shit, nothing makes sense, so i won't think about it

throw back to say anything. college is weird. it is and isn't everything i heard.

is: awesome, full of cool people, a lot of work, a lot of drinking, a lot of fun

isn't: full of boys dying to make sweet love to me, a place where i can blossom and be who I really am (hahaha that didn't sound hallmarkchannely at all).

i feel like just as much of a social retard as i did at home. more so, actually, because i have more opportunities to fall on my awkward face. one day, i'll be cool. or not probably. just as well, i don't think i'd be very good at being cool. i'm waiting for the roomie to get off the phone so i can try to sleep. i have to write a paper on pasolini's medea. a movie full of infanticide, polygamy, ritual sacrifices, and A CENTAUR!! he's my favorite part. he's so wise. nothing is natural in nature, the sanctity of god is a malediction, etc. i think i want to study films. I love film analysis. why can't i be interested in something lucrative? like engineering? architecture? well i do like the architecture, just not the math. i officially suck at art. there goes that dream. all i do is whine when i "blog". ugh still hate that word.

grime

my tv habits are probably a sign of a developing mental illness. all i watch is the disney channel and the occasional reba episode. i used to reject tv entirely. this is what my life has become. weed, poor hygiene, isolation, shitty tv, and a complete lack of giving a shit. sometimes i hate me. seriously. i'm watching fucking billy ray cyrus sing a song from the motherfucking hannah montana movie. this is what i've become. please tell me why i should continue to exist. cause i just don't know. did you know a cockroach can live three weeks with no head? i bet you did cause that's one of those "little known facts" that everyone knows. i should really be writing a paper. why bother even trying to not completely procrastinate. shittihatemylife. when does it start being awesome, cause so far? not even a little.

ohyeahyehayehahhhdsan

tonight, i can not sleep. i even got all settled and prepared for blissful unconciousness, read a little miranda july, and DID NOT GET EVEN SOMEWHAT close to sleep after and hour and a half of complete inactivity. fuck hot guys who are nice and wonderful and not interested. seriously, the reasonable amount of time for me to be unhappy about this bullshit elasped a long time ago. the amount of time alotted for me to be so disburbed and depressed by said bullshit that i cannot seemed to function right was never even fucking alotted because such a reaction is just ridiculous but i cannot seem to stop. bad dreams and insomnia are soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo lame. i really truly am just a silly teenage girl. i see what i'm doing but i just can't stop.

mulurp

that's the sound my soul would make right now. guess what I just figured out???????? all my password shenanigans, and the little auto fill version of my email had a comma in it. that whole time and I never figured it out. arg. i've got nothing. not a single thought in my brain except me marveling at the fact that it is devoid of anything. blank blank blank.

jizz. or is it gizz?

spring hatin on me cause i ain't ever sprung

i like to tell myself he stays on because he wants me to message him as much as i want him to message me. in reality, he's chatting up another poor girl, who is, as we speak succumbing to his unique brand of charm.

life barrels on like a runaway train

i'm watching muted old movies and listening to ben folds. i know you were dying to know what i was doing. am doing. i believe this is psycho. he's forgotten but not yet gone. i forgot how much i love ben folds till the concert. he's the man. the bitch from psycho has some intense eyebrows. hitchcock was pro with the cinematography. i think that what it's called. like how he works the shots, the angles, close-ups, etc. actually that's not cinematography. lemme look it up.The art or technique of movie photography, including both the shooting and development of the film. i guess that's right. well whatever that shits cool. maybe this isn't psycho i don't remember all this. mute. i think one of the drivers at work is doing coke in the bathroom all the time. he goes like 6-7 times in a shift. fucker didn't even show up yesterday. i liked him until that shit. damn. i hate feeling pretty alone in my room. what is the point of that? well, pretty for me. i never feel all that pretty to be honest. ever feel too smart to be pretty? wow i sound like a douche. smart in my book is not really a good thing though, kind of sucks. you know, ignorance is bliss and all that. cause i'm sure i sound astoundingly smart right now. yeah there's a first for everything so I took my old mans advice. is it wrong to find Norman Bates attractive? does it make me psycho by association? i can't even hear what he's saying. AW SHIT. i type/sing. don't hate. I mean, look at the lighting behind that owl and the way the shot is framed and how it all makes norman look progressively more creepy. that is fucking skill. maybe thats why old alfred is called a genius all the time. bates isn't so hot anymore. is that one or two words? god that bitch's eyebrows are killing me. she gets offed soon though. any minute really. oh no mother i have lustful feelings let me wear a dress and kill the bitch with bad eyebrows. oh snap check out her underwear. lemme put this creepy bird picture back. maybe he's still hot. oh no, he's getting out mommy. OH SHIT the shower. i sitll hesitate to take a shower at home alone. that hand shot is fantastic. beautifully crafted scene. alright i'm putting a stop to this nonsense, it's nothing but a but of self absorbed drivel.oh no mummy what have you done? not another one!

