I am really sick of my own paranoia and insecurities. Seriously, it needs to stop.

RIGHT. NOW.

I realized how vague that was. How about a real update?

I'm a little agitated. I dropped Advanced Poetry Writing after a very rough day--actually, a very rough sequence of days. If you want to know the whole story, you will have to communicate with me outside of this blog, because I don't quite feel comfortable posting it here for a few reasons. Basically, I went to one of my professors and confessed a personal issue, and she said that my course load was probably way too heavy considering the circumstances... even though it was only twelve hours and four classes. I freaked out as a result of many things, but the idea that I had jumped in too deep really scared the shit out of me. It was definitely not what I wanted to hear, and definitely not what I needed to hear at that exact moment. I had been trying to get the work done for the professor's class by a certain time that day, and I was in rough shape to say the least. So I spent a good deal of time crying and I spoke with the secretary of the department and basically told her my whole life story, and she agreed with the professor in that she had also recommended I go to an emergency counseling session. I declined, choosing instead to finish as much of the assignments as I could, saying that it would help to keep me otherwise occupied. I realized after I had the work mostly completed that I was in no state to go to a workshop class, so I told the professor that I would go to the counseling center instead. She said she was glad that I was taking care of myself and wished me luck or something like that. I go to the counseling session with a very nice psychologist and tell her everything that's going on, and she says the same thing as the professor, that my course load was ridiculous. I finally admitted that I had gotten ahead of myself and, after agreeing to set up stable therapy appointments off campus and a follow-up session at the counseling center, rushed to the library so I could use a computer to drop Advanced Poetry Writing, mainly because I hadn't taken a pretty big prerequisite. I added Spanish instead. Later on, I emailed the professor I had talked to earlier and explained my decision before asking if she thought dropping her class as well would be for the best. She did, but said it was because at that point I had missed a class and I was only allowed two absences before spring break, so I was at risk.

Now, I'm a little upset because she told me to go to the emergency counseling session without telling me that she would count it against me (which probably isn't even allowed when considering it was an emergency) and then cited that as her main reason for preferring that I drop her class. Plus, it's past time for drop/add so I will have to withdraw (which means a W on my transcript) and I'm having to weasel my way into classes by emailing and speaking with professors, aided by the metaphorical muscle of allies in high places. This is a shit-ton of hassle.

Keep in mind that this professor has apparently completely screwed people over before, despite the fact that she scares most people into respecting her and most of them keep telling me that you learn to love her. After all, she cries while watching those home makeover shows, therefore she is a completely perfect human being. I'm learning that she is kind of notorious for being a bitch to people because she decides that she dislikes them for no good reason. She has been flat-out rude to me and brushed me off on multiple occasions, despite the fact that I have been nothing if not polite and courteous. The kindest she has been is when I had her sign the withdrawal form, which I have yet to turn in. She smiled nice and big while telling me that she hoped I could take a class of hers in the future. I went to her novel reading last night and spoke with her afterwards just to congratulate and compliment her, after which she replied while looking at my friend instead of me the entire time she spoke. What the butt.

This is really, really not helping my insecurity and social anxiety. This and the fact that I apparently need to apologize to my roommate's friends (ex-fucker included) for insulting them, etc. Oh, I'm sorry, did my entire personality offend your delicate sensibilities? Here, I know, why don't you learn how to TAKE A FUCKING JOKE AND LIGHTEN THE FUCK UP? Goddamn, stop taking yourself so fucking seriously. What, did you expect me to read your fucking minds? How the fuck was I supposed to know that you were too fucking dense to understand that I AM KIDDING, GODDAMMIT. Jesus shit, you're in college. One of you puked in the other's sink after three beers and couldn't even clean it up for yourself so they did it for you. The other one of you thinks that everyone who does drugs is stupid. Woo, you tell 'em! Every great historical figure that has ever done drugs: fuck you!

...Yeah, you keep your high horses where they can't shit on my shoes and we're good.

And you want to know something? I regret fucking you.
I probably should have fucked your little girlfriend!
At least she doesn't smell like nasty/gross/dirty ass
--touching her wouldn't make me feel so very unclean.



