My friends are so depressed

I've decided that my favorite thing to do late at night involves freaking out my roommates' friends. I love making them stare at me like I'm some sort of freak. Twice so far, as I left the shower there are knocks on the door for them and since no one else is home, I answer in a towel, dripping wet. It's great because the reactions are usually =0 then =x which leads to =). Yeah, it's a good time. This one dude didn't know what to do when I opened the door, so he just pretended like I was actually clothed, not soaking through my white towel (sounds sexy...it's really not). He walked away smiling. Tonight, a girl was at the door and she was just in awe that I bothered to even come to the door. She wound up smiling too. Yeah, I like to answer the door in my towel because no one ever expects it. I just love the reactions. Maybe I'll become famous and I'll be Miss Towel of Rotterdam. Everyone comes knocking on our door just because I may or may not answer in a towel. Yeah. I like that idea. ahhhhhh.....

I'm pretty sure my sleep tonight will be solid. I shouldn't wake up for shit. Even if Allie and Mernelis decided to start a hardcore tamborine/harmonica band tonight/early this morning with everyone in Rotterdam, making my bed their stage...I still wouldn't wake up. My body is fucking exhausted but I like it because it means that I've been keeping busy. Basically, last night at the gym, I did the crosstrainer (on levels 12 and 19) for an hour, making my legs spaz the last ten minutes and they were cursing me for it. Then, like a dumbass, I went to Dave's even though I was exhausted and I didn't leave 'til after midnight, and didn't actually fall asleep until 2am. I was up by 7am to catch the train for Manhattan. Our trip to the city today was nothing but walking. Walking through MoMA, the subways, Greenwich Village, the busy streets...oy. My legs hated me. Then, Karen and I still went to the gym tonight and I did the treadmil three times, the elliptical (sp?), the stairmaster and rowing machine. So now my body is about to shut down. Karen and I are even awesomer because we're going tomorrow morning to be productive and sexy. It'll seem like we're being productive, but we're just flaunting the sexiness. I'm hoping to concentrate on upper body tomorrow morning because I've been doing a lot of cardio and lower body. Fuck yeah, my legs are strong! I could kick an elephant down the stairs with my pinky toe. Yeah, true story.

Guess what! Oswald went to the gym last night. Why? Because he loves me. Oswald loves it when I get all hot and sweaty, so he followed me to the gym, but kept his distance by Karen on the bikes. Yeah. He wants me. I have to go back to him in a few days to check up on TAP, so maybe we can play some counselor/student in his office. Let's just say it involves g-strings and cash. Use your imagination.

I read Jen's blog tonight; I had some catching up to do on her writing. She got me thinking about writing and why it's so important as a function. I can't imagine not writing somehow, some way. I know that blogging isn't technical creative writing. I know sharing my gym sex adventures and opinions on toilet paper isn't necessarily going to win me a Pulitzer Prize, but I know I have decently faithful readers in dot com land, and they keep coming back for some reason or another. Oy. Well, she wrote an eloquent blog about writing and how it's as natural to her as breathing. And I loved that she wrote about writing. I feel the same way. My professor asked me what kind of blog I had and I didn't really know what to tell him. What kind of blog do I have, exactly? I suppose it's a mixture of fiction, non-fiction, autobiography, satire, symbolism, short stories, poems, music, etc. It's basically honest and sometimes fucked up. It's just my mind. I feel like I need to write in this fucking thing daily to keep my sanity. If I don't tell you about my gym workouts, friends, feelings or vaginal callouses (teehee) it rots inside of me and goes to complete waste. And my creativity goes with it. I have a tick in me and I'm restless until I tickle the computer keyboard and produce a bunch of words that make sense (somehow). I appreciate writing and good writers because it shows a true insight of the world and most importantly yourself. Knowing literature and writing it is true intelligence. I don't care what anyone says.

I'm gonna watch TV until I pass out.

Good night foo.

Swirling clouds in violet haze

Sometimes I think it'd be cool to be transgender. Don't ya think so? To be a man and dress like a woman. Be a woman and dress like a man. I think it's so free. That's being alive. It's feeling that you're trapped and finally doing something about it and not caring about the stares received from other people. In some ways, it's beyond being gay, because you can come out, but walk down the street and no one can really see or smell it on you. There isn't a specifice gay smell, ya know? But to be transgender, you're admitting to a whole lot of things and just going with it. I can't imagine the bravery because, let's face it, people are assholes and will make comments and give the glaring eye, even without noticing. A Marvin becomes a Melanie or a Bryan becomes a Shaniqua (why not go all out?). Not that I will resort to being transgender, but I'd like that bravery. I'd just like to say fuck it, and walk around, showing my uniqueness and rawness to everyone. I'd learn to ignore the rude, ignorant assholes who are allergic to individualism. In a sense, I have my own transgender stuff going on, with my alter ego, Frank. Yes. The post-op lumberjack who sips whiskey and talks like they smoke sandpaper all day. woooot.

I write lots of love poems. Lots and lots that fill my mind. I can write a love poem in my mind, because that's where my love is really stored. Yeah, I suppose there is some leftover in my heart, but it all sits in my brain, waiting to be unleashed. I'm a very introverted human being. Not necessarily being shy, but I live inside of myself. I find it funny when people apologize for keeping me waiting, and I say it's no problem because I entertain myself. I have my own books, music, movies, poems racing through my mind, and I have no problem being alone. There is an abundance of love and lust that my brain creates, and it's easy for me to write and write in my head. Sometimes I remember them, other times I forget. When I do remember I seldom put them to paper or on this blog. I feel like most of my blog is clothed; it's a rarity to find it in the buff. When I do reveal myself on here, it's a tad bit embarassing, and there are some things that I should keep my mouth shut with...but in the end, these are nothing but a jumble of words and what do they actually mean? They're all relative and can be taken any which way you'd like. Think I'm happy, sad, funny, promiscuous, prude. Whatever. I really don't care. No, that's a lie. I care a lot. Love poems. So many and no one to actually share one with. I write them with mediocre personal experience only because my stimulation is from outside sources at this point.

Love is what I think of most. I find the whole act fascinating. It strips us down to our skivvies and if we let it, love will make us completely vulnerable--naked. Love is naked. True love is naked. And if you're truly in love with the other person, you'll feel comfortable walking around naked for your whole life. Is anyone that bold?

Speaking of being naked in public....apparently there is a day in December that women can legally walk around naked. Apparently it's only in the city and Keri said that not many women would do it because of the winter weather. Na ah. If I had a chance to walk around topless--even if I did it for five minutes--and not get in trouble, I would so do it. Especially in the city, where I won't even be recognized by the hustle and bustle. Yeah, I'd so rock my own set of blinding lights...and I meant that in a cool, subtle way, but I don't think it's a compliment? ehh?

You're a sucker for anything acoustic

Some people look all sorts of dumb when they take pictures. Don't you agree? Most of the time, you try to look dumb on purpose to save yourself the embarassment twenty years later when your children ask why you look high. The best sort of dumb is when people think they look good, but come off as...well...dumb. There are some poses that just amaze me. Do any of you really think that you're awesome and sexy? Okay, there are exceptions such as myspace (which practically invented the oddly angled photoshoots) and Facebook, and perhaps a blog or two, but in serious family pictures, or other events that go into a real album,don't look like a dumbass. You're only going to be made fun of by the honest great aunt or goofy brother-in-law. I also love it when people who are generally unattractive seem to believe they're the sexiest things alive. Like they were the inspiration for Right Said Fred's "I'm too Sexy." It's like, please. You are not too sexy for your hat, cat or shirt...stop taking it off. ewwwnessss. What inspired this? The fugliest picture of you. Fugly people. I love them because I lose weight everytime I see their faces and vomit.

I feel like watching TV, but it's now moved into our room and Allie is napping. I think that would be rude, and I'm not rude, so I wouldn't do that.

In class today I talked to Krysten which was nice. I couldn't answer her a lot because the professor saw me type away at non-lecture moments and I don't want the privilege to be removed. Either way, I do enjoy talking to her because she is like an older sister of sorts. I told her stuff this morning and she promised she wouldn't tell my brother. I trust that she would...she ain't no Scorpio :). But I feel like I can go to her if I have advice on shit.

I totally want to see RENT on Broadway before it closes. I am soo excited. Someone better let me know what those plans are so I can buy a ticket. I'll be working soon, so I should have enough money to goooooo. Oh ma gahhhh.

