Saturday, August 22, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
Metaphor
This is a nail in the floor of my attic which I have realized is a RIDICULOUSLY appropriate metaphor for a bit of my life right now. Part of me wants to utilize it for something. Part of me is appalled by how obvious/heavy-handed it is.
Stupid nail. I swear to God, you rip one more sock, I'm not just going to hammer you back in, I'm going to RIP YOU OUT and put you in a con artist's soup.
Stupid nail. I swear to God, you rip one more sock, I'm not just going to hammer you back in, I'm going to RIP YOU OUT and put you in a con artist's soup.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Hmm. . .
How can I dance on the edge of cliffs, laugh at spiders, smile in storms and still be such a damn coward?
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Blogs
It interests me that I am so aware of the utter ridiculousness of this blog while remaining captivated by the opportunity of it.
A blog is self-centered. Yes, yes it is. At least the popular version of it, in which every minute little detail (I kinda forgot to eat today!) is regaled for your viewing pleasure. Of which there is little, if none, I'm sure.
But.
I am super duper self-centered. In a weird way. As in, I genuinely try to think of other people and I am interested in other people, but I LOVE TO TALK ABOUT MYSELF. It's pathetic. Yet as I realize this, and type this for exposure to . . . nobody, I am perpetuating not only the blog silliness but also endorsing my habit of talking about myself. I mock myself but the "myself" part is still very much there.
Why is this? Is it my culture? It's more than possible; as much as I like to pretend I'm better than all that, there is a distinct edge of the self-absorbed to society today. It's intrisically entwined (I'm convinced) with the rise of both ignorance and celebrity as a cult. People are so important to people nowadays. Not "people" but PEOPLE, those fantastic folks who have managed to wrest some bit of fame from the Internet and now are KNOWN. We worship, idolize, and follow; even President Obama--the first person for whom I have ever been any kind of "fangirl"--is a sort of reflection of this habit. Of course, so was McCain and his runningmate, Mrs. The Devil (sorry,) so I don't feel guilty about it.
Part of it--terribly, and I apologize--is that I, well, want some sort of recognition for my awesomeness. Hah, that's so pathetic. But seriously. When a person does a favor for somebody, there is this awful moment where you (by which I mean me) are waiting for acknowedgment. That little rush of "wow I am so wonderful," is as addicting as any drug. Nobody wants to be unappreciated, except true saints--one of which I will never be.
I try to justify myself by remaining aware of my many faults--the stated point of this blog only being the worst of them. But the fact is that knowing that I am often wrong and horrible and that I never let go of the opportunity for an insult does not excuse my desire for people to know of my good qualities.
Last night, after a disastrous exam (don't ask) I was having, well, a slight meltdown. I was faced with an idea which I have never had before--please don't take this the wrong way--the idea that I wasn't GOOD ENOUGH. Am I, in fact, not smart enough to become a doctor? Am I, actually, not dedicated enough, not disciplined enough to make it? Not to say that I've never been bad at anything before, because of course I have--ask about my days in softball sometime. (I knocked a girl's tooth out and I'm fairly sure I never got on base [that's what he said.] Maybe a couple times. I have very poor spatial knowledge.) But I've never tried for something that I've wanted, something on which I've built my plan for life, and come up against the idea that I might FAIL.
It's terrifying. I love forensic science. What I'm doing right now isn't really what I want to do. But as much as I want to ignore it, I MUST go through medical school to become a forensic pathologist. And it's possible--I might just be paranoid, but that's not sure--that I won't make it. If not into med school, perhaps not through it. What then?
Oh, I have a B.A. That's good. I'm reasonably good at writing--but smart enough to know I couldn't live on that. I'm not good enough yet, though I do improve. (You may not have noticed on this blog.) And I have a family who supports and loves me, and I am tough. Ish. I'll make it. It's just . . .
frightening.
stressful.
exhausting.
Alright. I should go home. And eat. (Callback!)
Heh. Is this my quarterlife crisis?
I DO NOT WANT A QUARTERLIFE CRISIS.
A blog is self-centered. Yes, yes it is. At least the popular version of it, in which every minute little detail (I kinda forgot to eat today!) is regaled for your viewing pleasure. Of which there is little, if none, I'm sure.
But.
I am super duper self-centered. In a weird way. As in, I genuinely try to think of other people and I am interested in other people, but I LOVE TO TALK ABOUT MYSELF. It's pathetic. Yet as I realize this, and type this for exposure to . . . nobody, I am perpetuating not only the blog silliness but also endorsing my habit of talking about myself. I mock myself but the "myself" part is still very much there.