...Anyways, back to the social anxiety! I'm really terrified of the way people perceive me lately. I'm worried that everyone thinks I'm fake and/or a pretentious dick and/or really stupid. I am becoming increasingly wary of speaking in class because it just sounds to me like I am rambling and then trailing off or being interrupted by someone who actually knows what the fuck they mean. I apologize a million times for the slightest misstep, even if imagined. I replay awkward exchanges in my head over and over again until I am so ashamed that I want to fade away into oblivion. I sit alone in the cafeteria and try to avoid looking anyone in the eyes, and if I accidentally meet their gaze, I duck my head and look away. I try to be nice, but I feel like everyone just stares at me.

I'm wondering if they look at me and have expectations for who I'm supposed to be. I'm trying to blame it on the mohawk, trying to rationalize it as everyone expecting me to be edgy or unique or cool. But, that feels like an excuse, like I'm persecuted or something. When in reality, I'm more likely to believe that they are just unsure.

They don't know what to make of me, so they're making themselves up. They don't think I'm real, so they're fake.

I've realized that I am really scared of most professors here. I'm afraid that they will look at me and expect something that I am not. Then, I will open my mouth and they will hear me stutter-stumble through my half-thoughts and then label me as just another awkward kid. They stare me down and interrogate me as to what the hell I think I'm doing. I feel like the ones that are nice to me are simply indulging me because they pity me so much. They read my writing because they think no one else will listen. They listen to me ramble because they don't want me to feel alone.

I know I'm not normal. I don't know the polite way to respond to someone who knows my struggles when they just ask me how it's going or how I'm doing. After all, I wouldn't want anyone to lie to me out of nicety. I speak my words as I think them, and I've been trained to be so honest. But, normal people aren't honest like me. They censor themselves, even when they don't want to. They need to be appropriate, because appropriate is accepted. They don't burst into tears in public. They don't tell random (yet relative) stories. They don't hold open doors for however long it takes They don't hold the smoke in when children pass by. They don't want to know.

But I want to know. If everyone could just chill the fuck out and look each other in the eyes without immediately looking away, it would be nice to share stories. People should know about all of the things going on around them, even if they aren't experiencing them, even if they're not in the news or on reality shows. I wouldn't be the only one that prefers an intense and deep conversation to a drunken interaction at a party for getting to know someone. People wouldn't just be identified by looks or relationships or whatever because there would be a whole story to every name.

I like that I am always excited to share my work and read the work of others. I like that I'm so excited I can't really get my thoughts together. I like that I don't set clear expectations for myself but I have high hopes. I like that sometimes I wander off to another thought. I like that I am so very desperate for recognition. I like that I chase after my aspirations. I like that I am passionate about my art. I like that I am wild.

But, who is really going to listen to me? I'm just another misfit.

Everyone seems to know my name, but they have know idea what I am.

Everyone else who is not already awake will be awake soon, maybe later.

I'm wrapped in a coat that smells like my blankets,
smells like the uncounted cigarettes I smoked before
the rain
and the snow
and the new year.

I'm fixing what I do because I can never fix myself.

I have so much work, so little focus, and so little time.

I feel like my morality might be the death of me if I don't get it under control.

Bela Lugosi's dead.

(undead, undead)







Things keep changing, and as I watch the world flow by, I see people drowning as they swim to survive.

I'm not sure how to feel right now, but that's pretty linear with my current state.

I'm only taking 12 hours, but they're all classes that a freshman would not usually be taking, even in their second semester. The Fiction Workshop professor even spoke with me after class because she was unsure about having me in her class. I told her I had already taken LANG 120 and 260, plus every AP English class offered in high school. She said that would probably make things a little easier, but that most freshmen floundered in that class. It was pretty frightening, because the professor also told the only other freshman in the class that she thought it was a no for her. So I might be the only freshman in that class... but that won't be terribly abnormal this semester, because I'm also the only freshman in Advanced Poetry, and one of few in Poetry Intro. I haven't been to Queer Fiction yet, so I'm not sure how my standing in that class is. I am actually more worried about Advanced Poetry than anything right now, because if I don't do well in that class, I feel like it will hurt me more as a person than as a student. I've started to consider writing as my specialty, so it would be so discouraging if I don't do well. I mean, I know what everyone says. I can't be perfect, and everyone is not going to like your poetry all of the time, or any of the time to be truthful. But, my arts mean a lot to me. I consider them to be a huge strength, so to be told I am weak in one or more than them is terrifying. It makes me think that I'm not good enough. I don't want to be just another artist that quits and works in a dead-end job because other people don't appreciate their work. That would quite possibly crush me.