tyrone, i hate to admit it, but your mustache turns me on

you want to know something? i haven't a clue where that title came from. i feel like no one is ever even named tyrone in reality. it's like an 80's gay black man name. if it somehow makes me racist/homophobic to say that, I apologize, I did not mean to offend, that is just my perception of the name tyrone. you know, i keep mis-typing tyrone, and it ends up as try one. try one of tyrone's bones, they're all alone. in the zone. on the phone. the poetry of my soul just oozes out of my pores, i can't control it. i don't even find mustaches attractive. or tyrones. i really have nothing of value to say. what is there to talk about? my patheticism. shit we're returning to self-pity. NO! i refuse. tyrone. TYRONE. my soulmate's name will be tyrone. and he will have a fucking badass tom seleck mustache. you know, like that guy from three guys and a baby or whatever that movie is called. that movie sucked anyway. it was an 80's movie. like tyrone. the way my brain works makes me a little worried about my future. sometimes i feel like my only friend is the city I live in, the city of medicine, lonely as I am, together we cry. medicine just isn't as nice as angels. what is durham? the city of assholes is more like it. seriously, i don't think I even have a train of thought. more like a DATA-bus-with-a-drunken-bum-at-the-wheel of thought. train implies tracks, which implies a definite route, a direction, a place you are trying to get to. i have none of that. tyrone is alone, waiting for the phone, getting stoned, running from life with a moan. poor tyrone.

sometimes i like to pretend I can write.

a story I wrote that I hate a little less than everything else I produce for my many fans (if anyone does read i'd appreciate criticism):

Maggie trailed her finger along the windowsill, making a long, twisting path in the thick dust coating its surface. “How can you say maybe we’re just not compatible? I love him, that should be enough.” Maggie’s mother said, reaching for her coffee.
“You’d think.” Maggie’s aunt replied, back turned away from her sister, her face twisted as if she smelled shit, which, she thought, she did. “Generally, though, they have to love you back for it to work out, Freddie.”
“He does love me! He has to. He has risked so much for our relationship. ” Freddie slammed her full cup down, spilling coffee across the table. Maggie turned toward the conversation, intrigued by the change in her mother’s tone.
“You call what you two do a relationship?” Maggie’s aunt muttered, bending to clean the coffee off the table.
“I’ll prove it! I’ll show you!” Freddie rummaged through her purse, as Maggie’s aunt removed the dust that had found its way into Maggie’s hair. When she had found a scrap of newspaper, Myron Jones’s obituary, with a brief note scribbled on it, Freddie waved it in her sister’s face. Her sister sighed and took the scrap, staring into Myron Jones’s face, wondering if he had ever imagined what the declaration of his passing would be reduced to. She looked up into Freddie’s desperate face. “All that note tells me is that he likes to look at your naked ass. As I would expect, for who risks their wife’s wrath on someone without a ‘full, luscious, hunk of ass.’ He must have a soul full of romance though, to come up with a line like that.”
Maggie, beginning to tire of her mother’s lack of attention, tugged on her mother’s finger. Freddie jumped to her feet, snatching her hand away, startling Maggie into tears. “Go to hell with your moral superiority! My marriage has never satisfied me, my life has never satisfied me. But this man satisfies me. I don’t need you to approve.” She left, snatching up her purse on her way out the door.
Maggie and her aunt listened to gravel fly as Freddie sped off. When it occurred to Maggie her mother had just left, she began to cry in earnest. Her aunt knelt to comfort her, murmuring “We’re better off” into her hair.