Why is this? Is it my culture? It's more than possible; as much as I like to pretend I'm better than all that, there is a distinct edge of the self-absorbed to society today. It's intrisically entwined (I'm convinced) with the rise of both ignorance and celebrity as a cult. People are so important to people nowadays. Not "people" but PEOPLE, those fantastic folks who have managed to wrest some bit of fame from the Internet and now are KNOWN. We worship, idolize, and follow; even President Obama--the first person for whom I have ever been any kind of "fangirl"--is a sort of reflection of this habit. Of course, so was McCain and his runningmate, Mrs. The Devil (sorry,) so I don't feel guilty about it.
Part of it--terribly, and I apologize--is that I, well, want some sort of recognition for my awesomeness. Hah, that's so pathetic. But seriously. When a person does a favor for somebody, there is this awful moment where you (by which I mean me) are waiting for acknowedgment. That little rush of "wow I am so wonderful," is as addicting as any drug. Nobody wants to be unappreciated, except true saints--one of which I will never be.
I try to justify myself by remaining aware of my many faults--the stated point of this blog only being the worst of them. But the fact is that knowing that I am often wrong and horrible and that I never let go of the opportunity for an insult does not excuse my desire for people to know of my good qualities.
Last night, after a disastrous exam (don't ask) I was having, well, a slight meltdown. I was faced with an idea which I have never had before--please don't take this the wrong way--the idea that I wasn't GOOD ENOUGH. Am I, in fact, not smart enough to become a doctor? Am I, actually, not dedicated enough, not disciplined enough to make it? Not to say that I've never been bad at anything before, because of course I have--ask about my days in softball sometime. (I knocked a girl's tooth out and I'm fairly sure I never got on base [that's what he said.] Maybe a couple times. I have very poor spatial knowledge.) But I've never tried for something that I've wanted, something on which I've built my plan for life, and come up against the idea that I might FAIL.
It's terrifying. I love forensic science. What I'm doing right now isn't really what I want to do. But as much as I want to ignore it, I MUST go through medical school to become a forensic pathologist. And it's possible--I might just be paranoid, but that's not sure--that I won't make it. If not into med school, perhaps not through it. What then?
Oh, I have a B.A. That's good. I'm reasonably good at writing--but smart enough to know I couldn't live on that. I'm not good enough yet, though I do improve. (You may not have noticed on this blog.) And I have a family who supports and loves me, and I am tough. Ish. I'll make it. It's just . . .
frightening.
stressful.
exhausting.
Alright. I should go home. And eat. (Callback!)
Heh. Is this my quarterlife crisis?
I DO NOT WANT A QUARTERLIFE CRISIS.
February 20, 2009
Things I Put Off Today:
Not much, shockingly. I did a bit of most of the things I needed to do.
I am still putting off looking at my grades from last sesmester. In my defense, they haven't been up for very long, and also. . . I'm depressed enough, so meh.
Not much, shockingly. I did a bit of most of the things I needed to do.
I am still putting off looking at my grades from last sesmester. In my defense, they haven't been up for very long, and also. . . I'm depressed enough, so meh.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Thursday, December 11, 2008
December 11, 2008
This is a poem with which I am putting off sleep. You (invisible, incorporeal, possibly nonexistent you) get to read it, because you are just. That. Lucky.
Mexican Standoff
You say that I
don’t know anything
about anything
and I say you know
nothing about everything.
It’s a Mexican standoff.
Except that it isn’t:
you claim to be Armenian
and I’m a little bit
Spanish from way back
in my family.
You say that doesn’t count
and I say at least I speak the language,
but the point is that neither of us
is Mexican.
Then you remind me
that you’ve stolen my heart
and I say screw you,
I don’t want it anymore, and anyways
the Mesopotamians
believed that your liver
did all that thinking junk.
Why don’t you—
I say—
give it to that waitress
from the vegetarian restaurant
whose ass you kept eyeing
as we munched on
whole wheat crackers and hummus?
Then you say maybe you will
and now that you’re gone
I have to admit
missing my heart;
I need it to pump blood
and write angry poems.
Mexican Standoff
You say that I
don’t know anything
about anything
and I say you know
nothing about everything.
It’s a Mexican standoff.
Except that it isn’t:
you claim to be Armenian
and I’m a little bit
Spanish from way back
in my family.
You say that doesn’t count
and I say at least I speak the language,
but the point is that neither of us
is Mexican.
Then you remind me
that you’ve stolen my heart
and I say screw you,
I don’t want it anymore, and anyways
the Mesopotamians
believed that your liver
did all that thinking junk.
Why don’t you—
I say—
give it to that waitress
from the vegetarian restaurant
whose ass you kept eyeing
as we munched on
whole wheat crackers and hummus?
Then you say maybe you will
and now that you’re gone
I have to admit
missing my heart;
I need it to pump blood
and write angry poems.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)