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.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Monday, December 1, 2008
December 1, 2008
Things I Put Off Today:
It's not procrastinating if The Grinch Who Stole Christmas is involved.
*glares*
It's not procrastinating if The Grinch Who Stole Christmas is involved.
*glares*
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Saturday, November 22, 2008
November 22, 2008
Things I Put Off Today:
Moving, mostly. Though I wasn't feeling well, so I think I've got a reasonable excuse for that.
Writing.
Phone calls.
Meh. I'm not feeling very witty today. I really just wanted to get the previous post off the top of the page. That really was an explosion of emotional stuff, wasn't it? You know, my hiding mechanism wants me to get all self-deprecating here, but I will suppress this urge.
I WAS UNHAPPY, GOSH-DARNIT, AND I'M NOT GOING TO APOLOGIZE FOR THAT.
But I am no longer feeling morose. Until I am again, of course. (Banter!)
In other news, Pushing Daisies has been canceled. Ah, Lucifer, why can't you do less evil things in the world? Burn down an orphanage; just don't take my show!
Tip of the Day: Campbell's chicken noodle soup--yummy. Campbell's chicken noodle soup with a bunch of black pepper dumped into--AMAZING!
My taste in food is simple. Don't judge.
Moving, mostly. Though I wasn't feeling well, so I think I've got a reasonable excuse for that.
Writing.
Phone calls.
Meh. I'm not feeling very witty today. I really just wanted to get the previous post off the top of the page. That really was an explosion of emotional stuff, wasn't it? You know, my hiding mechanism wants me to get all self-deprecating here, but I will suppress this urge.
I WAS UNHAPPY, GOSH-DARNIT, AND I'M NOT GOING TO APOLOGIZE FOR THAT.
But I am no longer feeling morose. Until I am again, of course. (Banter!)
In other news, Pushing Daisies has been canceled. Ah, Lucifer, why can't you do less evil things in the world? Burn down an orphanage; just don't take my show!
Tip of the Day: Campbell's chicken noodle soup--yummy. Campbell's chicken noodle soup with a bunch of black pepper dumped into--AMAZING!
My taste in food is simple. Don't judge.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
A Change in Pace . . .
Stumbling Around in Heaven
Because I like to be alone, and because I am almost stunningly internal at points, I spend too much time thinking about myself. Not so much how things should be for me, but my personality.
I have a problem that it sometimes hard for me to remember that I am real. Not all the time, and it's not usually an issue, but it strikes at odd moments. I think that's part of why I think about what makes me up, how I feel, why I am the way I am. It's a reassuring thing. If I scribble over the outlines of my "self" enough, maybe it'll stay solid.
It's weird. I know.
Partially, it's because I've spent much of my life making sure my emotional reality is not seen. Happiness is acceptable, so that's what I show most of the time. Anger is okay, sometimes, but only at certain people and only up to a point. Bitterness, never. Sadness . . . sadness causes more problems than it helps.
I say this not to whine, but to explain the title. As a result of all my naval-gazing, I am fiercely protective of my personality. I like being prickly and weird and morbid and all the random things that make me myself. Perhaps my enjoyment and protection of them is just another personality fault, but I just don't care. I need to be me, or I would have been swallowed up years ago.
And part of me is a nasty sense of humor, a larcenous if non-practicing state of mind, and a sometimes self-righteous rage. Healthy? Probably not. But would it be healthier to change myself to be more appealing? I want to be a better person, but why does that always have to end in a sort of lobotomy?
God, this is pretentious. But I need it. And no-one reads this anyway.
I have been angry over stupid things. I have been made sad over stupid things. But I have to argue my right to be angry and sad and amused at innappropriate things, because telling me that I can't be mad when I want to, depressed when I want to, and happy when I want to is killing me.
My life is good. I know that. I have enough money to get by, with some for luxuries. My parents support me (usually) and love me (sometimes too much) and nobody has ever laid a finger on me. I'm smart enough, attractive enough, healthy enough, and all sorts of things that people wish they had. There are many people who are worse off than I am.
But. There are days when I feel as if I'm spinning plates in midair. I shouldn't be responsible for the happiness of so many people besides myself. It's so damn hard sometimes, reassurring and losing my own time and smiling as if it doesn't matter, and smothering myself so that I don't have to soothe somebody for hours.
