(no subject)
writing here feels like some kind of novelty, but if i get verbose i don't like to weigh down tumblr. it seems to be crowd of pictures only: images that look to have been taken through fogged glass of ankles on mattresses or heavily-mascara'd women with their eyes on the ground. sometimes i wonder.
lately i am all kinds of stressed and funky and not as tired as i should be when i need to be and exhauasted when there's nothing i can do about it. my mind races from dropping out to getting hit by a bus with every page of an astronomy book i turn or paper about anne bradstreet and edward taylor i spit out. my alarm goes off, and i would rather be stabbed with a dull blade or eaten by fire ants. and then i realize what a whiney chump i am, and still, still complain. two semesters of creativing writing later, and i think my 15 year old brother had it right all along with "fuck my life."
the other day i went to the library and read the first page of every book i came across that i can't wait until summer to read.
this came from both an insatiable, unreachable, inexplicable desire for alone time, and feeling as if i am stuck somehow; that i need air and movement and sunshine, and all i've got is my laptop's backlight and a desk with arms that are awkwardly too high for my equally awkward short torso.
i want to read the awakening because i think it is beautiful and masterful, and honestly i mean it, i should have directed my college degree towards communications and women's studies so i can write for women's journals. i think that's where i belong. or politics. with emphasis on women's studies.
also, this side of paradise and anna karenina and the sun also rises and everything david foster wallace ever wrote and that steven millhauser book that i think is now in the back of trent's car. as many from as many different genres as i can fit into my eyes and brain and hands simultaneously.
mostly i am bored and restless and am spending all of my time directing thoughts towards the future. i want to find my boredom somewhere else for a while, and i am sick of fucking winters. i just want spring, and 50 degrees is not spring yet. there is no edge, no excitement, no sweeping romanticism, no racing heartbeat, no pulse in my throat, and it is my fault.
lately i am all kinds of stressed and funky and not as tired as i should be when i need to be and exhauasted when there's nothing i can do about it. my mind races from dropping out to getting hit by a bus with every page of an astronomy book i turn or paper about anne bradstreet and edward taylor i spit out. my alarm goes off, and i would rather be stabbed with a dull blade or eaten by fire ants. and then i realize what a whiney chump i am, and still, still complain. two semesters of creativing writing later, and i think my 15 year old brother had it right all along with "fuck my life."
the other day i went to the library and read the first page of every book i came across that i can't wait until summer to read.
this came from both an insatiable, unreachable, inexplicable desire for alone time, and feeling as if i am stuck somehow; that i need air and movement and sunshine, and all i've got is my laptop's backlight and a desk with arms that are awkwardly too high for my equally awkward short torso.
i want to read the awakening because i think it is beautiful and masterful, and honestly i mean it, i should have directed my college degree towards communications and women's studies so i can write for women's journals. i think that's where i belong. or politics. with emphasis on women's studies.
also, this side of paradise and anna karenina and the sun also rises and everything david foster wallace ever wrote and that steven millhauser book that i think is now in the back of trent's car. as many from as many different genres as i can fit into my eyes and brain and hands simultaneously.
mostly i am bored and restless and am spending all of my time directing thoughts towards the future. i want to find my boredom somewhere else for a while, and i am sick of fucking winters. i just want spring, and 50 degrees is not spring yet. there is no edge, no excitement, no sweeping romanticism, no racing heartbeat, no pulse in my throat, and it is my fault.