Archive for November, 2010

Say, how’d you like to run away from these machines?

November 30, 2010

So I found these two 30 day challenges. I saw them popping up around imgfave, so I figured…why not combine the two? One’s a facial expression challenge and the other is just…a Tumblr challenge apparently but whatever. It’s cool.

The cool lack of alignment with them shows how gross I am and how I don’t know how the internet works or how to many anything pretty. Okay. so I have to take a picture of my mug.

 

#1. Regular face...or pissed face?

#1. The person I like and why I like him.

Wouldn’t it be horrendous if I didn’t put my boyfriend as the subject of my “like” in my blog entry? That is a level of bitchery I don’t think I’ll ever attain. Or, hopefully will never attain. I can do that level of bitch, but I reserve it for special situations. Back to the point of the question. I really don’t like being public about my feelings towards significant other(s), since we all know you can (or, at least I know I can…) feel things for a few people at once. I just don’t like being mushy outwardly. I put on this “tough bitch” facade I guess when I talk about relationships. And things. It’s so uncomfortable for me. I know that I could have avoided this entire situation by just not doing the challenge but I like to write, and this massacres my writer’s block for 30 days.

I keep digressing. I’m going to explain this in perhaps the least sentimental way someone can. The only person who needs to know the mushy, maudlin,  aspect of this is my boyfriend. SO! I like this guy. We’re dating. He goes by the name of Zachary, however, he prefers to be addressed as Zach. Sometimes I call him Zachary because I’m difficult and I like it better. He doesn’t complain. We met by chance on some drunken night, so of course the exchange of so much more information than the other needed to know occurred. I thought he was a STRAPPING YOUNG LAD because he’s good looking (I’m embarrassing myself) anddddd a good kisser, interesting, a good listener, funny, all of that jazz, so I was pleased that he wanted to exist in my life! I had no intent on dating him, or anyone, when we met and subsequently went on dates, but we know how that turned out.

Over time and over a bunch of bumps we really don’t need to address, I grew an affinity for the ginormous goof. One thing that I really like about him is that he has never made me feel stupid. I can say loads of unintelligible, shallow, and otherwise generally nonsensical things and he doesn’t get all high-and-mighty on my ass. Even though he fakes arrogance (or is it conceitedness? He has tried to explain the difference to me multiple times…) I don’t really feel condescension from him.

He’s really easy to talk to. Opening up isn’t something that I do easily or willingly. Generally, you have to get me at a thorough level of intoxication to get me to talk. Given, our preliminary heart to hearts were of the drunken sort, they ended up more frequently occurring when we were both sober. I didn’t feel any need to hold back when we spoke in the “getting to know you” phase, and even now, I have a willingness to express my feelings. Sometimes I don’t like to, but that’s just in my nature. I don’t think he realizes how much I say to him that I would otherwise refuse. Of course there is a lot of, “What’s up?” “I don’t want to talk about it.” “Tell me.” “No.” “Tell me.” “…Okay.” That goes on, but generally I don’t concede! I don’t! I’ll talk a big talk about whatever, act like I’m invincible, like nothing really matters to me. I’ll bellow, “FUCK BITCHES GET MONEY,” but I’m actually really sensitive. I don’t like addressing that side, but he makes it a lot easier to let the guard down.

The main draw was that he gets me. Like he’s been there you know? I like people who have life experiences, who can relate to me. I’m a heavy thinker, over-analyzer, worrier, dramatic, insane sort. I’m not saying he’s the same, because we’re actually pretty different, but he understands the emotional depth involved with me. It isn’t to say other people aren’t capable of comprehending the emotional depth, but I guess I don’t feel so guilty exposing him to mine. If this makes any sense at all…I just feel everything intensely. And he gets it. Sometimes. Most of the time. Maybe. I hope. I dunno. I usually feel extremely guilty admitting to anyone that I’m having a bad day, but I like that I don’t feel the guilt with him. I can admit these things and he’ll try to cheer me up.

OR COME OVER AND SURPRISE ME AND HAVE ME MAKE DINO SPUMONI. I LOVE MY DINO SPUMONI. HE’S A DINOSAUR.