I'm exhausted.
I just . . . want something to be easy. For once.
Aaaaand off-topic.
Heaven. Stumbling.
My point is, I'm perfectly aware that there are many parts of me that are bad. There's a reason I bake cookies for people--it's to make up for all my other faults. I can't turn down a "clever" insult, even I know it's cruel. I'm usually too tired from emotion-wrangling for other people to work on my own faults.
So if I go to heaven--and I do believe in Jesus Christ as my savior, so if all goes well I will--what am I going to do? Do I get a lobotomy when I go in? I truly don't mean this to "diss" heaven, but I'm scared. Is it wrong of me to value my personality above rapture and eternal bliss? I'm sure it is. But . . . I . . .
I don't want to be perfect.
I don't. I can't. I've played perfect before, and it scrapes across my nerve endings until I'm collapsed on the floor, crying, because I can't say what I want to say and I keep saying it's okay, it's okay, but it's NOT. What people do to me sometimes, making me be good for them so they can be unhappy and have their problems solved by me, it's NOT RIGHT. Nobody cares that sometimes I'm miserable. My misery is only seen in light of them being made miserable by my misery, so that all I want to do is curl up and sleep and instead I spend an hour repudiating the truth.
"No, I'm not really unhappy, you didn't make me unhappy, I'm sorry I made you sad by being sad. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
How can everything be perfect for me in perfection? If I'm perfect, everything won't be perfect. Sad, but true.
(I'm more than I can show you, so stop telling me to grow up. In truth, I'm more emotionally mature than you think; you just don't want to know what I see when I look at you. Sometimes I'm laughing so I won't hate you as much. And you--I wonder if you see any of my depth. I try to tell you, and you can't hear anything you don't agree with.)
I have deep and abiding faith in a religion I'm not sure would like me very much if it looked at me properly. What does that mean?
*A great exhalated breath.*
The worse part is that as I write this, I'm gritting my teeth and praying that nobody I know ever sees this. But I need to post it. Ah, the internet--a great big sky that I could get lost in. I want to stop repressing--but only if nobody sees it.
Or at least, nobody real. Remember that problem I have with real? I was looking up my first name on the the facebook--yeah, yeah, leave me alone--and was terrified by all the results. I'm not used to seeing it around. But seeing all those people who weren't me--but could have been, might have been, are walking around carrying a piece of what I've always thought of as myself . . . it wasn't fun. I've stopped looking in mirrors very much anymore. You see, I am a very poor visualizer, and the image I carry of myself in my head doesn't really look like me. The person in the mirror doesn't look like "me," but she speaks my words. That's difficult.
Mmm.
Shrug, shrug, shrug.
Catharsis. It won't last, but it helps a little.
. . . I don't have a pithy sign-off, or something to make you giggle and lighten this great gulp of melancholy I've left on this screen. I don't even have a note of hope. I might learn to manage this better, but it will never ever change. Not entirely.
God . . . I love you. Please don't hate me for not being as good as I should be, and for resising being better. Please don't make me change.
I'm so tired . . . and I have miles to read before I sleep.
----
There is a glass on the shelf
and there are many liquids to fill it
but sometimes I wish I could
leave it empty and see through it.
Hmmm. Can't shut up. Hope you didn't read this far, imaginary person. I suspect you're either weirded out or laughing by now. Or bored. Probably bored.
What? I'm pragmatic. I know I'm being boring. Whine whine whine. Don't care. At least my throat's a little clearer.
. . . remember when I bucked the stereotype? Self-absorbed, self-absorbed. How much do you detest me, ghost on the other line?
Just once, I want to cry without making somebody else cry with me.
Because I like to be alone, and because I am almost stunningly internal at points, I spend too much time thinking about myself. Not so much how things should be for me, but my personality.
I have a problem that it sometimes hard for me to remember that I am real. Not all the time, and it's not usually an issue, but it strikes at odd moments. I think that's part of why I think about what makes me up, how I feel, why I am the way I am. It's a reassuring thing. If I scribble over the outlines of my "self" enough, maybe it'll stay solid.
It's weird. I know.
Partially, it's because I've spent much of my life making sure my emotional reality is not seen. Happiness is acceptable, so that's what I show most of the time. Anger is okay, sometimes, but only at certain people and only up to a point. Bitterness, never. Sadness . . . sadness causes more problems than it helps.
