goodbye to the green briar

I miss my little apartment by the sea (and by "sea" I mean the "sea of cars on I-15").

I am pretty adaptable to places, so I know I will soon get used to my new place and love it just as much (and probably much more-- I mean, it IS David Lynch's magical house of doors and mirrors), but there is still a sadness when saying goodbye to a place you have spent time and made memories in. Here are a few memories from the three months in apartment 1237...

*typing absurd poems at 2am on my absurdly loud typewriter
*convincing myself I was being attacked by bedbugs
*realizing the power (and necessity) of earplugs
*coming to kind of enjoy music playing 24/7
*drinking energy drinks at 3am and staying up until 8am
*reading hundreds of pages and writing more absurdities during these caffeine-fueled all-nighters
*witnessing the versatility of Top Ramen
*eating cottage cheese in the pantry so I wouldn't gross out Jack
*craving classical music
*watching a lot of "Curb Your Enthusiasm"
*oh yeah, and having a fair amount of emotional breakdowns... but hey, it may have helped me with the absurd writing! There's nothing like a good breakdown to produce some weird-as-shit dialogue.

And my roommates were fantastic. Lovely, lovely people. Even if one of them would, on occasion, snore. (Insert winking and smiling emoticon wearing alligator sunglasses.)

should be writing an article on banned books, but instead i am googling "alligator wearing sunglasses"

And here we go-- another list blog post. I started writing full sentences and even PARAGRAPHS, but then I decided to delete it all and just write what I am comfortable with, which is lists and erotic poetry. Joking about the erotic poetry, but maybe one day it will be less of a joke and more of a career move???

*the fairly entertaining trip down memory lane turned out to be more emotionally damaging than entertaining, but... "fuck" it. i can't let the past continue to dictate my present.
*tattoos. cool. but now i am wondering if i will ever get one? i either want a lot of tattoos or none. all the way or none of the way. lately, for some odd reason, i have been none of the way.
*why have i been none of the way? i have been playing around with the idea that i want to be fairly generic looking. not in a bad way. not in a good way. just in a way. very plain. plain clothes, neutral colors, no patterns. no jewelry. pale skin. perhaps kind of an androgynous feel?
*i sure feel stupid admitting all of this.
*i am neglecting my article. i should stop blogging about very insignificant things.
*but first i want to say that i have a sick feeling in my heart about someone(s) who may have stolen something. i say "may" because it could very well (and hopefully so) be untrue. rightful action, people. don't take things that aren't yours.
*and one final note: i can be quite the hypocrite. and i don't like that. something (me) needs to change (for the better).
*boring post.
*my apologies.
*also, i need to stop apologizing all the "GOSHDAMN" time.

HERE IS A PICTURE OF ALLIGATOR SUNGLASSES:

rooftops

I miss talking with people. I mean really talking with people. For hours, about nothing and everything. This, I think, mostly happened with casual acquaintances and strangers. Maybe I need to meet a few strangers.

if you leave me a comment or two or eighteen, i will take you out to dinner at red lobster

Currently sitting at my desk listening to Chopin.

Items on my desk:
*Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour an Introduction
*Scott Carrier's Running After Antelope
*Merriam-Webster's Pocket Dictionary
*an empty wine glass I used last night to drink half of a Wired energy drink (COOL)
*oh, and a laptop. go figure.

Today was:
hard.

Tonight will be:
better.

Tomorrow:
doesn't exist, silly.

Are my blog entries too long winded? Do I repeat myself? Do I question myself too much? How does my brain know that toothache cream exists? Does it? I'm pretty sure it does. Pretty, pretty, pretty damn sure.

Let's all watch the sunrise together.

sweet and sour

I need to stop being so annoyed of everyone. It's a terrible habit. Don't worry, I usually only get annoyed with strangers, not people I actually know. Because, well, people are actually pretty good people once you get to know them. The problem comes when you don't know the person. You can assign whatever personality, likes, dislikes, etc. to this person, thus falling in love with or hating an illusion.

Ah, illusions.

I suppose I could have said more about illusions than just "ah, illusions," but... Eh. I'll get to it one day. I'llusions get to it one day. What? What did I even mean by that? That was not clever, just weird. And confusing.

