could do it. But I'm not going to because I know it's a losing battle. I think it would make me feel better, but I know it wouldn't.
I'm sticking my big toe in the water. It's cold, I can feel the chilling sensation. I want to be wet, I want to be underneath the clear glassy surface. I want to dive in, to forget about being cautious, to actually do something I want to do for once. Instead I stand here constantly dunking my toe, telling myself, soon soon soon. It's all a gateway. It all adds up, one toe first and then maybe a second. One day I'll be wet. Maybe one day I won't even realise that I'm up to my neck and I've forgotten how to swim. And maybe there will be an undertow.
He says if I begged, he wouldn't do it. If I asked nonchalantly, like, "ho, hum, maybe it would be cool to try," then he would. But what's the saying? Do. There is no try?
I'm seven years too young. Do I even have the arrogance to say I am on that level? No. But I like to think about things like that, to pretend there are connections.
((I've been awake for twenty-eight hours and I am not tired.))
Isn't it so much fun to build up dramas, completely fictitious, in your head? You read something and you think, well, I could do that, but do it my way. More tragic.
As of late, I'm really digging William S. Burroughs. He was really smart, you know? Really smart. I mean, he repeats himself a lot, but so what? He's what dreams are made of, I'm thinking. And that voice! Oh god it's enough to drive you crazy! And not in a good way, which makes it a good way.
There was that music video of Melissa Etheridge's, "Come to My Window" I think. It was black and white and...I forget where I was going with this. I think I liked the bed in it. No! Juliette Lewis was in it and she scrawled over everything with a black crayon. That's what I want to do.
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| Thursday, October 2nd, 2003
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12:09 pm
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I am so sick and tired of elitist people who get so righteous about things. Did William Burroughs write his books as a way to rub his upper-middle class white male privilege in our faces or did he write his books because he wanted to warn us against the use of hard drugs? WHO CARES? He wrote. He obviously enjoyed writing. Why does it have to mean anything? Why does there have to be some deeper level? What happened to words as beauty art as beauty? Why can't you just see the vivid imagery and the flow of the words? Why does it have to be about privilege and purpose? God, that's so pretentious. Because I don't think writers think about ANY of that shit when they write. We write because we want to, because we have to. And especially when it's FICTION. FICTION DOESN'T NEED A MESSAGE. Politics can be boring, okay? There's more to life than politics or finding messages in every little thing and get upset over them. What happened to "just because"? Why is that so wrong?
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(5 comments | comment on this)
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7:33 am
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I'm such a junkie. livejournal is my junk. I can't stay away.
last night I bought caffeine pills at Kroger and I don't know if it's simply a mental thing, but geez, these things are wonderful. Up all night and not close to being tired. I'm never going to sleep again!
My parents are coming in eight days. They keep saying, you're only excited because you get your car. I don't want to tell them that I'm scared of the car, and that I really, truly miss my guitar most of all. Well, I miss my cat most of all, but she's not being brought down. I can't wait to have my guitar, my beautiful belulah blue, in my hands, my attempting to play her, clumsily.
and my women's studies paper that had to be 4-5 pages is eight.
eight seems to be the magic number of the day. or something.
if you could wish for eight things, what would they be?
*gum that never loses its flavour * long hair * a house in Oklahoma * to be financially secure ((not rich, just secure)) * a kitten that would never get big * to get a novel written THIS YEAR * to be able to pause time * to be able to travel to anywhere in the blink of an eye*
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(3 comments | comment on this)
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| Tuesday, September 30th, 2003
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8:20 pm
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my problem is that I am too open about things. I don't want to be that girl. I don't want to become that girl. Somethings are meant to be kept secret. I don't know when to shut my mouth.
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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4:41 pm
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my dad doesn't get it. I call home, wanting to talk to my mom, practically in tears and she's napping. so I talk to my dad instead and I tell him what's up. My creative writing professor kept me after class to tell me that I have extreme talent and that my story was fucking fantastic - yes he dropped an f-bomb - and that the people in my class don't even get it and he doesn't really touch my stuff because he can't touch my stuff, that I am better than a lot of the graduate students. He asked me how long it took me to write my story, I told him a couple of hours. He asked me when I wrote it. I lied and told him a few days before it was due - I had really written it the night/morning of the day it was due. He said, so you haven't been working on that for a while? I said, no, I just wrote it. He said that's amazing. He said with my first story, he wasn't sure if it was just first time luck or if I was actually talented but from this story he said it is cemented in his mind that I am extremely talented and that there is nothing that I can learn from this class, the only good I will get out of it is by being able to help the rest of the class learn. He said there is nothing else the rest of my class can teach me. And while he was saying all of this I just felt my heart sinking lower and lower.