I say this not to whine, but to explain the title. As a result of all my naval-gazing, I am fiercely protective of my personality. I like being prickly and weird and morbid and all the random things that make me myself. Perhaps my enjoyment and protection of them is just another personality fault, but I just don't care. I need to be me, or I would have been swallowed up years ago.
And part of me is a nasty sense of humor, a larcenous if non-practicing state of mind, and a sometimes self-righteous rage. Healthy? Probably not. But would it be healthier to change myself to be more appealing? I want to be a better person, but why does that always have to end in a sort of lobotomy?
God, this is pretentious. But I need it. And no-one reads this anyway.
I have been angry over stupid things. I have been made sad over stupid things. But I have to argue my right to be angry and sad and amused at innappropriate things, because telling me that I can't be mad when I want to, depressed when I want to, and happy when I want to is killing me.
My life is good. I know that. I have enough money to get by, with some for luxuries. My parents support me (usually) and love me (sometimes too much) and nobody has ever laid a finger on me. I'm smart enough, attractive enough, healthy enough, and all sorts of things that people wish they had. There are many people who are worse off than I am.
But. There are days when I feel as if I'm spinning plates in midair. I shouldn't be responsible for the happiness of so many people besides myself. It's so damn hard sometimes, reassurring and losing my own time and smiling as if it doesn't matter, and smothering myself so that I don't have to soothe somebody for hours.
I'm exhausted.
I just . . . want something to be easy. For once.
Aaaaand off-topic.
Heaven. Stumbling.
My point is, I'm perfectly aware that there are many parts of me that are bad. There's a reason I bake cookies for people--it's to make up for all my other faults. I can't turn down a "clever" insult, even I know it's cruel. I'm usually too tired from emotion-wrangling for other people to work on my own faults.
So if I go to heaven--and I do believe in Jesus Christ as my savior, so if all goes well I will--what am I going to do? Do I get a lobotomy when I go in? I truly don't mean this to "diss" heaven, but I'm scared. Is it wrong of me to value my personality above rapture and eternal bliss? I'm sure it is. But . . . I . . .
I don't want to be perfect.
I don't. I can't. I've played perfect before, and it scrapes across my nerve endings until I'm collapsed on the floor, crying, because I can't say what I want to say and I keep saying it's okay, it's okay, but it's NOT. What people do to me sometimes, making me be good for them so they can be unhappy and have their problems solved by me, it's NOT RIGHT. Nobody cares that sometimes I'm miserable. My misery is only seen in light of them being made miserable by my misery, so that all I want to do is curl up and sleep and instead I spend an hour repudiating the truth.
"No, I'm not really unhappy, you didn't make me unhappy, I'm sorry I made you sad by being sad. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
How can everything be perfect for me in perfection? If I'm perfect, everything won't be perfect. Sad, but true.
(I'm more than I can show you, so stop telling me to grow up. In truth, I'm more emotionally mature than you think; you just don't want to know what I see when I look at you. Sometimes I'm laughing so I won't hate you as much. And you--I wonder if you see any of my depth. I try to tell you, and you can't hear anything you don't agree with.)
I have deep and abiding faith in a religion I'm not sure would like me very much if it looked at me properly. What does that mean?
*A great exhalated breath.*
The worse part is that as I write this, I'm gritting my teeth and praying that nobody I know ever sees this. But I need to post it. Ah, the internet--a great big sky that I could get lost in. I want to stop repressing--but only if nobody sees it.
Or at least, nobody real. Remember that problem I have with real? I was looking up my first name on the the facebook--yeah, yeah, leave me alone--and was terrified by all the results. I'm not used to seeing it around. But seeing all those people who weren't me--but could have been, might have been, are walking around carrying a piece of what I've always thought of as myself . . . it wasn't fun. I've stopped looking in mirrors very much anymore. You see, I am a very poor visualizer, and the image I carry of myself in my head doesn't really look like me. The person in the mirror doesn't look like "me," but she speaks my words. That's difficult.
Mmm.
Shrug, shrug, shrug.
Catharsis. It won't last, but it helps a little.
. . . I don't have a pithy sign-off, or something to make you giggle and lighten this great gulp of melancholy I've left on this screen. I don't even have a note of hope. I might learn to manage this better, but it will never ever change. Not entirely.