Girlllll, I have a writing workshop today and I don't want to go. It's complete bullshit, especially considering that it's a writing workshop and there is no actual writing. Foooook itttt.

Uh...pointless blog much? Yeah. Yeah, it was.

Maybe we'll chat it up later? Aight suckkkka. Peace.

Make it go away without a word.

Ernest Hemingway did not want to live the way his parents did. How profound is that? Simple, yet it rings true for everyone. In a younger generation we look upon our parents and realize that we don't want to be like them. Suffer like they do. I think we all romanticize what our futurues will hold. That somehow, we won't be a spitting image of them, and we'll do something with ourselves beyond anyone's imagination. I like to think that I'll travel the world, speak a new language and be truly happy. No, I won't wind up working ,with a husband and three kids in suburbia, driving an SUV to soccer practice. While that life is nice in its own way, and there's nothing wrong with it, it's not meant for me. It's fun to look upon someone like Hemingway and see how he did not conform to the standards of his parents. When they told him to go to Harvard, he ran away from home and eventually wound up in Paris becoming an influential writer. Granted, he did commit suicide...ehh....

I have a new love. A new hero. Someone that I look up to and think is the most amazing person ever...at least at Hofstra...who is not a student or professor. His name is Mervius. Oswald Mervius. On that principle alone, you should love him too. He is a financial aid counselor here and I have spoken to him twice in the past two days. Yeah, he's my friend. He fixed my "pending" Stafford Loans and gave me some work study stuff. And he's really smart and nice. Yeah, he's my buddy. I told Matt that he was my best friend after gave me permission to eat and Matt said that I have something "for the negroes." hah. Well, despite his skin color and name awesomeness, he handles my money and he takes care of me(umm...sounds bad in that context). Karen knows who he is and when she went to financial aid with me today, we were both hoping I was called by Oswald...oh, fate. We're gonna run away to Canada and drink beer and do financial things. Yeah. Yeah....

So I'm really likin' my new class of The Lost Generation. Funny how that's its name, yet we're learning why they really aren't the lost generation. I love the discussions. I am a nerd and I get off on others' opinions about literature, and there was debate on Hemingway's style of writing. I actually participated which I usually don't do...I was proud. I love, love, love English and I want this class to last all semester, not just three weeks. The reading is crazy, but I like it. I want to nap in that class, but it does interest me like hella mucho. Yeah. Yeah....

I had an odd dream last night. I lived in this apartment in New York City, across the street from these Indian-type buildings. There was a stark white building with a gold roof, and another building had a playground on the roof, but the toys and shit were fancy...all Indian royalty? I don't know. Anywho, I had a great view of these buildings, and I often got strangers who wanted to view the buildings from my window. I allowed them to do so and I had this one family, father and son, to look at the buildings. Well. They wanted my apartment to view their heritage every morning when they woke up, so they had Tobie replicas to confuse us. Basically, I let Tobie out to pee and when I went to let him in, a wannabe black lab came trotting in. Except he had brown on his face and had a horse's tail. I was talking to the dog until I realized, Hey, this isn't Tobie! So I went outside to get my actual dog, and there was a whole yardful of wannabe Tobies with horse tails. Tobie was lost in the swarm of black fur (that's what she said) so I had a hard time pulling him out. The bastards were sabotaging my life by taking my dog. They took Tobie hostage and demanded my apartment for the dog back. Well, I never liked Tobes that much anyway, so I let him get shot in the head. No, I wouldn't let that happen. I don't remember exactly how it ended, but I'm sure John Lennon, Reptar and a whole lotta duct tape intervened.

I should start reading. I have like two-hundred pages to read. arghness.

peace bitchezz.

"I can't stand it to think my life is going so fast and I'm not really living it."

-Robert Cohn, The Sun Also Rises

Only love can save us now

I'm a hesitant person. No joke. Well, I'm sure a lot of people know that; it's nothing new. But it seems like the more time I spend on campus, the more I realize how hesitant I am. I could blame it on unstable surroundings; nothing is as comfortable as being home with old friends. I could blame it on my zodiac sign; Geminis are typically indecisive, thus hesitant about decisions made. Maybe I could point fingers at my father because he taught me to doubt some decisions made in fear of what other people will think. Essentially, it's me and my insecurities of some sort...

hesitation number one:
When it comes to my roommates, I never know what kind of stories to tell them. Basically, I'd like to not tell them anything because I am a private person. Well, they like to know about my life and all of its oddities. Most of the time it's them being nice, but a part of me thinks that they don't believe that I do stuff so they like to ask me shit that is no one's business. Even when I tell them, I feel like they don't believe me. Anywho, I hesitate how much I should actually tell them, ya know? When they ask me and there's no chance of getting out of the situation with just "stuff" I say more than just "stuff." I get poked and prodded until the full story comes out...then I say too much and get asked more questions which aren't their business. I hesitate.

hesitation number two:
It's the Spring Semester here at Hofstra. I walk across Oak street three or four times a day, yet I still freak out on my judgement of placement of cars and when I should go. It's like playing Frogger sometimes with cars pushing down the road at 70mph, or cars that seem like they'll smash into you, then slow down and go into the turning lane, totally fucking with you, and you think, "Hey asshole! If you put a fucking blinker on, I could have went...and not wait for this OTHER car to go." I hesitate and still don't know.

hesitation number three:
Ya know when you make eye contact with complete strangers and you don't know what to do? I never know if I look at them and look away as if I never actually saw the whites of their eyes (just reading the sign conveniently located behind their transluscent heads) or if I should smile. Hey, they could be a potential best friend or boyfriend, right? It's a last second decision. I hesitate at what to do, and my chance of dating the hottie with cute hair is basically done. Ugh.

hesitation number four:
On my way to class this morning (after I hesitated in crossing the street) I went through the side door of the Student Center (wo0t to the shortcut) and at the top of the stairs, opening the door, was a frail old lady all out of breath, leaning on her cane to take off her gloves. I froze. What the hell do I do? She looked at me and smiled as she heaved and took off her winter layers. Well, hesitation number three was taken care of because she smiled at me; I smiled back and said "Good Morning" because she was an old lady. But she was a reallllllly old lady and I didn't know if I should toss her over my shoulder and take her where she needed to go or ask her if she needed help, or do what I usually do, trip the bitch and steal her purse. It was my biggest hesitation all week so far (amazing because it's already been two days) and after I said good morning, I smiled again and kept on walking. I felt bad that I didn't ask the cute old lady if she needed help. How do I make this up to her and myself? I walked slower toward the lobby to show her that it's okay, I walk slowly too and to see if she did, by chance, kick the bucket, I could be there to call Public Safety and tell them to bring a body bag. I hesitate.

hesitation number five:
What do I get for dinner? Just ask Andrew how often I used to call him and ask him what I should get to eat at the Student Center or Neth. Cafe. Everytime I walk into an eating establishment on campus alone, I never know what to get. If I'm with peeps, I just follow them and get what they get so it's easier for me. No. Alone, I stand there, then circle the place a few times as though glimpsing at everything four times over makes the decision any easier, and I choose something that I actually never wanted because it's the shortest line. Then, when I'm on the line, and there are fangled options, I hesitate more. Do I want grilled or crispy chicken? Regular or waffle fries? Apple or pear? Toasted or not? God damn choices. I vote for a version of Communism. I won't hesitate for that...but I dont look so good in red.

Now that I think of it, it's not totally hesitation. Just retardation. Nevermind.

Come into my world...

Ring-a-ding-ding

I feel slightly better about the Hofstra deal. Why? Yes, the hour of sobbing, puffy eyes, red face, chocolate and Lost discs helped, but I talked to Dave tonight and apparently he doesn't have the $17,000 either...basically, he's starving until he gets his tuition paid. How awesome is that? Is it bad to bask in others' misery? No, when you're going through the same thing. I don't feel as hopeless now. Oy. I'm still angered and slightly irritated at the whole deal, but at least now I dont feel like the only one who this has happened to. Maybe it will work out? Not sure, but when I talk to my mom this morning, maybe I'll just tell her what HAS to be done, not what she wants to do. I just want to go to school and not worry. I really don't want to commute because that would be hella shitty. I don't know. We'll see.

