saturday, september 21

My mom keeps calling and telling me to go back to a therapist. Talk about the pot calling the fucking kettle black. [10:09 PM]

OMG we have Tool tickets! We'll probably have to use binoculars to see the band but oh well I don't care we have Tool tickets! Yay!

Weird thing too, last night Luke and I were just driving aimlessly around Long Island wondering where the Nassau Colliseum was, and then we saw this huge building and were like "Oh." It's in this town called Farmingdale which we both assumed was bigger than it really is. Half of it is a hoochie-mama haven. But, oh well...sorry I'm too incoherent to think of anything interesting...

Oh yeah, so much for my webpage plans. I got outbid by a "professional."

I'm home on a Saturday night because we didn't have enough money for me to stay two nights. Which is OK. Because I get to see him every week, on a regular basis, and there's none of these wrenching goodbyes, and we're so close together, and it's good, and yeah...but, it feels so short, like I'm there and then I'm gone again. But this is better than before and I have to remember that. And it's only 5 more days...

Once again it is way too hot around here. I effing hate these Indian summers. O great winter wind, cometh and bringeth thy frost. Or something.

...And my soda just exploded. So, on that note, goodnight. [9:26 PM]

thursday, september 19

YAAAAAAAAH Tool are playing on Long Island this Halloween! Tickets go on sale Saturday! I could just die. In fact I think I will. But not before I get something to eat cos I am starving.

Luke said that the owners of the restaurant he works at are interested in me redesigning their website. Gah, great, another thing to stress me out. Every idea I think of is complete shit. Oh well, it's (most likely) better than what they have now. Gah I am so bad at webdesign...

I should really get a bagel or something. [3:55 PM]

wednesday, september 18

Through a rather spontaneous quixotic burst of inspiration I decided to say hello to ASD. And because the newsreader I downloaded looks like shit, I checked up on Google for responses to my post. Right below it was a message containing my name, from sometime in July. It concerned another member of the group who was currently in a physically abusive relationship. Someone asked, "Well, you're getting a lot of good responses here. Will any of it sink in?" Another member replied, "Judging by the results we got with Badly Drawn Girl, I doubt it."

The reply to this was, "That's about what I'm figuring. Kinda sucks, but hey they gotta live their lives. I got my own to live. Hopefully they'll make it out of those relationships sadder but wiser -- at least that's the best case scenario that I can envision. So it goes."

I don't even have words to form a coherent reply to this sort of backwards reasoning, except to say that their idea of "best case scenario" has apparently no relevance whatsoever to my situation. Thank god. The fact that my relationship is still being compared to physically abusive partnerships still baffles me to no end - to their credit, of course, I got the hell out of Dodge before they could see things with me get better. But oh well. To make use of those words of wisdom, "I got my own life to live." And fuck them if I'm pretty damn happy with it. [5:16 PM]

Yeah, so, elevators are evil.

The last one stopped at every single floor except the 11th floor. Which, of course, is my floor. Naturally. [5:04 PM]

Agh I just spent $9.69 for lunch at Au Bon Pain...I am going to kick myself for this later...

One of the elevators in my building has decided that it's a good idea to stop on every floor. Even if no one's getting off.

I'm starting to really dislike Creative Writing. Not because I'm forced to display to the world the extent of my bad writing, although that sucks too. The people are just...I don't know. There's a girl from Brooklyn who's always the first to jump in with why she doesn't like this and that about poems. Apparently her mother never taught her "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." She also apparently never taught her "If your own poem sucks, don't go around telling everyone else that theirs sucks too." No one really wants their work critiqued, and no one really wants to read other people's work. They just want to go around in a circle and get a pat on the back and a compliment about how the "rhythm flows" or the "language really snaps." Everyone wants theirs read first. I didn't even get my poem for this week read yet. And I don't really give a fuck, because I don't want it read by people who don't give a fuck either.

But anyway. The weather's nice today.

God damn this salad is good. [2:29 PM]

tuesday, september 17

I had a number of miniature banana nut muffins that I was all excited to have for breakfast, and now they have mysteriously vanished. This is a source of great distress to me. [10:07 AM]

monday, september 16

It seems that my entire Abnormal Psych lecture has disappeared off the face of the earth.

I showed up at the regular lecture room at 3:25 on the dot, to find the entire place empty. Another girl wandered over looking totally bewildered. There was no note on the door, no mention of this at last Wednesday's class, and no emails.

So, I got a fruit smoothie and went back home. Oh well. [3:57 PM]

Creative Writing class. Blaaaaaaah.

I used to be quite the writer, very prolific, way too good for my age. Then about four years ago whatever was inside me that was letting me write either died or went on long-term hiatus and has yet to return. Naturally I can bang out a term paper while unconscious, and I'll almost always get an A on it, but who gets any satisfaction out of writing a 10-page linguistics thesis (other than the satisfaction of knowing you've fooled your instructor into thinking you know what you're talking about)? Thus I forced myself into a creative writing class in the hopes of reviving my artistic muse but so far it's only managed to drive me nuts.

I wrote a little poem about driving on the L.I.E. that I'm not sure makes any sense. People seemed to like my last poem, which was even worse, so I may have some hope in this. But I dunno.

And as a side note, I think that Ben Kweller song is a piece of donkey dung. "Sex reminds her of eating spaghetti"? Yeah shut up you little snot. [2:28 PM]

sunday, september 15

If it's going to be this humid, why doesn't it just rain already? Seriously.

Pearl Jam has a new single out. The last time that happened it was godawful; I'm happy to say this time around the result was much better. Friday night Luke and I drove around Long Island with the windows down, Camel menthols trailing from our fingers, listening to the song on KROCK and feeling the wind from outside. It was the best thing I'd ever felt. He took me to see the house he used to live in as a boy, and his first elementary school. "That's where this kid hit me in the back with a brick," he pointed out when we went by the playground. "I beat him up first though, so I deserved it."

Then we drove to Mineola and went by his biological father's house. His biological father left when he was 2. That was the last time they saw each other.

We sat outside the house for a bit while he smoked a cigarette and just stared up at the one lit window on the second floor. "Come to the window, asshole," he kept saying. But no one came to the window. "Maybe you should throw something up at it," I suggested. But he didn't feel like it. "I never really had a dad so to speak," he was like. "Eventually I'll probably go over and say hi. I'd have to be in a seriously fucking weird mood."

He stared at the house for a little while longer while he finished his cigarette. Nothing moved from inside the illuminated bedroom. "He's not a nice guy my dad," he said. "Very irresponsible." Then we drove away. [3:34 PM]