So anyway, back to the most obnoxious people on earth-- strangers. There is a boy and a girl on the 4th floor of the library, which is supposed to be SILENT, but they just have to keep talking and talking and laughing and talking about the most boring "SHIT" ever. I don't get it. How can people be so incredibly oblivious to simple social norms? Just be quiet. Or go to the 1st floor. Or better yet, go to The Creamery, order some Brigham Young vanilla, and continue to laugh your ass off in a more suitable environment for your wacky tales.

I'm sorry.

Namaste.

May all sentient beings be free from suffering and the root of all suffering.

Uh...

It's a free country?

Well, enough about bothersome chatterboxes-- let me instead make Jack blush and publicly announce that I love that little guy. He is such a damn sweetheart and he has this gift of making me feel instantly better by simply hugging me or holding my hand. His little gestures mean a lot to me, especially lately.

He's basically the Zooey to my emotionally unstable Franny.

freud, vacuums, and escaping through the window(s) (of our mind)

You can find Jack and I in the UVU "green" library almost every single night (except for Sunday boo hoo hoo) reading the "shit" out of "books." Wait. No quotations around BOOKS. We read so so so much. I think reading is a great escape, like sleeping, but in reality (what IS reality, really? in all reality, what is it?) reading and sleeping are the opposite of escapism... depending on what you read and who you sleep with, of course. Through great writing and messed up, wacky dreams, we confront reality all of the time. We confront difficult, baffling, absurd questions. I think the real escape, the true mindless escape is through television and US Weekly. And sometimes religion. And certain intoxicants. Not that escapism is necessarily a bad thing. There's a time and place for everything, no? I wish I could speak more intelligently about this, but alas I feel rather uniformed and uneducated on such matters. I suppose this is when I go to the bookshelf and pick up a few books and start reading and lo and behold I will magically transform into a well-informed babe with a brain. Boy. What am I even talking about? Just rambling. Just tired and wired ramblings.

Here's something that bothers me about the UVU library... Well, first of all, it's as cold as "SHIT" in here. Green my ass. Also, they vacuum the "SHIT" out of this place. Every single night we are here, four or five international students (who are seriously so cool... I guess I didn't have to mention they were international students, but I did and there is NO BACKSPACE KEY ON THIS KEYBOARD!!!) start vacuuming and emptying trashcans and wiping down desks and eying me suspiciously. I realize that they are just doing their job and that I am just easily annoyed and that I am just chronically paranoid, but can't a girl just have an absolutely silent, non-Arctic experience while she is reading books about body dysmorphic disorder? I guess not.

Fun fact: In his practice, Freud eventually had a patient who would today be diagnosed with the disorder: Russian aristocrat Sergei Pankejeff, nicknamed "The Wolf Man" by Freud himself in order to protect Pankejeff's identity, had a preoccupation with his nose to an extent that greatly limited his functioning.

this is me. i couldn't have described it more accurately. i am getting better. or at least trying to get better...

"The enormous psychic feats accomplished by the anorectic in her attempted suppression of need are exemplified in another way in which she relates to this body that is, and is not, hers. A notable experience for many women caught up on the anorectic treadmill is the involvement in physical regimens of a punishing and extraordinary nature. It is not uncommon to encounter an anorectic taking two or three 'killer' exercise classes in a row or working out for forty minutes a day on the Nautilus machine after a seven-mile run. An anorectic rarely uses public transport, not because it is disagreeable but because it is too indulgent. Strenuous exercise in increasing amounts is often central to the maintenance of a psychic balance as is the denial of food. It is possible to understand these physical efforts simply in the terms in which they are first described by the woman, that is, as the attempt to rid herself of the calories she has ingested and thus conceal that she has indulged by eating. But there seems to be much more involved in the frantic exercise programme than merely the efficient use of calories. In several instances I have been struck by how the completion of exercise rituals gives the woman a real feeling of accomplishment. The achievement temporarily counteracts the feelings of inferiority that the woman lives with so incessantly. If she can achieve such extraordinary feats on so little food, and with so little weight, then perhaps she is of some value. Sadly, these efforts have to be repeated daily and increasingly for the person to maintain the feeling, which is transitory. Nevertheless such efforts are in the service of attempting to look after herself and give herself good feelings in a way that is entirely within the anorectic's control. She is turning around the frail image of emaciation she represents to the world and defying the conventional notions attached to thinness and femininity." --from Hunger Strike: The Anorectic's Struggle as a Metaphor for Our Age by Susie Orbach

that seminary principal is in some serious shit. but this post has nothing to do with him. but please keep reading!