In an effort to make me feel better, Mel got off of work and we went to Pathmark. We hit up the hair dye aisle, looking for new colors that would look good in her hair. She jokingly asks (but she was serious) what color we were going to dye my hair, and I told her that I only use Sun-in to lighten it but I can't find it anywhere. As those words leave my mouth, she sees a bottle of it and pulls it off the shelf. Just one of those moments. It's like that time Britt, Andrew, Jen and I were in Wal-Mart, sifting through the 2 for $10 DVD's, and Jen said that she'd just die if she found Interview with a Vampire. As she said it, Andrew found it just laying there and casually (in a smug way) said, "You mean this movie?" Yeah. It's just one of those moments. Anywho, I normally wouldn't (nor can I really afford to buy) Sun-in, but I had a shitty fucking day, and I bought it anyway. When Dave signed off, I got to work on my hair. I missed having lighter hair. Every year my hair gets progressively darker and I feel it's way too serious for me. Not to mention that it drained out my skin and made me look pale all of the time...as if the British/ Irish/ Scottish combo didn't do that enough. So now my hair is lighter. It's not bright blonde, but its lighter. It's all I wanted. I'm refraining from using the whole fucking bottle; I'm tempted to do so. It's like going overboard with tweezing...you just don't want to stop. But I'm holding off until at least tomorrow when I can rationally assess the damage I have caused to my luscious hair. Then maybe in a week, I'll go lighter again. A song was once written for me by "someone" and they mentioned how my hair matched my eyes and it was pretty. Well, my eyes and hair match even more. Meaning that my eyes are dirty blonde or my hair is hazel. I'm not sure.

I have no Lost discs to watch without disturbing Melany for them. I have no new books to read and feed my imagination. My eyes don't feel like watching something dumb on TV. Eh, that's probably what I'll wind up doing. Maybe I'll put 44 on and watch some cool shit.

Wow, I'm sure this blog was hella boring for all of you to read. Absolutely pointless with little humor in it to make you want to read. I apologize.

I'm gonna entertain myself...somehow. I'm sure I'll find something, eh? ;)

G'nite

Anytime I need to see your face

I just close my eyes

And I am taken to a place

Where your crystal minds and magenta feelings

Take up shelter in the base of my spine

Sweet like a chica cherry cola

Nothing snazzy

I might just have to take a leave of absence from school and go to Suffolk if I can still enroll in classes. I can't afford the spring semester, even with deferred payments. I am screwed. It figures that this would happen. I called the school and talked to a counselor, who seemed sympathetic, but nonetheless, he could do squat for me. Even if we took the option of paying half for now, we might still come up short. My mom was thinking about cleaning out her savings and then whatever I had saved, making it almost half--but we still have to pay the other half. And of course, my mom makes me feel guilty about it by saying, "It's okay dear, we just won't eat next month." How did that make me feel? As a last resort, I could withdraw and come back home. I'd rather not do that, I like it at school and I'd rather not get dicked over like this. However, I don't want them to get dicked over either. I found out what happened with the $500. Apparently my New College scholarship didn't carry over to the second semester, so when a new bill was made, they excluded the $500. Yippee. Believe it or not, that extra bit makes a big difference in what we can afford. I have to talk to Dean Nass on Monday...I might have to leave New College if it's possible to register for new classes as a regular undergrad? The money that my mom has to pay the tuition is put away in CD's, so there would be a penalty to remove it. She is at work and hasn't checked how much the penalty would be. I'd like to know why she put it all in a CD if she knew she had to pay a fucking tuition. I don't understand that at fucking all. I guess she figured she could not pay until March without a penalty from the University. I don't understand any of that as far as the penalties go, but maybe she could take out half? and then the other half come from somewhere else? I need to call Student Accounts again and see what happens if we pay what we can, and have the rest pending until the other bit comes in. Until all this gets settled, I dont have a meal plan and the charges keep building. I can't even imagine books right now, too. My mom said she didn't want me to withdraw, but it seems like the best option. I need to call Geneseo and see if they would still accept me, even if I didn't complete the second semester and wound up just working or something. I need to do the same for New Paltz. Hmm...then I need to call Suffolk and see if they would take me now and see what classes I could get. Probably the retarded ones that no one else wants. I don't know. I dont want to live at home and not be near the friends at school, but if this isn't affordable then I dont see another way. Basically, fuck Hofstra and it's corruption. Fuck it to fucking hell. I'm glad rich, incompetent assholes get full rides because they can kick a ball around. Really, I'm glad for them. I'm glad that people who really can't afford an education can't get it...for the fact that they're not completely, utterly poor or a minority. I'm so sick of being in the middle. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I don't even know if I'm going back and that's an empty feeling. You have no idea.

a whole lotta gay.

Holding myself like this for hours

Makes your burden easier on me

As sweat drips down my back.

You don't complain though

And you're rather quiet

As you own my heat

And take away the cold.

Yeah, I won't suffer as the birds chirp

And I won't blink more than once

In fear that I might lose the curve of your face

Or the patterns on the walls

That dance around me, taunting me.

It's all quite foolish what we do.

I smile to myself, at the shadows on the wall.

It's amazing how these shapes do what we do,

Move how we move.

How do they know our next move?

Maybe I'm smiling at you though

And the way you don't give away too soon;

Your aim is too sharp and witty.

Just like me.

The lion's heart still beats

But it's trapped in wood and metal

So I can't hear anything but teeth.

Or maybe you make it faint.

I used to weigh my options

But the sky shifted and I took

You in my hands.

And felt.

The shadows claim more.

Hey, remember that time

Okay, so once upon a time I was reading this awesome book called Mouthing the Words and Tobie barked to be let out to pee. I let him out to pee, then went to pee myself (not in my pajamas or outside, but in the bathroom), meaning to return to the back door and let him in from the 25 degree weather. Instead, I ventured back into my room, anticipating the next crazy rampage of Thelma. About a half hour later, I'm done reading and on my computer and I hear a blood curdling bark and I immediately rewind to thirty minutes ago when I let the dog out thinking "shit it's cold" and shutting the door again. I dodge to the back door, praying that somewhere along the line, I let the poor puppy in not remembering that I did it because I was so absorbed into my book. Sure enough, I open the door and he bolts into the house and runs around looking for someplace warm to lay down. He first went into my room but I guess he figured it would be a bad idea considering I was the one who forgot about him to begin with. He then barged into my parents room, then the shower, hoping it wouldn't be wet from the shower that I took a few hours ago. So, I sit here on my bed, typing away, sort of laughing at the fact that I left him outside and he is laying on the carpet in the hallway. I pray to Allah that all his vitals are in check. I don't want to be responsible for his death. The best part about all of this is that this is the second time I've done this to him...in this week. I think it was yesterday or the day before that I accidentally left him out while I was reading. I can't help it if the books I'm reading are captivating, okay? I swear I'm not inhumane...just forgetful. Sorry Tobie. And Arnold who I left out by accident when I was ten years old. That's a funny one. I used to sleep on the couch during the weekends because I'd stay up late to watch Nick @Nite. Well, I was sleeping on the couch and Arnold woke me up to let him out. Dazed and still sleeping, I let him out and returned to the couch. A dog that cannot be rushed to finish what he wants, I waited for him to bark to be let in again. Well, I kinda sorta fell asleep. In my dreams I heard a dog barking over and over again, and just when I realized that I was not dreaming, but that it was Arnold, my grandma came shuffling through the dark living room to let the poor thing in. I woke up, automatically apologizing to my baby boy and my grandma said that she heard him barking for about thirty minutes until she got up to let him in. Yeah. Imagine that. I'm evil. I should pee outside from now on.

