Today I bought:
-the (real?) fur coat of my dreams
-rainbow heart earrings
-red suspenders

...for fifty dollars.




SUCCESS!

I am used to running rampant, wildly thrashing through woods, life, and stars. I am not used to going to bed early, waking up early, and fulfilling obligations that I do not really feel obligated to fulfill. I am used to spending my time in smoky diners and driving aimlessly while listening to music on my busted speakers. I am not used to a short leash and a choke collar, the looming threat of homelessness if I don’t snap out of my shit. But, this is why I loathe and love mania, because it doesn’t feel wrong. It feels dangerous and hopeful. I bask in these euphoric feelings, because at least I’m not numb. No, I’m not numb now and although it hurts so bad to be caged, the reward is there, my freedom is just a wormhole away.

Welcome to the world of GNPs. Welcome to the world of ambiguous conversation.

I am a mess, but still so lucky. I go to sleep with the taste of illness seeping through my pillow and wake up drenched in blood. God has a strange way of pulling zir children to zir side. I imagine my wings growing beneath my skin, the surface rippling until it tears like paper and they push through, covered in ichor.

Pomegranates are not as delicious as I used to imagine. I thought of Persephone crushing a soft seed between her molars and how the pulp would gush from the ruptured skin in a vibrant rush of juice. In reality, pomegranate juice is kind of brown, especially when bottled and organic. If you shake up a bottle of organic pomegranate juice, the bubbles at the top are rusty brown. It tastes thick and cloys sharply, not like any kind of ripe citrus. I wish Persephone had eaten grapefruit, pealed the thick layers back until she got to the shiny pulp and then plucked up the chunk of fruit flesh with her hands before sucking it into her mouth and bursting it all with a press of her tongue. Maybe then I wouldn’t imagine Persephone as clueless, but still I wonder what would happen if Persephone had gotten sick after swallowing Hades’ seed and vomited. Would she still spend such a long time underground? Would winter be shorter, more bearable? Sometimes I wish Persephone had purged that seed.

I am a reaction, a combination, and an explosion of so many different components. I imagine I exist as being made up of other existences. It hurts to think this way, but I am still imagining the blurring lines between me and the air, the way I'm constantly growing and decaying, becoming something new before I even know it. Imagine that you feel ever bit of stardust vibrating in your body, the glitter of your words' fiery combustion.

I may withdraw from this semester. I don't know how to function when I am all over the place. I can see so many moments from so many directions through so many eyes. When I am wanting to lash out at every angle, it's difficult to sit still and go into the rigor mortis motions of this daily life I live by choice.

Words are magical in every language. Don't doubt their impact on the vast around you.

How do we feel?

BABY BUTT.

What can I tell you when you're away? I've been meaning to say something, something beautiful that would choke your sobbing in sweetly blushing clouds. Maybe I'm not meant to be a creation, but I'm meant to create. Maybe I'm meant to be a good number of things. Maybe that number is nine, or maybe it is seven, or four-hundred and seventy-nine. Maybe it is so many things you and I could never hope to count them, but they would all be beautiful.

What have I learned since you've been away? More than I can remember, but then again, maybe you only learn what you can remember. I remember that love is a concept and not a concrete object. I remember that camp is only a parody, but I would love to live my life as a parody anyways. I remember knocking over the trash can, falling onto a pile of garbage, and thinking it was a decent place to sleep. I remember how blanched the world was after my fourth day without sleep.

I don't think it's a routine unless it comes in threes. I don't think it's love until I'm down on my knees.

p.s. My hair is growing back faster than I had imagined it would. Pictures soon.

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.