I can't describe what's wrong with me. I must need some extracurriculars or something, because there has never been a time in my life when I have been more terribly lonely. Almost all of my friends live somewhere far enough away that it's rare to see them, and I have never needed good friends more than I do right now. I wish I still lived with Ryan, with his near-religious drinking binges on Thursday nights. I wish I still lived across the hall from Mark and Kai and Jennifer. I miss random dinner invitations, prohibitions against going to bed simply "because you're in college," and watching documentaries about ice bergs on Friday nights because it was by far the best thing on TV--with Mark's commentary.
I am feeling so nostalgic that I can barely function.
I hate school so bad that it's a struggle to get out of bed in the morning, no matter how much sleep I've had. I do my assignments and assloads of projects from a waning fear of failure than from any commitment to the discipline or interest in the subject matter. May seems hopelessly far away. I'm running on fumes and have been since August.
Life seems to have completely lost its meaning, which is encouraging only in that it means it once had some to lose. I have no direction and no impetus but inertia, no plan but the vague hope that someday, if I keep working hard, I'll be happy again, but I suspect this last to be the holdovers from my conservative Protestant background.
There's really only one thing that makes me happy anymore, and it's poisoned by not being able to tell most people about it. There is no aspect of my life whose potential to yield me happiness is not sabotaged, and I resent it.
29 October 2007
17 October 2007
"I don't care... (presumably about) tacos"
This story needs to be told. Being the social archivist that I am, I have committed it to writing. Read on:
Not long ago, Gulley and I were having drinks and appetizers at Applebee's, as we are wont to do when she's in town. Because we're both textbook misanthropes, the bulk of our conversation is centered around who or what we hate. Traffic violations, people too stupid to commit appropriate traffic violations, the morbidly obese, restless leg syndrome, anything that we can wrap our minds around and for which a seemingly articulate reason for disliking it can be found.
Well, embroiled as we were in this discussion, we nearly missed the greatest treasure of anecdotal history we're likely to ever witness, one on par with Lewis Black's "if it weren't for my horse" story. Not two tables away, an irritating man was addressing his crowd of lady-friends. He was tall, with dark hair, overly greased but well-manicured, and he was proclaiming his apathy for tacos.
I'm getting ahead of myself, so let's step back a level of abstraction.
What he said was, "I don't care. We can go to my house... get some tacos." His pronunciation of "tacos" was particularly intriguing: he said it with a definite diphthong in the first syllable, like, "tyah-coes." Perhaps this contains a nucleus of information that will help aid in our interpretation of his arcane statement, rife as it is with meaning. What was he trying to say?
Naturally, our theories on proper interpretation abound. Is he perhaps declaring himself to be like the wicked witch in a Marxist reading of Hänsel und Gretel, possessed of so much food that he has literally constructed his home from it, perhaps with the intent of luring in attractive, hungry women? If so, this approach seems a poor one to execute within a restaurant, where food is readily available at what most would agree is a reasonable price. And furthermore, why tacos? Why not flan? Really, when you're dealing with this level of absurdity, a dessert would be a better idea, and certainly more true to the wicked witch tradition.
Or perhaps he is advertising his wealth. He has so many tacos at home that he just needs to get rid of them, and these lovely ladies seem to have such refined pallets that going home with him and indulging in his surplus of tacos would be a mutually advantageous solution to propose. The fact that tacos cost money is a parallel that the ladies are meant to draw on their own, thus enhancing their opinion of their greasy friend while at the same time sating their collective appetite for Tex-Mex.
The list of possible interpretations exceeds practicality in this medium, where brevity is so treasured, but be advised that I am willing to discuss them--at length--should you choose to offer your own.
Not long ago, Gulley and I were having drinks and appetizers at Applebee's, as we are wont to do when she's in town. Because we're both textbook misanthropes, the bulk of our conversation is centered around who or what we hate. Traffic violations, people too stupid to commit appropriate traffic violations, the morbidly obese, restless leg syndrome, anything that we can wrap our minds around and for which a seemingly articulate reason for disliking it can be found.
Well, embroiled as we were in this discussion, we nearly missed the greatest treasure of anecdotal history we're likely to ever witness, one on par with Lewis Black's "if it weren't for my horse" story. Not two tables away, an irritating man was addressing his crowd of lady-friends. He was tall, with dark hair, overly greased but well-manicured, and he was proclaiming his apathy for tacos.
I'm getting ahead of myself, so let's step back a level of abstraction.
What he said was, "I don't care. We can go to my house... get some tacos." His pronunciation of "tacos" was particularly intriguing: he said it with a definite diphthong in the first syllable, like, "tyah-coes." Perhaps this contains a nucleus of information that will help aid in our interpretation of his arcane statement, rife as it is with meaning. What was he trying to say?