I had a nice cry tonight. A new Hofstra bill came and it's more than we can afford because they didn't take out the $500 that they owe us this time. An older bill came that was affordable but we didn't pay it because I was told that I may receive more money because TAP got fucked up. So we waited and here this new bill comes, almost a thousand dollars more. Now I have to call the bastards tomorrow and see why it's sooo much more if the late fee is only $50. I think they think they're entitled to the extra $500 because this bill was paid late. Well, fuck them. It's not my fault we cant afford it. My mom said she could give them a down payment, then wait for TAP and see what else might come through (so I can actually EAT when I go back to the campus). My mom wasn't happy with any of this news, not making our entire financial situation any brighter, and once again, I feel like it's all my fault. Yes, they offered to pay for my first year, but I can't help but to feel partially responsible for their struggle. I broke down in my room, because I dont want my parents--who give the world to everyone--to suffer for the rest of their lives. I hate admitting that I cry, but every tear shed was one more reason for me to move Upstate next year and find a cheaper school. Besides all of the other reasons as to why Hofstra sometimes isn't the best fit for me, it's too damn expensive, and I fear, even with more financial aid, the price will still be too much for my pockets to handle once I take out loans. And coming from a chick who has no idea what she wants to do with herself, paying a pretty penny to study with a thumb up my ass (my own, not my professor's), just isn't worth it if I can get something more stimulating and CHEAPER someplace else (the school, not my professor). Geneseo has great credentials but a shitty location (six hours away). New Paltz (whom I have to pay and send HS and College transcripts to) is closer and a lot more my type of peeps, but is not as prestigious as Geneseo. I shouldn't plan ahead, obviously. It always leads to disaster or a shattered psyche. If I got into New Paltz, I'd have to take a girlie road trip with Britt and Jen and see the campus for myself. I've been told...ahem....that it is beautiful and gorgeous. Yet...ahem...I've been told that it's rundown and cheap. I'm going with the former...werd. We'll see. I hope the billing gets figured out. I'd like to be back in DAve's room by Saturday night, not worrying about having no meal plan...or education. I even pondered dropping out second semester, moving back home and starting at Suffolk until I could go to Geneseo. But then I realized that I'd never get to Geneseo because I'd slit my wrists from monotomy here in Patchogue. I can't fathom going to school from home and working like a slave to have, essentially, no money. It's not the idea of Suffolk that bothers me, but the idea of reverting into shit again: always stressed, home around the same drama, always working, etc. I dont want to do that anymore. I'd like to act eighteen, not forty-two. No spanks. So, yeah. I've thought about the cheaper options, but with some things, I have to stand ground and be selfish. When and if I make money, I can help my parents out. When I become the Queen of England I can always stash them in one of my many lavish homes in the English countryside. Willie won't mind =). I need to do this for myself like my mom didn't do for herself. I'm here on this earth to do amazing things, I know it. I refuse to work a 9-5 my whole life, never happy, always struggling to make ends meet. I refuse. I will not allow it. I'm above it. This all may sound really dramatic. Like, a possible misunderstanding, and I'm thinking of dropping out. But I have guilt on my mind when my mom is stressed over bills. I think, Hey, if I go somewhere cheaper this semester, she can keep the other money and not worry. I dont want her to worry. But it's inevitable. I just needed to vent here or else it would have been on my mind and I wouldn't have gotten any sleep.

My buddy list tab keeps blinking orange at the bottom of my screen and I dont know why. It's getting hella fucking annoying. That thing better stop taunting me...

I've been watching Lost season #2 and it's saucy!!!!! Mad crazy yo! I will probably steal disc three to watch tonight.

I have about eight phone calls to make tomorrow morning. I will probably be up around 9am. Yippeeeeeee.

The new semester starts soon (one I hope to be a part of) and I' m excited. I was reading when Dave called me, seeing if I was on campus. I wish I were because I miss 6'5". Fuck, I miss everyone. =( I should be there in a day or two, so yayyyyyy!!!

I'm gonna steal disc 3 if Mel will let me. My eyes will be glued to Syid for the next three hours. Sweet as fuck, ya'll.

Under the bridge downtown

Something I've been noticing lately, and I find it quite hilarious: girls can't seem to understand guys. I've been reading about that a lot lately. Like, What's something you'd like to understand? and the answer is "guys." I grew up in a house full of men. The ratio was 4:3. Doesn't sound like a big difference at all, but living with four men is actually living with eight because they're each another person to take care of and clean up after. Not to mention my brothers' friends coming over (who were guys), my cousin Brian and uncle who visited all of the time, and my doggie, Arnold, who was also a boy. So, I guess I understand guys and their motives and reasons for doing asshole-like things. Let's face it. Guys are assholes. I'm sorry if I'm offending any guy out there who is reading this and who thinks that they're not assholes. Sorry, you are. And it kinda makes you an even bigger one for not knowing the reasons why you're an asshole. Every guy has that other chromosome which makes you an asshole. It's not so much that girls don't know that all you think about is sex, sleep and food, but we, as more complex beings, don't understand why. Why must you think with only one head at a time? Yeah, sure, God only gave you enough blood to run one at a time, but it amazes me how dumb guys are. You think you find a good one, someone who will treat you differently because they promise you the world...and then they do a 180 on ya and become douche bags. I do know nice guys, who generally aren't assholes, but there's still a tick somewhere inside of them, waiting to go off any second. Maybe not toward you, but to someone else, they will be morons. I can't comprehend how anyone can think about sex all of the time. Like ALL OF THE TIME. And I used to think that it was an exaggeration, but no. It's true. Guys just want sex and it seems that, if they're desperate enough, they'll get it from anywhere. Oy. Dumb butts.

I go back to school and I'm excited to go back. A few days ago I was sad at the thought of going back to school and leaving peeps here but then I realized that I have no reason to be sad because I'll see them in like three weeks or so. I get a five day weekend in February so I'll be home then. PLUS Andrew and I are gonna see the Spice Girls in like two weeks, so he'll stay with me one night. It's a good time being away, but after a while, I miss being home in my comfy bed, uninterrupted by complete bullshit. And I'm thinking, if I don't stay at Hofstra and wind up going Upstate, I don't have the option of coming home as often, so I should get used to it.

I had a weird dream last night that Hofstra offered me $30,000 for next year. Meaning that I could stay. Oy.

The thought of possibly going to a new school and starting over again, having to make new friends, learn the campus, etc, is nerving. It's too soon to get the jitters over it, but I can't help to think that if I go away again, I'll have to do it again and this time I won't have Coral there to keep me company. While all of the other kids, who have been there for a year already, will be hanging out with their friends, I'll sit there alone. It's something ya gotta do, and everyone goes through it at some point, it's just annoying. I think if I leave Hofstra, I'll miss it and the awesome people that I've become friends with, but I don't see a possibility of staying there because of money. Even if they give me more, I'll wind up paying more than at a SUNY. Like Maz says, I don't want to be rich, I just don't want to worry about having money. I guess it makes the world go 'round.

Peace nukkas.

It feels like I never saw the sun

Yeah, so let's get the sad shit out of the way. Heath Ledger is dead. It's not like I knew him personally nor was I a huge fan of him, but I'm still sad that he died. In a sense, I'd rather he died from a bullet in the head caused by a crazed fan, not an overdose on drugs. It's just one of those things where it's sad how quickly someone you know can leave you. Heath was sexy though and a great actor. But tres sexy. So, peace out to you, Heath. I hope that it was worth it.

For more funny shit. Britt, Jen, Andrew and I went to Hofstra last night to get a little crunk and hang out. Twas funny. Jen brought a cheap bottle of wine and we had no bottle opener, so we decided to get more alcohol from the snazzy establishment Stop N Shop located in the village of Hempstead. I've been warned about going there after 8pm. We walked there at around 11pm in chilly weather. We get into the convenience store and we were the only white people in the store...with about twenty of one particular race of people...all staring at us. We get three forties and Andrew is holding them in his arms. In true Andrew fashion, he drops one and it breaks into a million little pieces (maybe more like eight or nine). We all stood there like this: =0 and the twenty of one particular race of people all start laughing at the 5'10" white kid with red hair and pea coat who shattered a bottle of alcohol on the floor. It was funny to hear them laugh at him. I could feel the eyes staring at us. We got away with buying the alcohol anyway, and we walked to my car and went to Stop & Shop (the actual supermarket) and got a wine opener...and chips and cookies (heaven forbid there were no cookies). Back at the dorm, we cheered eachother and began playing Taboo. I got stuck with fugly (like usual) and we lost (like usual). I will say that we lost two or three points because of my endless laughter at Andrew's stupidity. One of the cards said 'Oprah Winfrey' and he said "She's in the Color Purple. Wait, is she? I don't remember." Brittany tells him that she was and he's like "Oh yeah. She's the big black lady with an attitude." About six or seven cups in, I found this statement extremely hysterical, and with a mouthful of wine and laughter, I couldn't say Oprah. I spit it out in a package of cookies. Then we had another card that said 'sperm whale' and the first set of clues that he gave me were for sperm. I said sperm and then he claimed that these were big things in the water and I said tadpole thinking it was an enlarged version of sperm that goes in the water. I thought it was clever. A third card was 'hole in the wall' or something like that. And I got every word but "the" because he's dumb and I thought he meant something else. It was so funny how pissed he was at me and it made me laugh even harder. It was great though because my chest hasn't hurt that bad from laughing in a long time. =) I swear I"m good at Taboo. Just not then. haha.