God . . . I love you. Please don't hate me for not being as good as I should be, and for resising being better. Please don't make me change.
I'm so tired . . . and I have miles to read before I sleep.
----
There is a glass on the shelf
and there are many liquids to fill it
but sometimes I wish I could
leave it empty and see through it.
Hmmm. Can't shut up. Hope you didn't read this far, imaginary person. I suspect you're either weirded out or laughing by now. Or bored. Probably bored.
What? I'm pragmatic. I know I'm being boring. Whine whine whine. Don't care. At least my throat's a little clearer.
. . . remember when I bucked the stereotype? Self-absorbed, self-absorbed. How much do you detest me, ghost on the other line?
Just once, I want to cry without making somebody else cry with me.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
October 13, 2008
Things I Procrastinated Doing Today:
Not much, actually! Take that!
Well, okay, reviewing my Histology material, but surely I can have a little break. I did med school stuff, loan stuff, a little bit of emotional venting, and so on.
*beams*
Not much, actually! Take that!
Well, okay, reviewing my Histology material, but surely I can have a little break. I did med school stuff, loan stuff, a little bit of emotional venting, and so on.
*beams*
Sunday, October 12, 2008
October 12, 2008
Things I Procrastinated Doing Today:
Finishing my loan applications.
Applying to medical school (again.)
Sending my letters for medical school (again.)
Finding a job.
Cleaning.
Sending postcards.
Writing postcards.
Maturity (still.)
Sorting myself out (still.)
Finishing my loan applications.
Applying to medical school (again.)
Sending my letters for medical school (again.)
Finding a job.
Cleaning.
Sending postcards.
Writing postcards.
Maturity (still.)
Sorting myself out (still.)
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
October 7, 2008
On the very very off chance that anyone cares (waves to her sole reader) those last two pictures are characters in a roleplay I've been playing.
*cough*
Shuddup.
Anyways, without further ado . . .
Things I Procrastinated Doing Today:
Studying forensic pathology.
Finishing my loans.
Applying to medical school (again.)
Sending my letters for medical school (again.)
Motivating myself to do anything truly productive.
Getting in shape.
Looking for a job.
Editing a few stories for something I'm moderating.
Getting my head straight.
Cleaning.
Sleeping.
Waking up.
*cough*
Shuddup.
Anyways, without further ado . . .
Things I Procrastinated Doing Today:
Studying forensic pathology.
Finishing my loans.
Applying to medical school (again.)
Sending my letters for medical school (again.)
Motivating myself to do anything truly productive.
Getting in shape.
Looking for a job.
Editing a few stories for something I'm moderating.
Getting my head straight.
Cleaning.
Sleeping.
Waking up.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
March 26, 2008. Wednesday.
Things I Procrastinated Doing Today:
Writing my physiology paper.
Starting my physiology paper.
Reading the articles that will enable me to write my physiology paper.
Motivating myself to read the articles that will enable me to write my physiology paper.
Writing this blog.
Getting in shape.
Looking for a job.
Thinking about my future.
Writing my physiology paper.
Starting my physiology paper.
Reading the articles that will enable me to write my physiology paper.
Motivating myself to read the articles that will enable me to write my physiology paper.
Writing this blog.
Getting in shape.
Looking for a job.
Thinking about my future.
Monday, March 24, 2008
March 23, 2008. Sunday.
Things I Procrastinated Doing Today:
Writing an experimental proposal for my thesis paper.
Finishing my CIPA physiology paper.
Starting my CIPA physiology paper.
Reading the articles necessary to write my CIPA physiology paper.
Looking for a summer job.
Thinking about needing a job for all of next year.
Sleeping.
Writing an experimental proposal for my thesis paper.
Finishing my CIPA physiology paper.
Starting my CIPA physiology paper.
Reading the articles necessary to write my CIPA physiology paper.
Looking for a summer job.
Thinking about needing a job for all of next year.
Sleeping.
Putting Things Off Until . . .
No matter how busy my day, I always am sure to take time to procrastinate. After all, what day is complete without, in some way, avoiding all the time-consuming little things that one should be doing? This is a place to list those things, a place to vent about them, a place to moan about one's inability to stay on task, and, most importantly, a place that will assist in the procrastination process itself.
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