My Saturday, in words and holograms:

*Wake up at noon.
*Go to the Waters' garage sale and buy all of JARED'S Mormon novels about dancing.
*Get a full body massage by a man/boy/infant named Sam.
*Sam forgets to massage my right glute/ass cheek.
*Thanks for nothing, Sam.
*Go to DI, compete with JARED/"Jack" over books.
*Buy a couple of books, including a kick ass/glute Bob Dylan book.
*Go to Will's Pit Stop and buy coffee.
*Drink coffee too soon, burn tongue.
*Go into Borders and disguise coffee as Seattle's Best.
*Fool everyone.
*Read magazines about Vermont, New Mexico, and tattoos.
*Read 30 pages of Franny and Zooey. I have read it a few times before, but man oh man is it good.
*Realize Franny and Zooey is my favorite book, not Catcher in the Rye, although I still think Holden is a gentleman and a scholar.
*Go to my Mom's house and eat some shit. Not actual shit.
*Realize that I say the word "shit" about a million times more than I used to ever since I started dating JARED/"Jack Whatshisname."
*Write a blog post, contemplate my glutes.

LOVE YOU, SICKOS.

well, folks...

...I will probably be up all night. What in the world is there to do in this town on a Thursday night? Jack and I went to Barnes and Noble. They closed. We are now at the library, but they close in 34 minutes. Wal-Mart (or lovingly referred to as "Shit-Mart" by Jack) may be next... Not because I feel the desire to support soul rotting capitalism, but mostly so we can be in a well-lit place surrounded by soul rotting zoobies in terribly ugly flannel pajama pants (with a rubber duck or frog print). THEN WHERE TO NEXT?!? Most likely home. Read. Write. Discover my Buddha nature. Oh yes, there's always IHOP or Denny's. Can my Buddha nature be found in a Moons Over My Hammy? Dare I say yes. Yes. I dare.

I should probably just take a cocktail of sleeping pills and Xanax instead.

by far the dumbest post i have posted thus far

Eff you, Papyrus.

shorter entry, coming next! with pictures! and uplifting words! don't read this post below! read the one above!

Writer's block is by far one of the most annoying things to happen... ever? to me? when I'm trying to finish this very sentence? Man. Everything I've written lately has been severely subpar.

Very unimportant things that are currently bothering me:

*I hate my profile. As in my actual profile, not my Facebook profile. Although sometimes I hate that profile as well. But right now I like it. But I don't like my actual profile. Did I mention I don't like my profile? God. It doesn't matter.

*I don't know why I am an editor. I think I enjoy being an editor, but I really feel inadequate.

*Eff you, ADHD.

*I miss communicating clearly with others. I constantly feel (cue emo music) misunderstood.

*I am all Buddhist talk and no Buddhist walk. Ridiculous.

*Medication scares the bejesus and bebuddha out of me. I really think it changes personalities. It makes people less playful, more robotic.

Okay.

I have to do this now... Things that are not bothering me and actually make me quite relaxed and happy:

*Girlfriends.

*The library.

*Notebooks.

*Days off. (And although I do not currently work or go to school, I don't often have days off. Off of what, then? Oh, I know, I know. I'll save it for my lock and key journal.)

Cryptic post? I don't want it to be. I am going to copy and paste this and then put it into a word document and then print it off and then crumple it up and then stuff it in my mouth and then realize I hate the taste of computer paper so I take it out of my mouth and uncrumple it and fold it into the shape of a swan and then hitchhike out to the Great Salt Lake and release my paper swan into the lake only to realize that it is a crane and that it won't float.