I didn't get to bed until about 5:30am because I was listening to music. Some songs came on and they made me more awake than sleepy. Don't listen to 'Smells like Teen Spirit' at 4:30am when you're trying to sleep. It inspired me to write in this dumb thing, but I refrained in order to catch some z's. But my feet kept moving with the rhythym of guitars and drums. Nirvana is a drug.

All in all, the trip was successful. We all got sorta buzzed. We got to be as loud as we wanted. We didn't die in my car (from the wee itty bitty issue of having a tear in my front passanger tire). We had fun in the last week of me being home...at the school that I go to that will seperate us to begin with. Go figure.

I applied to SUNY New Paltz randomly today. Well, it wasnt totally random. I've been thinking about other options besides Hofstra, Geneseo being one of them because I'm already accepted for '08. Basically, I can't 1)afford Hofstra, and 2) Hofstra, even if I felt like taking out a crazy loan, isn't worth the money as much as another school would be. Yeah, it's a good school, but I can do better and if I'm paying for my education, I might as well get something hella awesome from it. I've been contemplating Geneseo, but I dont want that to be my only option. I've heard great things about New Paltz already, and Britt went to visit and she was listing why it was cool. Then, the best part: it's only two hours outside of the city which is so much better than being six or seven hours in Geneseo. I randomly applied and liked what I saw as the majors and campus and such. I like that it's a hippie school. Maybe I'll fit in there with the stoners, guitar players and tree huggers rather than the skanks, preps and good-for-nothings that I've basically seen swarming the Hofstra campus. No, it's not a bad school, but I feel that the people that I've become friends with there (as well as a few others) are the smart ones. Everyone else is there because their parents can afford it. Wastes of space much?

I want to be one of those chicks that is mentioned in songs from really cool bands. There are some bands that have a major influence from a chick. The heartbeat of the lyrics is because this girl is so great, or was so great and now she's gone. I want to be that girl that inspires such songs. I think it'd be cool. No, nothing gay like Delilah. Maybe a Maria from 'Mrs. Potter's Lullaby.' Or Michelle from The Beatles 'Michelle.' Even a Maggie Mae. It'd be pretty fucking sweet.

memories are films about ghosts.

Taste your hip

I am in the mood for a photoshoot. Not sure why because I have a bad headache and I'm unshowered, therefore dirty and greasy. I haven't brushed my teeth all day and I'm just in a lazy mood. Not sure what kind of emotion I'd be able to give off with bags under my eyes, dirty teeth, dirty hair and no emotion. But I feel like showering, brushing my teeth, applying a little mascara and blush, then going to town with myself in my lacey underwear. The maroon ones I bought at H&M. They make my ass look incredible. Granted I could rock a diaper, but they work quite well. And maybe I'll wear the new bra I bought (on sale at Kohl's ;p) that feels like air and makes my boobs feel like their own breed of oober breasts. Crazay. Even if I decided to do the primping, I couldn't have a photoshoot anyway; I left my camera at school like a dumbass. So instead, I sit here unkempt and gross wishing that I could take candid photos of myself half naked. I might have taken a few cutesy ones and make people want me. Might have taken a few sexier ones that would make some boys drool all over me. Perhaps one or two where I look disturbed, yet beautiful. I could make it happen; I have a way with the camera. And myself. Not like anyone would see them unless I were brave enough to post them on myspace. Brave isn't the word. More like skanky. If I felt skanky enough to post pictures of myself in my underwear for any scum bag that I'm friends with to see...then I would. But prior to contrary belief, I am not a skank. I'm just very...open...
=D

We might just go to Hofstra tonight and get crunk. Didn't happen the other night, so our wishes might just come true for tonight. I hope the headache that I have goes away by then. I wonder if anyone I know is back at school already...hhmm...might have to do some digging and find out.

This was all out of boredom, fyi.

Peace.

Drop your socks and grab your mini boombox

Do the pop lock

Body rock

Let the beat drop

Till youre shell shocked

Baby what, tell me what you got

Rock hard like a sinner block

While she sings she makes them feel things

Love changes people. Usually a good change. I love seeing the change of love. It's like watching a dried up sponge soak with water, filled to the brim, dripping wet. Not sure why it's a sponge, but some personalities are dry sponges until they experience love. Then they're saturated with all kinds of things. I'm happy for other people when they're truly in love because that feeling is amazing. It's also like a makeover. Eyes are wider, smile is brighter, face is pink, and words come so easy. Oh, love. Tis the season for love. It's always the season for love.

What's worse than falling in love? No longer being in love and watching that sponge dry up again. When it slowly dries up, people change and that happiness and glow within their eyes, changes. Sometimes it ends long before the relationship ends, other times you don't fall out of love until months, even years after. Dried sponges are no fun and are depressing to look at. Let's not even mention the stentch that comes from old, used sponges. Icky.

Even worse than falling out of love? Staying in love with the person that isn't in love with you. Let's talk about torture. That little soft spot that remains inside of you for the one that you loved first will never change. They can still make your eyes wide from time to time, and can make you blush like a mother fucker. It sucks when the love you have to give isn't reciprocated back. It's lonely to see someone else full of water, soaking wet, and you're left like a burnt piece of toast.

What's more detramental than being in love when the other doesn't love you back? Not being in love at all and seeing those around you in love. While it makes you happy to see so many full sponges, it's also saddening. At least when you're in love, you can still skip a beat and walk as though you're on a cloud. Not feeling that tick hurts more than anything. Especially when you have more love to give than you know what to do with. I consider myself a moist sponge. I'm not a super soaked ho, but I'm a damp skank awaiting the prince to come take her. My bigger problem is not so much that I don't have people to choose from, it's a matter of IF I want them for the right reasons. I don't want to use people just because I want to have someone to call my own. If I don't want to be alone. It's always comforting knowing that there's someone who would love you no matter what. But would I always want them in the same manner? Well. Out of my options, there is only one that I truly want. Jen saw it in my eyes. She saw the love glow and for a moment, my moist sponge filled with water (that's what she said). Melany sees it in my eyes. I believe Britt sees it too. It's the only one that makes me actually weak in the knees...and that's the best quality in a lasting relationship. What's up with that option? I dont see them enough, that's it. Actually hanging out with the person helps mucho...duh. I revert back to my moist sponge and ignite the idea of that full sponge feeling. I go back to looking, feeling, hoping but never actually being there. Yes, I'm happy for those of my friends who are in love. Yes, I'm incredibly sorry for my friends who are out of love but still in a relationship because it's safe. Yes, I pity those who start relationships out of fear of being alone. I feel bad for those who have never felt that way and I wallow knowing that I'm not in love at all. Just aspiring to be.

I love how you can tell

Yes, I'm back again.

I love the smell of Dial soap. The basic orange liquid soap. It reminds me of my childhood. Good ol' hippocampus. Hands, actually. It reminds me of clean hands. How my mommy's hands would always smell like Dial soap and it made me feel safe. She never wears perfume, so I love it when I can smell something strong on her...Dial hand soap included. I guess this orange soap reminds me of the love a mother's hands possess. It's such a simple smell. No perfumes to make us smell like apples, morning dew or monkey brains. Just simple orange stuff. I love it, so sue me.

My favorite Aries, Jen Maz, came over the other night. The night's plans originally centered around watching movies and cuddling on my bed. But my bed is not a normal bed and it typically invites more than just cuddling, but actually hanging out. I can't tell you how many times my friends come over and we just hang out on my bed and converse. Jen came over and the movie never happened. Instead we laid on my bed in the dark, nestled under the covers and talked about ourselves and things that scare us, things that mend, and others that will never feel different. People truly amaze me. It seems that we all have stories, shit that others would never guess. And then you get close to people and their story is off their chest and into your ear canal. Usually I'm shocked as shit because I think I've heard all I can from a person, and then I get more and more. I guess I like it that way. It keeps me on my toes. I love it when people amaze me, especially for their strength through all the shit that's a scar on their fragile skin. Mazola is one of those people. I feel like I am a baby who just started solid foods and she is the babysitter who slides one cheerio at a time across my highchair tray. Each cheerio is a new feast for me, and a new challenge for me to gulp and figure out. Also new lessons about human beings and resiliancy. I learn from other people and their experiences. Quite often, I take them as my own until I get it. It's like walking a mental fifty miles in their shoes.

