Murder She Wrote

So I have this feeling that I'm being stalked. Not necessarily around campus (besides Eli), but on myspace. I think people hack into passwords and go on my page. It'd make a lot of sense if the person was crazy and jealous. Yeah, that's what I'm going with. I get lots of views on my myspace page. Yeah, I know I'm really popular and everyone loves to look at my cookies and milk love eachother and my sexy pictures, which really aren't as sexy as my milk and cookies loving eachother. But in five minutes of signing on, I'll get like eight views from someone and I feel like they're watching me. Oh crap. Someone is gonna slit my throat.

I think I smell. I have two distinct odors on my body. I have my perfume (which I doused on my body quite heavily because I have not showered in two days) and I also have Dave's clothes. I guess from the fabric softener? But the combination of not showering and smelling like other things than clean skin, makes me feel like I smell. Maybe not totally awful (because how bad can I really smell?)...just not like I want to smell like. I'll shut up now.

I haven't written in this thing for a long time. I have been a very busy girl lately and I feel like there is much to catch up on. Where do I begin? Well, we started a new class on Monday. And I abhor it. You have no idea. There is way too much reading, too many generalizations made and an excess of typical Jewish mother disease. No joke. My professor encompasses all that is a Jewish mother from Brooklyn. And guess what? She is a Jewish mother from Brooklyn. Ya know the type, right? Nagging, controlling, unsatisfied, and guilt-provoking? Not to mention the voice. The next two weeks should be a sort of hell; a new one that I have yet to experience. Like a Chinese water torture, only Jewish and without water. Don't get me wrong, I love the Jews and the culture, but not three weeks and three hours a day of that bullshit. We cannot have an opinion that is not her's, we can't talk when we want, and she is a stickler for the rules that don't even exist. And she says "fuck" from time to time, trying to be cool, but we can all tell that she is uncomfortable doing it. hhmmm....What else is new? I am currently in the museum "working." It's a tough job, coming here and searching fun stuff on the computer while listening to music and singing along. My life is such a struggle. There were people here today, but none of them came to visit the gallery; three of them were film students who were filming the gallery's paintings for a project (and one of them was really cute and flirting with me...and he was a negro!) and one was an annoying old white lady (who apparently teaches Spanish here) with a fur coat and hat. I'm gonna take a leap here and say that she was also a Jewish mother just because she was dissatisfied with everything I told her and she made me feel bad for not having answers. But maybe she should stop wearing so much dead carcass hair on her body. Yeah...my brain is puree right now. I haven't gotten a sufficient amount of sleep over the past, I dont know, three weeks and I've just been exhausted running hither and such. And lack of sleep from last night did not help as well. I'd just like everyone to know that Dave also talks in his sleep and laughs about what he says in his sleep because he's apparently the funniest human being to himself while in REM sleep. Or whatever that stage is. Speaking of REM sleep, I really want to take more psychology courses. Speaking of psychology courses, I have applied to both Geneseo and New Paltz and I hope to hear from them sometime soon so I can leave the dumbasses at Hofstra and do something good? with myself. I want to be near the city, but not here. Just not here. I think Oswald will be sad, and it may strain the relationship, but I am willing to sacrifice our lust for a better education...and perhaps a new financial aid counselor person to hurt when they speak. I'm a sadistic fool. Or just sadistic. Or just a fool.

My butt is going numb from sitting down for about three hours straight. It's just me and the African paintings chillin' with my playlist. I wonder if the little black boy likes Red Hot Chili Peppers, or if maybe I should play some Ray Charles for him. It's funny how the paintings, fervent with color, become blank on the wall when you sit here for a while. I forget from time to time what's on the wall and that they tell a story and are stories for other people. If I stare at them long enough, the eyes start to look at me. Ya know that kind of picture that, no matter where you stand, it glares at you? Well, that's it here. Yeah, my butt is less numb now.

I need to stop fucking up so much.