On a brighter side, I spoke with my Queer Fiction professor regarding the idea of a minor in Gender Studies. She was pleased with the fact that I seemed knowledgeable and interested in the subjects, so we babbled back and forth a while about general gender and sex theories. I admitted that I'm not a feminist or even a strong believer in gender as both are currently defined, and I certainly don't believe in binary sex. I don't consider myself as being a gender radical. I'm a human-rights supporter and activist. I believe that all freedom is deserved as long as it remains neutral, which means it doesn't infringe on the freedom of others. My beliefs, opinions, and standards are too broad/vague to fit under one label, and I don't mind that because I don't think they need to. I shouldn't have to fit to a perfect standard.

Oh man, side-note: I have a mega-ratty mohawk now and I love it. The only problems are that I can't wear it up when I want to wear a hat, I have to constantly keep it maintained (which means I'm even more obsessive about my appearance than usual), I use up a shit-ton of hairspray, I need to buy another mirror, and I have to shower more than I like to. Actually, I have to shower even more than I need to.

It's kind of lonely here. Half of my friends are gone, the other half is busy or not hanging out with me for various reasons, and the new ones are really new. I don't really have that many people to talk to that I'm actually comfortable with. I eat meals by myself a lot of the time.

I miss a lot of people, and I didn't think it would be this difficult. For the most part, I feel like I didn't say my proper farewells.

I'm in the process of shaving my head, but I need scissors.

I am so pumped! Bring on the death hawk!

I cared that you were so completely beautiful
nothing but perfect as you sat next to me on your couch
both hands wrapped around your mason jar full of hot tea
that had undoubtedly gone too cold and strong by then
with the teabag still floating somewhere in its opaque midsts

what I mean is that it meant something that you were
so happy to see me and pick up where we had left off

I remembered the first time I spoke with you
and we read poetry to each other by an icy river in the mountains
while the others were off climbing mountains or something
that didn't really interest us

because we were just happy to sit there and ask
does this work?
do you know what I mean?
what am I doing with my life?

questions that could have mean everything at the time
were commonplace in those first moments
when I would try to keep my place in our conversation
when all I wanted was to run my hands through your hair

all I wanted was to tangle myself in you
all I wanted was to let you know

Here, the snow gathers on the ground and my spit melts a hole in the snow
that has gathered on the ground
and I start to wonder if it may be negative that I think in terms of poetics
and what will work in my life
and if I will work in my life

when I have never worked so hard as when I saved myself
because that's what I did
I saved myself

and I start to wonder how many people can say the same
and I don't know if it's positive that I can say such a thing

but here, the snow is crunched under the shoes I took from my mother
compacted into tiny crescents and perfect replicas of my underfoot

I like to think that taking a drag off my cigarette after a snowflake
landed on the cherry
maybe it is like going outside and spinning with arms outstretched
and mouth agape
maybe it is just a different way of tasting the snow
as a child would

when I know that clearly there is no taste
just smoke and the warm air from my body
clouding my vision

"it's in the white of my eyes"

Here is to the sunrise, which I swear I've never beheld, like the dying embers of a universe cradled in my palms
crushed like the petals of a flower that has been given no name
incandescent and blue faded to grey

they say she baked herself in an oven, without ginger and turpentine
just a rickety cadaver curled in on itself like feet bound by lace, supine blooms
and weak ankles

is it wrong that my concern is this life, I'm watching wilt as if it were a drowning cactus
not the trillions of others surrounding me, flawed just as much by their existence in singularity
isolation consuming them wholly
swallowed down into the acid rain
gathered in the demon's underbelly