Ya know how you sometimes wish you could change yourself? You never feel pretty, smart, creative, witty, wealthy, perfect enough. It's like you'd trade your own life, because it's nothing good, for someone else's...they automatically have it easier. I feel like that sometimes. I feel like if I looked, acted, believed, thought differently, I'd be better and needed and wanted more. But then I think about how I'm me, my greatest possession, and I'm, well...sorta stuck with it. I really can't change who I am without being something I'm not, so I should just improve on what needs repair. Hey, I'm not too shabby. No one is really gross, it's just that we're never happy with what we have. We're all raised to believe the grass is greener on the other side. A chick with no beauty or wealth looks at someone famous and wishes her life was as glamorous; the celebrity, who may be gorgeous and rich, may want a normal, less critical life. Every other person has it easier than me. Every other person has it easier than you. If you actually talk to those that have it easier, they are actually miserable too. We all want to swap body parts because looking a certain way will make it easier to keep a head high and to look for life. But it all happens from the inside out, in all honesty. How you perceive yourself is how others will perceive you. I look at myself and a pretty face with deep, friendly eyes and modest smile, appears. I may not be a ravishing beauty that will grace all of the chic magazine covers of the world one day, but, hey, I ain't half bad, eh? There are days when I glance at myself and see a beautiful woman, not just a pretty little girl. I appreciate all kinds of beauty (often finding it in everyone) and I appreciate the color and shape of my eyes, the outline of my face, my hair, my collarbone. But what really counts, and shit, I know it's cliche, but it's what lies underneath. The inner me. Welcome to the danger zone. The heap of vital organs and blood is not the inner me. My psyche is what I'm talking about. Shit, what a psyche it is. I've spent many, many hours discussing my inner workings with myself (it's what I do best) and I have reasons for why I think the way I do. On the one hand, I believe that I am gorgeous and intelligent and witty and a great conversationalist. Then, the other greasy monkey mit possesses a mean side where I think I'm ugly and fat and retarded and a half-wit. Some days I get the rational hand, other times the monkey paw and I feel like I want to swap lives with someone just because they have it easier. I was raised being told that I was fat, and basically, no one would want me unless I changed how I looked on the outside. I'm not sure where the confidence that I do possess comes from, but it's there. I credit good friends (and other significants) for keeping my outlook up and out, not inward. However, I was always told that I was smart as fuck. I dont have issues with my intelligence; I'm always thriving for more with my brain. I fight with my body image, like every other girl and human being on this planet. Can you blame me? Always being told, quite frankly, that you're not good enough in one sense...and letting myself believe it. Shit shatters though. I'm getting there. It's a revolution. A true revolution that I wrote of a few months ago. And yeah, I'm likin' it. I feel like I'm just ranting with no actual point now...what the fuck was my point? I do this all of the time!! Oh yeah...it's what counts on the inside. So, you're thinking, if you feel like a frumpy walrus on the inside, how do you convey the "sexy" (as I've been told), confident gal with everything to offer. I guess it's because I don't think about what bothers me. I don't dwell and let it suffocate the beautiful girl that is there. I'm quite the looker, ya know? =p. I guess not thinking about it, makes it less apparent to my life. If I always dwelled upon the dreadful, I'd be annoying and self-pitying. I dont ignore the problems, I just don't let them consume my thoughts. That helps, I suppose. Gods, what's my point? Jeezuzzz. Shyeah, the innerworkings are functioning, yet possibly hazerdous. Eh? I don't know. I'll just shut up now because I'm not sure what my point was...

I think we're getting drunk today at Hofstra. wooot.

My uterus hurts...

I'd like to be on swings forever. It's almost like flying, but it feels more like being a kid...and I love being young again.

G'nite. I'm gonna go chat it up on AIM at 4am. Peace nukkas.

x

x

I'm getting there.

x

I am flawed

Sometimes I stare at my hands and I can't help but to think that they're hideous. Their shape and size are nothing of that of a real lady. Other times I could look at them all day and I'm impressed with their softness and character. I sit in the car in the dark and cold, my key turned backward in the ignition so I can hear music and stare at my hands. The streetlight above floods into my car. In the shadow of my only source of light, my hands are beautiful. Delicate. I slide them across the steering wheel, watching my breath make puffs into the cold December air, into the illumination of the streetlight and see disgusting stubs. No character. No experience had with these hands. That fucking thing catches the light and I quickly pass it back to the dark where I feel I am beautiful and safe. Not even sure why I'm in my car in the dark on a December night. It's fucking freezing. My jaw can't stay in one place from uncontrollable shivering. I'm not wearing gloves or a scarf while there is no heat running in the car either. Shit, my hands are disgusting. I stare at my left hand, my ring finger in particular, and I want to vomit. His ring is on my finger and it just sits there, lifeless. It's the only thing that actually looks beautiful on my hand in the light, but it's not mine; it doesn't belong to me. It's his and it always will be. I think it shows the end of me and my sanity and how it'll be about him for the rest of my life. Just as I vowed. He was great when we first met two years ago. I felt like I could trust him and keep him close to me forever. He was like a puppy. You really love its cuteness and innocence and you love how you can take care of it, be it's mommy. Yeah, well, shit happens. The puppy grew up to be a spoiled brat, always expecting with grubby paws out, but never giving. Actually, he gives me anything I want--even things I don't ask for--but he doesn't fulfill me. I don't love him. Yet we've been married for a year and he's talking children. I want kids but I really don't want them with him. My hands shake from the cold , I convince myself, and I keep them under my thighs and breathe deeply. I wish I could see the stars, but the streetlight blinds "nature's candles" as my grandma put it. Like candles on a birthday cake, God blows them out before the sun comes up. Just like candles on a birthday cake, I should make a wish on a star and blow on one from the edge of my bed. It'll come true if I see it twinkle. I used to wish for a pony. Tonight I want him to be trampled by one, so he'd at least be injured, not dead. I think of how he doesn't please me. It makes me more nauseous when I think of how he thinks he pleases me in every way, shape and form. Buying me expensive clothes, car and home. I don't give a shit about any of that though. I'm happy with the little things in life. Perhaps a love note left on the coffee table; flowers sent to work for no reason; a stuffed animal that reminded him of me. I walk into his home--it doesn't feel like mine--from my pilates class, and I feel sad and trapped. Ugly for being dumb enough to stay. He tells me I'm beautiful everyday, but he only makes me feel uglier. He randomly takes my hand and kisses it--something that used to make me weak in the knees--and I feign happiness and when he isn't looking, I wipe my hand against my pants until his slobber is gone. I feel like I carry him on my back. He's a growth that sustains life by sucking it out of me. I am drained from him. I no longer smile around him. I'm dull and pathetic. Deep down I think he knows, but he never confronts me about it. Talking about it might make it true. He's always looking to please me and keep me happy. It actually makes me crazier. I think my hands are ugly when I think of him. LIke they're alien mits, not soft porcelain. They're not delicate and never will be. I used to like my hands and I'd only wear jewelery that would attract attention to them. Since wearing his ring, I hide them and when people ask to see that "darling" ring on my finger, I grit my teeth and reluctantly give them my hand. My hands have no experience to them. No one of my age would have hands like these. I imagine women that are in love have beatiful, graceful hands and long, skinny fingers. And their fingernails would be shiny and manicured. I'm not in love thus they're stumpy and stiff with fat, clunky fingers. My fingernails are chewed to the core and I've never had a manicure. If I were in love, I could be a hand model. I don't see how amorous women couldn't not have the most beautiful hands alive. They hold their lover's heart within their hands, so they must know how to be gentle yet fierce. I'm sure their hands have knowledge and gain respect from their significant other. Mine look like they've received a third grade education. Ya know what he feels to me? When I loved him, he was a sweater that kept me comfortable during all seasons. Then I dipped my toes in the engagement lake, and once we were officially married, I belly flopped in and now my sweater is perpetually wet, draping on my body. Unflattering. And heavy. I'm confined to this sweater and think of only how i used to be my own woman with beautiful hands. Fingers that I'd outline a boyfriend's lips and mess their hair up with. Now they're sausages and I can't stand to look at them, even if I'm dialing a phone. I turn the ignition away from me and start the heat. In the shadows, they're tender and breezy and fragile. I keep my left hand tucked under my leg. My right hand placed over the Ram is beautiful and I smile. Maybe the real me is still there, but it's hidden away in the shadows. I can still find it. The heat on my face feels better than I'd imagined. I can't see my breath as much anymore. Pulling my left hand from under my leg, I quickly move it to the shadows. I don't see his ring, but just my hand. A pretty one at that. It's not so heavy from the diamond he gave me aka his burden on me. I can breathe easy now. All hope isn't lost. I'm not boring and ugly and pathetic. I only feel that way because I'm taking a break in the shadows. Maybe God will blow out the candles soon and I'll have only gracious "Libra sunlight" shed on me, as Grandma would say. The ice shell will melt and I'll be pretty again. Maybe I won't be so trapped and confined and I can stand to see the beauty of the flower's bloom again. I won't be so jealous of its unleashing to the world like it's not embarassed about its colors.