I came back to my room and I needed to talk to my mom and now I'm crying because I can't handle this. I told my dad all this and he's like, "You should be ecstatic! You should be turning cartwheels! We always told you you were talented, but your prof wouldn't take you aside and tell you all this if he didn't really believe it. I want to shout this great news to the world!"
and I'm like, no, you don't get it. Precedence has been set. Now what if I write something really, really bad? How is that going to make me look. He's going to think it was all a fluke, these two stories were just luck, I can't handle this pressure.
my dad says, so what if you write a couple stinkers? Who says you have to get As all the time?
and I'm like, IT'S NOT ABOUT GETTING As! It's about keeping up, doing as well as I can, and if I can do as well as he's saying and then I fail, it's the worst kind of failure because you're breaking this trust. I'm failing myself. I can't handle this kind of pressure. I'm never going to be able to write for this class again. I will be too scared, too paranoid, too nervous. I just can't handle this. Why did he have to tell me all of this? Now I just want to go and kill myself for real because really I can't go anywhere but down. I'm not saying I'm on the top, I'm not the pinnacle, you know? but I can't do any better. I just can't. It's just so hard. I don't want to sound like this, like I don't know, like I'm bragging or something. I understand that yeah, I should be proud, but I'm NOT PROUD. I'm scared. I want to slit my wrists.
It's such a paradox, a dichotomy. I'm far from being a good writer but my prof tells me these things and it's like...there's no where else to go but down. Not because there's no room for me to get better but because it's been ruined now. Does this make sense? It's all over. Everything from now on is going to let him down. He's going to see that he spoke to soon, he's going to see that I truly am a terrible writer.
I would prefer to never ever write anything ever again and completely FAIL my class rather than write something and turn it in and not meet my prof's expectations. I just can't stand that middle ground, that mediocrity. I would rather fail completely. Flunk out. I just can't handle this. And my dad doesn't understand.
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(8 comments | comment on this)
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| Sunday, September 28th, 2003
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2:21 am
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| Saturday, September 27th, 2003
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5:01 pm
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my teeth are falling out.
from now on, I am hiding. I embarass myself too often.
you can remove me from your friends' list, if you would like.
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(comment on this)
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| Friday, September 26th, 2003
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8:07 pm
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Laurel + Journey = True Love Forever.
This, amongst other things, makes Laurel the coolest person at Hollins.
((we went to the Express Biggest Fall Sale Ever! sale and we bought really hott, really impractical dresses that we're going to wear to class because it's virginia and there's really no place else to wear really hott, really impractical dresses. I also bought a pair of jeans that I didn't really need but they were comfy and only $10. Laurel also bought a white wrap oxford and this really hott skirt with buckles. mad style, oh yes.))
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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12:30 pm
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NietzscheIsHott (12:23:09 PM): next time we talk we are going to fight.
NietzscheIsHott (12:23:15 PM): you are going to call me a dirty whore
apricotiguana (12:23:15 PM): uhm...
apricotiguana (12:23:17 PM): why?
NietzscheIsHott (12:23:45 PM): and I am going to scream back yeah well you are a lazy no good hippie cut your hair get a job vote darn you!
apricotiguana (12:23:52 PM): hahahaha
NietzscheIsHott (12:23:57 PM): and then you're going to say eat shit!
NietzscheIsHott (12:24:01 PM): and I'm gonna say make me!
NietzscheIsHott (12:24:15 PM): and then you're going to make remarks about my mom
NietzscheIsHott (12:24:21 PM): and I'll make remarks about your mom
NietzscheIsHott (12:24:33 PM): and then we'll make up.
NietzscheIsHott (12:24:51 PM): heh
apricotiguana (12:24:56 PM): hahahahaha
apricotiguana (12:25:00 PM): your so freaking weird!
apricotiguana (12:25:04 PM): your scripting future arguments!
NietzscheIsHott (12:25:16 PM): yeah, isn't it awesome?
apricotiguana (12:25:22 PM): something like that
NietzscheIsHott (12:25:22 PM): it's good to be prepared.
NietzscheIsHott (12:25:28 PM): what kind of boyscout are you?