Naturally, our theories on proper interpretation abound. Is he perhaps declaring himself to be like the wicked witch in a Marxist reading of Hänsel und Gretel, possessed of so much food that he has literally constructed his home from it, perhaps with the intent of luring in attractive, hungry women? If so, this approach seems a poor one to execute within a restaurant, where food is readily available at what most would agree is a reasonable price. And furthermore, why tacos? Why not flan? Really, when you're dealing with this level of absurdity, a dessert would be a better idea, and certainly more true to the wicked witch tradition.
Or perhaps he is advertising his wealth. He has so many tacos at home that he just needs to get rid of them, and these lovely ladies seem to have such refined pallets that going home with him and indulging in his surplus of tacos would be a mutually advantageous solution to propose. The fact that tacos cost money is a parallel that the ladies are meant to draw on their own, thus enhancing their opinion of their greasy friend while at the same time sating their collective appetite for Tex-Mex.
The list of possible interpretations exceeds practicality in this medium, where brevity is so treasured, but be advised that I am willing to discuss them--at length--should you choose to offer your own.
15 October 2007
Bleargh
Went back to the doctor today, having finally admitted defeat, and much to my chagrin he was still not able to tell me what the hell is wrong with my leg. Turns out I probably didn't ever have a potassium deficiency, and the score of bananas I ate the other day didn't do much aside from two days of crippling gas that were the byproduct of such a rapid influx of fiber.
Unfortunately, the nurse who called me with my blood test results failed to mention that I actually had some sort of virus, because she was busy telling me that there was absolutely nothing wrong with me.
Coincidentally, I also seem to have a blood clot in my right leg, and that's likely to be what's causing the severe pain when I try to walk. Right now, it's just guesswork, but some tests that I'm having done this Wednesday will hopefully verify or refute the theory. Really, I welcome any identified problem that has a not-too-terrible solution. I'm just tired of not knowing what's wrong.
This post was supposed to have a whole lot more substance, but then it would've been a lot longer. To sum it up, though, a girl hit the handicapped button for me in the Humanities and Social Sciences building today. I said, "Whoa!" when the door opened in front of me, forcing me to scurry away. When I finished doing the math, I looked behind me and guess I thanked her, because she said, "You're welcome; I thought you'd need it."
It was nice, if awkward.
Unfortunately, the nurse who called me with my blood test results failed to mention that I actually had some sort of virus, because she was busy telling me that there was absolutely nothing wrong with me.
Coincidentally, I also seem to have a blood clot in my right leg, and that's likely to be what's causing the severe pain when I try to walk. Right now, it's just guesswork, but some tests that I'm having done this Wednesday will hopefully verify or refute the theory. Really, I welcome any identified problem that has a not-too-terrible solution. I'm just tired of not knowing what's wrong.
This post was supposed to have a whole lot more substance, but then it would've been a lot longer. To sum it up, though, a girl hit the handicapped button for me in the Humanities and Social Sciences building today. I said, "Whoa!" when the door opened in front of me, forcing me to scurry away. When I finished doing the math, I looked behind me and guess I thanked her, because she said, "You're welcome; I thought you'd need it."
It was nice, if awkward.
10 October 2007
Hippocrates was RIGHT!
I went to my doctor almost a week ago, complaining to him of chills, lightheadedness, a cramp in my leg, fatigue and headaches. He was stumped. Like, completely stumped. About all he did was check to make sure my lymph nodes weren't swollen, which would indicate a return of mono. He didn't find that. Oh, and he also poked me in the leg really hard where it hurts, either out of malice or from wanting to experience by the proxy of my anguished moans just HOW BAD it hurt.
He sent me to their lab to have a blood sample taken. Due to my acute fear of needles and most anything touching on the subject of blood, this was a traumatic event to say the least. His nurse practitioner called me today to tell me that there's nothing wrong with my blood. "Bitch! There's something fucking wrong with my BODY! Can't you see the forest for the trees!?" I replied, though not in those words. She said she would confer with the doctor when he returned tomorrow, presumably from a vacation to his money bin.
Well, this led to an approximately five-minute AIM conversation with Amanda J. Gulley, in which she asked me questions about my leg, rather than poking at it really hard. By clever manipulation of the mysterious point-and-click interface on WebMD, she told me that I probably had a potassium deficiency. So I ate a banana.
And now I feel better.
He sent me to their lab to have a blood sample taken. Due to my acute fear of needles and most anything touching on the subject of blood, this was a traumatic event to say the least. His nurse practitioner called me today to tell me that there's nothing wrong with my blood. "Bitch! There's something fucking wrong with my BODY! Can't you see the forest for the trees!?" I replied, though not in those words. She said she would confer with the doctor when he returned tomorrow, presumably from a vacation to his money bin.