And like a bullet through a flock of doves

I can't help but to pass a mirror and go "Damn girl." In a positive way, of course. I can't help but to gaze at myself and wonder how I became so fucking amazingly perfect and gorgeous. Gods. And that ass! Where in the hell did that ass come from?! I have an ass that was a gift from Aphrodite or something. She decided to give me the kind of ass that can make a cardboard box look sexy. The end. However, Demeter gave me a uterus that will explode any day, quite possibly. Yeah. That's right. I have a cyst that measures 4.4 centimeters and it's possible that it might rupture. Thanks Aphrodite for making me hella awesome. Thanks Demeter for crushing the hella awesomeness.

I feel gross today. I need to walk around the circumference of Patchogue today. Perhaps I'll walk around the circumference of my cyst, it's the same difference. Jesus fucking Christ. argh.

I'm gonna go take the pup pups for a walk, read, perge and watch a movie. Yum.

I get to go back to the doctor tomorrow. Again. For another sonogram. My bladder will be a water balloon again, ever filling with pee, and I'll have the threat of that little pin ready to burst it at any second. It'd be embarassing to pee my pants in front of everyone. Muy embarassing. Make for a funny blog though. For all of your sakes, I might just wet myself.

Have a loverly day. I will probably write in you later if I feel inspired by House of Sand and Fog. Or my cyst exploding like Mount St. Helen.

[I'm not sick, but I'm not well]

The thorn twist in your side.

Have you ever driven down a busy road and passed an old lady bundled in her winter clothes, walking home and carrying her groceries? It's one of the most heart wrenching things to watch as far as I'm concerned. Most heart wrenching is the lost doggies on the busy roads who are scared and don't know what to do. But I saw the old chick today on my way to the bank and it made me sad. I wanted to pull over and pick her up, take her to the bank with me and then home and feed her and pet her. Maybe she'd feed me (most old women can cook really well) and I'd name her and let her sleep at the end of the bed. My parents and Melany could look after her when I go back to school. Oh, we'd be the best of friends. Granted, she probably has a family somewhere and they might miss her...she was theirs first. But did you ever want to pick them up or at least pull over and ask them if they needed help or something? I always come so close to asking if they want a ride but then I think that the feeble old woman is actually a spry young man waiting for a nice, sexy, wonderful, big hearted and slightly naive eighteen year old college freshman (as myself) to pick him up...and then attack. I'd be oblivious until I looked over and noticed a five o'clock shadow and erection. Even then I might let "her" get away with it...old people have weird problems. This all reminds me of going to the doctor with Melany today. Her doctor has a lot of old patients, and we were the only ones without dried up rivers (wrinkles) on our faces and boobs that stayed above the belly button (that goes for the men there, too). They were all sweet (yet sick which ruined the sentiment with every senior citizen hack and cough) and I wanted to talk to them and ask them what it was like to be alive during the Great Depression. Think, this is basically the last generation alive to know what it was like during the Depression and WWII, perhaps WWI. I'm pretty sure I'm one of the only peeps that I know that'd want to chill with an old person and ask them about their lives. Freaks. But I was touching old people coats, staring at old people faces and listening to old people banter. I loved it, yet felt really guilty for walking at a fast pace and with all of my teeth.

I went back to the library today and I took out House of Sand and Fog and two movies, 'The Producers' and 'Running with Scissors.' I figure they'll keep me busy during the hours when I have no socialization due to lack of an automobile. I knocked out the last book and three movies in two days, so I hope this will keep me occupied for three days (this book has an extra one hundred pages). I believe I won't be in such a funny mood after finishing this book. I don't think it has as much humor as Possible Side Effects and I'll be in a mild depression until I can get my hands on Dry. I've been wanting that book since about a month ago and the library "has it" but I can't find it. Fuckin-a.

Melany's appendix might explode any day now. That's cool. It's like my own medical show on TLC...I have problems with my uterus, she with her appendix, my mom needs testing and my dad had a cancer scare a few months back, and my dog is psychotic and needs to have a piece of his brain removed. Yeah. It's great. I feel I am now qualified for my MD license.

Andrew and I decided that at 11:45 pm, going to Shorefront Park would be a stupendous idea. I drove out to Medford to pick him up then drove back to Patchogue and went on the swings. It was serene and peaceful by the bay with no one around and the sky filled with stars. The water was eerie and at one point, you couldn't tell where the water ended and the sky began. It felt like any second a creepy man was gonna jump out of the water and take advantage of Andrew while I ran away screaming. We were chillin on the swings and talking, when, around 12:30am, a man in a jogging suit and loud music, runs up to the playground. It was fucking creepy and he stared at us like we were freaks for being there so late. That or he was surprised that we were there. I was only a tad freaked out, and we went to Peppermint Park and I felt much safer being near a gas station and a lethal road. The swings at Peppermint work much more efficiently and I loved them. I also let Andre in on a little secret...and he said that I was a tabby cat living in house. =)! I'd like to go back to the swings but I, once again, have no car and by the time I get to Shorefront by foot, I will a) have been raped and b) it will be dark and walking back in the dark (being as luscious as I am) will be bad news. I'm a swinging whore (a whore for swings, not a swinger...dumb dumb) and I think I miss them the most about being home. The first time being on the swings since June was when Billy came home a few days ago and we went to Shorefront around midnight. It was a little bit of a safer feeling to have him there as opposed to Andrew...I wonder why. Let's ponder that.

Peace.

And every time I scratch my nails down someone else's back

I hope you feel it

Tiny dancer in my hand

Ever hear a song in the car and when it comes on, you turn it up until the rearview mirror shakes? Even though the outside world is locked out of your car, and you can't hear a damn thing with your eardrums pulsating, it's still not loud enough. Like, even all the way up, it's not seeping into your skin the way you want it to; it doesn't feel like you can reach out and touch the song. The words and music are a tease and it's like you can almost have it in your hand--your heart racing, vocal chords stretching--but you're never close enough. Just one of those songs that are timeless for every generation. And then you have that song in an amazing movie where people sing it from the heart and what is said in the lyrics has never meant so much to you before. It's your reason for respiration and it makes you want to place words to paper until the universe makes sense to you. That equation is its own rush. A drug. A high. An inspiration to spill your guts to anyone and everyone that you've kept a lazy secret from--one that is easy to admit to, but sometimes you just dont feel like it. Do you ever feel antsy from one of those moments? My solution is writing so I came here. It seems to be the only outlet that works. Since I'm on my own drug rush, I might as well not waste it, sitting and watching TV. I'm quite sick of it to be totally honest. It stings my eyes and ruins my awesomeness.