NietzscheIsHott (12:25:32 PM): a BAD one.
apricotiguana (12:26:00 PM): hahaha
apricotiguana (12:26:01 PM): thanks
NietzscheIsHott (12:26:26 PM): hey you're the one dissing the boyscout motto.
NietzscheIsHott (12:26:32 PM): you should turn in your badges.
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8:33 am
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he says, "we'll keep the girl. not because we want her, but for sentimental reasons."
she hears and thinks, "I knew it."
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(comment on this)
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6:36 am
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it's getting from point a to point b that is so difficult, especially when point a and point b don't really exist.
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| Thursday, September 25th, 2003
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7:02 pm
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| Wednesday, September 24th, 2003
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3:09 pm
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lying here on my floor in the sunlight reading keil's script and all is right in the world.
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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1:21 pm
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undulating, that is the only way to describe my mood. constantly undulating. And I really shouldn't complain because for the downs there are ups, but the downs are so down and the ups don't really even reach halfway. They are merely up by comparison.
do you understand that I really wish I had something of substance about which to write in here? but since I don't, I write about myself, and it bothers me. Because I am too open and I am too boring and I am too annoying and I am too melodramatic. I try to think of a consistant strand that runs through all of the journals on here that I like and enjoy reading. So I can try to emulate them. But they all vary so greatly, because the people who write them vary so greatly and I could try to be someone else, but there are already enough mes with which to deal; I don't need any more.
so I got a package from Keil today. I have no idea what it is and I'm extremely curious but I don't want to open it. I want to prolong the anticipation, you know? So the box is sitting on my bed, taunting me, calling my name, "shae, open me." And I'm like, "uh uh. not yet." thank you keil!
rather than continuing to type I think I'll just stop and wait until I have something to say. ha!
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| Tuesday, September 23rd, 2003
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8:53 am
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he gets upset that I won't ((can't)) talk to him and then he says things like, "just suck it up" and "I don't understand how you can be so strong and stubborn with other things but not be strong at all now".
he asks if it's the class, if I don't have my work done, if I get called on too often. I say no, I love my class. he asks, then what's the matter? and I say, I don't know, but I just can't go. I do know but I can't tell him. I can't tell him why I'm so scared. He would get mad and show a complete lack of empathy. He doesn't understand, not even close. He's right, though. I am so weak.
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8:32 am
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they come up so fast. I can't stop shaking. I'm scared, sort of. and I'm going to skip class, I think.
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6:39 am
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trying to find my holy road, trying to be the garbage poet from the greyhound circuit. because I want to write a novel and I want it to be about absolutely nothing. no thought no plot. and I want people to like it. ((!)) because I wrote a story last night with a character in it with whom I fell in love. that's what it's about. ((pretending I know...)) I just want to say something that matters. I want to write something that matters. Something that someone reads and thinks, wow. wow. something that someone underlines and uses in collages and tapes up to a wall. it felt good to sit down at my computer and type out a twelve page story, even though it's a terrible piece. parts of it, my character, not the main character the me character, but the other, she is wonderful and oh how she can talk! it's wonderful and I am envious. because I eat too much and sleep too much and talk too little or too much whichever is the most inappropriate and I'm woefully dull. she is so interesting she glitters, you know?
I want to fall in love with words again.
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| Monday, September 22nd, 2003
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9:14 am
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8:07 am
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it's just such a trend these days, you know? to feel this way. it's the cool way to be. to hate my life and I know that ten minutes ago I was saying how calm I was but it's back, that anger and I'm sneering, biting off my thoughts' heads. go be another mental scenester. top ten in the charts of pain, right? it's all a competition, right? fuck you, shae, fuck you.
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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7:50 am
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I have dissociated. Maybe not. Does one know if and when that happens? But I feel calm. My head is a balloon, my heart is empty. The anger is gone. all emotions are gone. I am empty empty empty. But I recall that girl last night. I can remember her. Her as another, not her as me, that was not me last night, I mean, it was, but it was not THIS me. Does any of this make any sense? She embarrasses me. I hate her, really. The things she does. But when she knocks on my door, I can't prevent her from coming in; she breaks the lock; she enters and then takes over. She doesn't think much, she just acts. A frenzied whirlwind of negative energy, a huntress out seeking prey. I fear her, you know? I fear her because she's bad, because she's...more powerful than I am. She's always there always there but sometimes she sleeps and I tiptoe around, trying to not wake her up because when the beast sleeps the world is calm, as it is now. I don't know what I'm talking about. I do, but still it doesn't make sense. I am fully of everything and yet it still makes no sense. I understand but I don't comprehend.
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