(no subject)
I slept through Buddhism today. I feel like an utter failure. I still don't have any ideas for my shakespeare paper, I lost my phone card, and Ben said some really hurtful things to me.
On a happier note I now have long underwear and it's way hott. I don't have a penis to put in it though and there's all this crotch room.
So I'm thinking that because my whole wanting to be a boy thing is an outgrowth of aggressor identification that it's not healthy. I'm going to try really hard to let go of that and I think part of that would involve coming to terms with violent shit that's happened to me. Unfortunately, my therapist says that means talking about it.
Life is suffering doesn't make as much sense anymore because I realized it doesn't help anyone. What's the point of making myself suffer because I'm not helping anyone if it does no good?
I slept at home last night. Next year I think I want to be a commuter. I mean, it's nice having my own internet connection but I don't like living away from home. Last year I was ready and it was good but because of shit that happened last year, now I'm not as comfortable with it. Yes, I'm a big loser.
Several people are going to meet up with me and Dan (is that right?) at the parade. I'm looking forward to the city more than I was the other day.
I need to be good to myself and that means buying books at The Strand that are 100% I-want-to-read-this and no I-should-read-this. The Brothers Karamazov is rewarding yet mildly painful. I think I'm growing out of my russian literature phase. New phases may include Anne Sexton, Joyce Carol Oates, and books about lesbians.
On a happier note I now have long underwear and it's way hott. I don't have a penis to put in it though and there's all this crotch room.
So I'm thinking that because my whole wanting to be a boy thing is an outgrowth of aggressor identification that it's not healthy. I'm going to try really hard to let go of that and I think part of that would involve coming to terms with violent shit that's happened to me. Unfortunately, my therapist says that means talking about it.
Life is suffering doesn't make as much sense anymore because I realized it doesn't help anyone. What's the point of making myself suffer because I'm not helping anyone if it does no good?
I slept at home last night. Next year I think I want to be a commuter. I mean, it's nice having my own internet connection but I don't like living away from home. Last year I was ready and it was good but because of shit that happened last year, now I'm not as comfortable with it. Yes, I'm a big loser.
Several people are going to meet up with me and Dan (is that right?) at the parade. I'm looking forward to the city more than I was the other day.
I need to be good to myself and that means buying books at The Strand that are 100% I-want-to-read-this and no I-should-read-this. The Brothers Karamazov is rewarding yet mildly painful. I think I'm growing out of my russian literature phase. New phases may include Anne Sexton, Joyce Carol Oates, and books about lesbians.