I have one hundred pages left of that book...I'll polish that off tomorrow and maybe watch Capote. I have found a new favorite movie: Almost Famous. I watched it for the first time tonight and I'm not in love with it, but I have a fo' serious crush. It's just one of those things where you want to say "fuck it" and do what you want to do and not listen to convention. I can't even count how many times I have a desire to go where I want and do what I want. I usually stop myself for other people. There comes a time where you must start living for yourself and not others. I know this. I tell others this a lot. But when it comes down to it, I dont think people actually mean it. How many people do you know that actually follow that? Who truly lives for themselves? We have someone in mind most of the time. And if not someone, then something that holds us back. I want to live around the world; be in basically every country for a period of time, experiencing culture and people and taking pictures of anything that grabs at my heart strings. I'd like to work and make enough money to support myself until it's time to buy a plane ticket to another country and do it all over again. That dream is def Hollywood because it's usually the rebel who makes that life seem easy. They pick up on languages easily and always seem to find their way around and have enough money to be comfortable. But I yearn to see the world and shake as many strangers hands as possible. Make friends in odd places and keep them in my memory, heart and picture frame forever. I'd like to die knowing what the Dead Sea looks like, how the desert smells, what people in India do for fun. An even bigger dream is to be a doctor and travel to the destitute areas of this country and others and fix people. Anything from a paper cut to fatal wounds. I have an urge to fix people, I always have. There is so much good in this world and it can prevail if people are shown what good can do. I dont believe that world peace can ever be accomplished, it's just human nature to hate. But I do believe that understanding eachother would help our burdens. I just want to help and give more than medical supplies. God, it's so annoying when it feels like I'll never be able to do any of this. It comes down to living for yourself. I tell my parents that if I were to become a doctor, I'd want to heal the sick and travel the world...not have a spacious practice in Manhattan and live in absolute wealth. Everything comes down to money. But I don't care about it. Seeing people feel better means more than nice clothes and a car. I express my humanity and I get an eye roll and sigh. Yes, I'm allowed to heal people, but I should only do it for my own monetary benefit. Yes, I should be a doctor, but I should only do it to obtain the goal of the spacious practice in the city. Somehow that stimulates more pride than helping people because I want to. I want to see and do and feel and smell...live above the middle. I'm told that I can live above the middle, but doing what's good for my wallet. Not living above the middle with true happiness and with my own life. As nice as a cozy home with a family and two dogs sounds, it makes me queasy to think that I'd become just another citizen, working to make ends meet and not living how I want to live. Who lives for themselves? I don't. I want to.

Piano man he makes his stand
In the auditorium
Looking on she sings the songs
The words she knows, the tune she hums

Tell me your favorite song

I am sitting here on my bed, in my pajamas in the dark--my laptop screen illuminating what I need to see--and I am in severe pain. IT came five days early, the day of my sonogram and I cannot tolerate the pain anymore. I figured writing about complete bullshit would steer my mind away from the convulsions going on in my fallopian tubes, but talking about it, like a dumbass, seems to make it worse. Yeah, I'm a genius. I had to get a pelvic sonogram today at the doctor which means I had to have a full bladder. I woke up around eight, showered, then fell back asleep until 9:40am and chugged three glasses of water, then one more inside of the car on the way to Coram. I was kinda nervous that my bladder wouldn't be full and they'd turn me away and I'd have to go back or something. I dont know what the fuck I was thinking because fifteen minutes after sitting down, I felt the urge to pee. Five minutes after that I was getting antsy. Five more minutes later, I was called back to figure out more paperwork, at which point I couldn't lean forward because the pressure on my bladder was impossible. I couldn't lean back because it made my lower back hurt from my cramps. I sat back in the waiting room and ten minutes later, I was tapping my foot, praying for the sonogram machine to break so I could pee and relieve myself. No. That didn't happen. Another five minutes, I went into the exam room and the nurse pulled my pants down, and my shirt up (oh dirtayyy) and squirted cold jelly (she was kinky) on my lower tummy (and she must've thought I was a Virgo). Ever have to pee like a fucking race horse and then be cold? Not a good fucking combo. Then the little thing that goes on your tummy was pressed on my bladder, causing a dull pain. I could swear that I felt the urine swish around my bladder(like Dopey from the Seven Dwarfs when they're all washing up for dinner...all swishy swishy in his head :)), just waiting for my muscles to cave so I could pee on the table. This cold jelly and other nonsense thingy was a bad combo. I believe the nurse took around twenty to thirty pictures of my uterus (which is exciting for the Christmas cards I want to send next year) and it seems that she couldnt find a cyst...meaning other problems? Either way, the Chinese torture (in its own special way) ended and I couldn't get to the bathroom fast enough. I peed for about a minute straight. I haven't felt that relieved in forever. I was breathing like I just had sex, I was so exhausted. hah. I have to wait a week for the results. oy.

So yeah...writing did help, but I stopped to think about something and the throbbing began again. And now my tummy is grumbling. Fuck, man. Can I get a fucking break for Christ's sake? Just one day without throbbing tubes, cramps, tummy grumbles... something? I want to be a boy for the next five to seven days. Thanks.

I'm reading a new book. The same author of Running with Scissors wrote Possible Side Effects. It's pretty nifty so far. He's definitely the kind of guy that I would date...except for the fact that he has a boyfriend. He's really sarcastic and he has a quirkiness that sets him apart from the norm...a good quality. And, not only that, he has a fucked up past of some sort. I've been thinking about this for, I dont know, the past couple of years, and it seems that I can't befriend anyone normal. Hey, I know that no one is "normal" but there are those that are more sane than others. Maybe I think I'm half sane and I'm actually a complete nut, attracting other looney bins. But I think it's my need to help people. I feel like I can help those that are troubled. Perhaps it's my fangled subconscious. Maybe I like to live dangerously? Sane people do bore me. Ever meet someone who isn't totally bonkers, and you feel that something is wrong with them because they're not weird? And then there are those that you meet, and they seem decent, and all of a sudden, in one night, they unload their life story upon your shoulders and expect you to fix it. Yeah...those are my favorites. But I think you're more sane when you can admit that you're insane. I know I'm pretty much insane, I'm just really level-headed about it. I often wonder when my "Oh wise one" psyche will shatter and I'll be completey nuts like every other fuck face on earth. I'll be the lady who walks around whispering to myself in the supermarket and yells at the cat food because the kitten on the box looks at me the wrong way. I'll also be the same lady who splits her knuckles while punching the lobster tank, convinced that I am the Queen of Lobsters and they are my followers...it is, afterall, my responsibility to lead them to my kingdom. Maybe I'll also be the lady who pees in random gas tanks only because I know my urine is unleaded. Yeah, when that day comes, Andrew will be bald. His ever receding hairline will bring me over the edge (or over the hedge if I decide to become a turtle or squirrel when I'm crazay) and I'll be arrested for drunk in public behavior without actually being drunk. pffffft. Yeah. OKAY. :)

I still want my Reptar pillowcase....

To alleviate cramps, I've begun holding my laptop up against my uterus. The warmth radiating from the bottom of Benjie is quite liberating.

I'm going to try to write a new play and actually finish it. This one is going to be a challenge because it's supposed to be funny all the way through...oy. I dont know if I have enough funny bone for that. Granted, I'm a Gemini, which gives me extra funny bone than the average, pathetic zodiac sign, but that part Cancer might get in the way...arghness

I can't wait to go to the gym again. I feel that I've been missing out on the gym sex screaming.

I've noticed an increased softness on my hiney and baby door because I'm not wiping myself with galvanized nails anymore...told ya so.

I shall eat something now. Preferably a stick on fire, as to distract from my pain. I hate anything with a penis right now. argh.

Another head aches, another heart breaks I am so much older than I can take And my affection, well it comes and goes. I need direction to perfection

Mama tells me I shouldn't bother...

...and she's prolly right. I shouldn't bother anymore...and she didn't even give me that advice...it was from myself, but that's not the point. I laugh at the insanity that is unfolding in front of me. I literally laugh. I also laugh at myself because I was part of it at one point and I see patterns. Ya know when something happens and as you watch it unfold, you feel dumber for it? I feel fucking retarded. Call me Corky or something, seriously. I see and read and listen and I just laugh at my stupidity and I'm baffled by my naiveness. I always say that it's my downfall...and it is. I've been hurt by it about twenty minllion times before and it continues. Agh. It's so yesterday... werd.

Anywho...I'm watching The Office and it's way funny. It's season 3 and it's the Business School episode where the bat is caught in the office. Oh crap. This show makes me laugh one way or another.

Uhh...Andrew has a very serious question to ask me. He wants to know what kind of hairstyle I want my character Agnus to have. Brittany, Jen and Andrew are creating an animated show very similar to The Office and Drawn Together, about the poeple that work at KB Toys. Just imagine The Office taking place in a toy store and animated like Drawn Together...and that's The Store. Totally original, a show of over-the-top characters working together in a small space. Oh, how the hilarity ensues when they're together. And I'm Agnus, the old lady with old hair and an old sense of style. But apparently I'm young...with maturity. Sound familiar? pfft.

I'm hungry. I think I'll get something to eat. Tummy grumble. Tummy grumble.

As you can tell, I have little to no life as of current. haha.

Peace.