Well, this led to an approximately five-minute AIM conversation with Amanda J. Gulley, in which she asked me questions about my leg, rather than poking at it really hard. By clever manipulation of the mysterious point-and-click interface on WebMD, she told me that I probably had a potassium deficiency. So I ate a banana.
And now I feel better.
08 October 2007
Madam Bigglesworth
I was talking to Sam on my way to work this morning, and he posited an interesting theory: that my Labrador, Madison, is in fact much smarter than I give her credit for (eg, the crash helmet, safety harness and insatiable love of squeak toys are all part of an elaborate ruse). Not content to merely shatter the paradigm I have of "lovable pet" he went on to suggest that, in my absence, my faithful companion has devised a Houdini-like means of escaping her crate, whereupon she celebrates by cavorting around my apartment, careful not to make any messes lest I become wise.
I had nearly dismissed this absurd notion from memory when an interesting turn of events gave me pause. My International Technical Communication class was canceled this morning because Dr. Malone is sick, and so I came home approximately an hour earlier than normal. When I opened the door, I was warmly greeted by an unrestrained canine, who took one look at me and, shoulders slouched, retreated to her crate.
I can't help but wonder: if I had come home an hour later, would I have made the same discovery? Could I have forgotten to lock one of the doors, or is my dog an evil genius? Further, am I in danger? I like to think that I've built great rapport with Madison by continuing to feed her and care for her, but I'm afraid some of my intentions may have been misunderstood. I didn't worry at the time how she wouldn't understand that the humiliation of a bath was good for everyone, nor did I worry about the vehemence with which I scolded her when she messed on the carpet. Suddenly, that she shredded a DVD copy of "Monster-in-Law" seems much more significant. Though she perhaps is not yet conversant in English, she may have merely been expressing refined taste in cinema.
The days of blissful ignorance are over, I'm afraid. My dog has matured, and now I've got to apologize for a conspicuously missing uterus.
I had nearly dismissed this absurd notion from memory when an interesting turn of events gave me pause. My International Technical Communication class was canceled this morning because Dr. Malone is sick, and so I came home approximately an hour earlier than normal. When I opened the door, I was warmly greeted by an unrestrained canine, who took one look at me and, shoulders slouched, retreated to her crate.
I can't help but wonder: if I had come home an hour later, would I have made the same discovery? Could I have forgotten to lock one of the doors, or is my dog an evil genius? Further, am I in danger? I like to think that I've built great rapport with Madison by continuing to feed her and care for her, but I'm afraid some of my intentions may have been misunderstood. I didn't worry at the time how she wouldn't understand that the humiliation of a bath was good for everyone, nor did I worry about the vehemence with which I scolded her when she messed on the carpet. Suddenly, that she shredded a DVD copy of "Monster-in-Law" seems much more significant. Though she perhaps is not yet conversant in English, she may have merely been expressing refined taste in cinema.
The days of blissful ignorance are over, I'm afraid. My dog has matured, and now I've got to apologize for a conspicuously missing uterus.
03 October 2007
How do you say "depressed" in French?
Graduate school has gone from a nebulous idea of a utopian paradise where I would be on a first-name basis with professors who respected me and recognized my latent talent, to a dull reality whose expiration I plotted on my calendar to the tune of “Pomp and Circumstance,” and then made a final metamorphosis to a harshly synthetic pipedream where onion-like layers of pointless theory are stacked one on top of the other in a kind of Procrustean exercise to transform what seemed a practical, skill-building course of study into a grotesque parody of literary theory.
I’m just shy of two months into my graduate career, which means that I have finished about 18% of my Master’s degree, and the only light at the end of the tunnel is the promise of a job that will help me to pay back the mountain of student loan debt I’ve accrued in cobbling together an education. In all likelihood, this will not be a job I enjoy, and the probability that I will not be good at whatever job I get approaches 100%.
So far, the only advantage I have that I can attribute to my well-rounded education is my ability to recognize and articulately comment on my own unhappiness. In general, I’m bitter, pessimistic, cynical and angry way more often than any given situation warrants.
If it weren’t for Cracked and Penny Arcade, and maybe God (?) I’d probably start shooting up and drinking a lot.
I’m just shy of two months into my graduate career, which means that I have finished about 18% of my Master’s degree, and the only light at the end of the tunnel is the promise of a job that will help me to pay back the mountain of student loan debt I’ve accrued in cobbling together an education. In all likelihood, this will not be a job I enjoy, and the probability that I will not be good at whatever job I get approaches 100%.
So far, the only advantage I have that I can attribute to my well-rounded education is my ability to recognize and articulately comment on my own unhappiness. In general, I’m bitter, pessimistic, cynical and angry way more often than any given situation warrants.
If it weren’t for Cracked and Penny Arcade, and maybe God (?) I’d probably start shooting up and drinking a lot.
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