(no subject)
I still feel sick, my stomach is all jumpy/nauseous/not happy . . . not really being helped by the 2 liter bottle of diet cherry coke sitting next to me . . . that I keep drinking out of. Ahhhhhhh . . . I bought a pair of jeans from the Gap, which are okay (my old Gap jeans have a less-than-appropriate hole near the crotch that can no longer be ignored), but I'm in a weird in-between size, and I hate super loose jeans, but ended up getting the larger size because that's def a better alternative than jeans that hug your ass (so says Anna, the soon to be (hopefully) fashion intern for a certain teen magazine).
I have a lot of books around . . . I have an awful headache. I may do laundry tomorrow, but probably not. It's so foggy tonight, I can't see the Empire State Building from my window. Usually I am able to. I'm ready to head into my last semester with grace, poise, style, and flair. I think I'm about 85% fully realized, self-defining and 15% stroppy adolescent. Goal? To synthesize the two parts of myself, stop getting overwhelmed about the small stuff, just relax . . .
and stop being bitchy and judgmental and angry . . . what happened to my sparkliness?
If I closed my eyes and tried to figure out what animal I was, I think I would say a moose. Is that an improvement? Mooses seem pretty cool, solid, determined . . . strong as hell . . . but they get spooked easily and stampede, don't they? I used to have this really cool stuffed moose, I think a lot of people did. It was kind of one of those better quality stuffed animals (the types also appropriate for display) and had a ribbon tied around his neck. Wonder what happened to him?
I would never want to date a hedge fund manager. Or anyone in finance. Or anyone from NYC. I hate how NYC makes so many people into assholes . . . and then they don't even realize it, it happens so gradually. I hate the fact that money is so important. I hate the fact that so many people I've met have been such pretentious pricks, even people I want to admire. Unless it's just my perceptions, and I need sensitivity training or something, unless I'm out of touch and anachronistic because of the way I was raised, but I don't think so . . . but it's just . . . god, I hate how on my personals ad (I've never responded to a message) someone will leave a message saying "wanna come over?" Yes, because I've never met you and you have a picture of yourself wearing ugly as sin bathing trunks on a beach, yes, please, let's fuck.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
But of course, on personals sites, it is so contrived . . . but there has to be a middle ground . . . I want to meet someone in a cute romantic comedy way, and how's that going to happen when NYC seems to be crawling with pathetic baby perverts with an unresolved Oedipus complex? Erica Jong, help me, because I don't know how I can ever navigate myself into adulthood and non-neurotic singledom in this society. Oh, right, everyone had ANALYSTS then, but what good is that? And I have a Useless Therapist who's budget and more for show than anything, all part of my soundstage for Anna's Charmingly Neurotic Big City Life. Me and Bridget Jones could be rooommates and live in Camberwell and eat Sainsbury's chocolate rolls whilst watching "Wife Swap" (British or American edition). And I don't want that, I want HONESTLY, no pretension, no blogs (guilty as charged), abso-fucking-lutely no angsty little slackers with tons of money who think they are so deep.
Gahhhhhhh, I don't want to be a cynical disallusioned bunny (or moose, as the case may be). I want beauty, truth, reality and love love love and I know it exists in NYC, it does, it does, it does, but it's the way the mixed up aphorism goes: "some things have to be believed to be seen." And how can I get back the believe, the optimism, the wonder . . . gah, existential crisis/confidence crash and I'm only 22. Help!
xA
I have a lot of books around . . . I have an awful headache. I may do laundry tomorrow, but probably not. It's so foggy tonight, I can't see the Empire State Building from my window. Usually I am able to. I'm ready to head into my last semester with grace, poise, style, and flair. I think I'm about 85% fully realized, self-defining and 15% stroppy adolescent. Goal? To synthesize the two parts of myself, stop getting overwhelmed about the small stuff, just relax . . .
and stop being bitchy and judgmental and angry . . . what happened to my sparkliness?
If I closed my eyes and tried to figure out what animal I was, I think I would say a moose. Is that an improvement? Mooses seem pretty cool, solid, determined . . . strong as hell . . . but they get spooked easily and stampede, don't they? I used to have this really cool stuffed moose, I think a lot of people did. It was kind of one of those better quality stuffed animals (the types also appropriate for display) and had a ribbon tied around his neck. Wonder what happened to him?
I would never want to date a hedge fund manager. Or anyone in finance. Or anyone from NYC. I hate how NYC makes so many people into assholes . . . and then they don't even realize it, it happens so gradually. I hate the fact that money is so important. I hate the fact that so many people I've met have been such pretentious pricks, even people I want to admire. Unless it's just my perceptions, and I need sensitivity training or something, unless I'm out of touch and anachronistic because of the way I was raised, but I don't think so . . . but it's just . . . god, I hate how on my personals ad (I've never responded to a message) someone will leave a message saying "wanna come over?" Yes, because I've never met you and you have a picture of yourself wearing ugly as sin bathing trunks on a beach, yes, please, let's fuck.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
But of course, on personals sites, it is so contrived . . . but there has to be a middle ground . . . I want to meet someone in a cute romantic comedy way, and how's that going to happen when NYC seems to be crawling with pathetic baby perverts with an unresolved Oedipus complex? Erica Jong, help me, because I don't know how I can ever navigate myself into adulthood and non-neurotic singledom in this society. Oh, right, everyone had ANALYSTS then, but what good is that? And I have a Useless Therapist who's budget and more for show than anything, all part of my soundstage for Anna's Charmingly Neurotic Big City Life. Me and Bridget Jones could be rooommates and live in Camberwell and eat Sainsbury's chocolate rolls whilst watching "Wife Swap" (British or American edition). And I don't want that, I want HONESTLY, no pretension, no blogs (guilty as charged), abso-fucking-lutely no angsty little slackers with tons of money who think they are so deep.
Gahhhhhhh, I don't want to be a cynical disallusioned bunny (or moose, as the case may be). I want beauty, truth, reality and love love love and I know it exists in NYC, it does, it does, it does, but it's the way the mixed up aphorism goes: "some things have to be believed to be seen." And how can I get back the believe, the optimism, the wonder . . . gah, existential crisis/confidence crash and I'm only 22. Help!
xA