I just guess he came at an interesting time for me. THAT I will barely get into. However, I wanted someone who made me feel normal. ANALOGY TIME! I felt like an antique toy. People are careful with you, put you on shelves, and take care of you. This is for the best. People love you, the toy, and don’ t want you to break. It’s cool and all, comes from a great place, but you’re a toy. That’s not what you were made for. You’re supposed to be outside of shelves and boxes. You’re supposed to experience things and a shelf is just where you go so people don’t hurt themselves on you while traversing through a dark room. I felt like he was taking me off of my shelf and into the world. He helped with a transition I really, really needed and I’m very grateful for that.

I feel like I’m being long-winded. Some of the other stuff is mushy and embarrassing and we all know how much I hate being, you know, emotionally vulnerable and things like that. Time to cut this short before I further embarrass myself with my stories of fondness.

Emotions are so gross.

Advertisements

Shut your eyes and sing to me.

November 17, 2010

So call me a masochist or call me weird or something, but I think that some of the best art/music/writing comes out of suffering, and oh, my friends, I am strugglin’.

It’s 1:06 AM. I have been studying all day, copying notes, writing journal entries, going to class, taking tests, and napping. I could be fast asleep, reading, watching TV, but I am choosing to write. Writing is one of the few things I feel an intense, unbreakable love for in my life. Writing is the only thing that makes sense to me. It’s one of the few things that feels natural; to me, writing is as necessary and natural as breathing.

I just got distracted for almost 20 minutes but I suppose that’s what happens when I have a minute to assess my life. My times. I’m going to make no sense and this is going to be marvelous.

It’s hard for a person like me to be a functional member of society. I might seem disorganized, frazzled, and irresponsible–like I have my priorities all wrong. Well, maybe the life that’s expected of me puts priorities in the wrong order. That sounds like I don’t want to take responsibility for my actions, and believe me, I would take responsibility for them if I felt the need to. I’m not one to shrug of my mistakes. Ever. I just don’t think that a practical life is the one that I really feel like I should be living. I don’t take much joy in organizing things, I hate forms, I hate sheets, I hate deadlines, I hate schedules.

It sounds like I don’t like school, but I do like it. I enjoy (some) of my classes very much. I like doing my work sometimes. It’s often stressful, but at the end of it I like having a concrete representation of something I’ve learned. That much structure has been drilled into my head, at least. I, however, find little joy in things that I have no particular interest in. I have a pretty fierce independent streak if I am impassioned about an area of my life. If I don’t care, tell me what to do, I’ll do it.

I guess I’m just restless. I’m learning all of these things–about dopamine cells not occurring in the substantia nigra which terminates in the basal ganglia, that phenylalanine can lead to mental retardation, that Schoenberg liked to use the chromatic scale, but what does it even mean, anyways? I’m always looking for some stupid deeper meaning in my life and, god damn it, I’m 20 years old. It’s not happening any time soon, is it? I’m supposed to be doomed to some shallow developmental existence and I hate it. Then, I get older and I get pissed off that I’m losing my carefree youth. This is just a splendid example of how I don’t know what I want. Ever. Do I want a meaningful life or do I want capricious fun?

It’s so hard to fit into a world where you feel like you don’t belong. I’m not even talking about my school or my friends, because I do feel a nice sense of belonging amongst them. Somehow, I’ve found people who get me. I just feel like my role in society is very much…undetermined. I’m little Anita, barely can remember what I had for breakfast, can’t do addition or subtraction all that well, what good am I? Writing dumb, rambling things is something I’m not particularly good at, but I feel very strongly for it. I feel as though blogging, like this, spewing feelings into a box could make me feel like I have meaning. Of course, it could never be my livelihood. It really is unfortunate that our passion has to be our livelihood–or at least that’s how I see it. I’m very much interested in being a psychologist, given that’s what I’ve been going to college for. I’m just afraid of failure. It’s so real-world. I’m so…detached from the whole actually leading a real life thing. I’m much better suited to sit here and ramble…but if I end up without any money I wouldn’t get wifi, so I couldn’t ramble to anyone but the people in the streets. I’m not sure how well passersby would take to that.

I just want so many things that aren’t practical for me, and oh, how I hate practicality.