XL. dissociation, n, defense mechanism in which anxiety-provoking thoughts are compartmentalized
Fuck you, Kenneth Waltz. Seriously, fuck you with something hard and sandpapery. That doesn't mean I think liberalism is any less FUNCTIONALLY RETARDED than realism, though. Why am I being tortured this way? I know the professor does not subscribe to either of these theories, so isn't there a less painful way of proving I understand them than being forced to read papers by old white guys telling me that, DUH, theirs is the only theory that makes sense OMG LALWZ!? Please, just kill me now.
In other news, I think I may have dissociative personality issues. I spent a really long while on the phone with my mom last night, telling her about all the shit that's been going on in my life (did I mention that I hate my job in the dining hall so much I threw up last night and had to leave early? Yeah, I was really stressed and having to serve beef burgundy on top of that, and my supervisor lady was really not nice, and people I knew from my classes wouldn't look at me--like I was beneath their notice...), like the fact that I slept with a guy because I couldn't think of how or why to say no, or the fact that one of my best friends out here was basically a victim of acquaintance rape. Apparently, she called my dad to tell him all this, so he called me today, very worried as naturally my mother had melodramatized everything and made me seem on the edge of a nervous breakdown when what I really feel, for the most part, is emptiness. We talked for a long time, and it was good; I really love my dad, and I know that he understands my emotional maladjustment because he has often suffered from the same sort of thing.
But yeah. I'm having a lot of difficulty opening up to people, which is of course something that has plagued me for a few years now but never to this degree because there were always familiar people around on whose shoulders I occasionally was able to cry. I'm worried that I will allow myself to be crippled by my alternating anxiety and disaffection. I want to meet people, but I don't. They aren't my people. They belong to the alternate dimension of 'college'. I just want my boys, and The Boy, and my girls, and my family, and my old job. and my cat. I really miss my cat. It's hard not having a fluffy, tolerant creature look vaguely annoyed when I nuzzle her furry tummy, or purr when I scratch behind her ears.
You know what, Damien Rice? Fuck you, too. Your depressing music is too apt at the moment. And, Jesus, Sam Beam and Antony Hegarty. You might as well just hand me the... I mean, nevermind. I'm too bored to kill myself.
The webcomic Questionable Content is the story of my life. I started reading it on Friday night, and I'm on strip 844 now. (WHAT? I need to do HOMEWORK... This is NOT COOL.)
In other news, I think I may have dissociative personality issues. I spent a really long while on the phone with my mom last night, telling her about all the shit that's been going on in my life (did I mention that I hate my job in the dining hall so much I threw up last night and had to leave early? Yeah, I was really stressed and having to serve beef burgundy on top of that, and my supervisor lady was really not nice, and people I knew from my classes wouldn't look at me--like I was beneath their notice...), like the fact that I slept with a guy because I couldn't think of how or why to say no, or the fact that one of my best friends out here was basically a victim of acquaintance rape. Apparently, she called my dad to tell him all this, so he called me today, very worried as naturally my mother had melodramatized everything and made me seem on the edge of a nervous breakdown when what I really feel, for the most part, is emptiness. We talked for a long time, and it was good; I really love my dad, and I know that he understands my emotional maladjustment because he has often suffered from the same sort of thing.
But yeah. I'm having a lot of difficulty opening up to people, which is of course something that has plagued me for a few years now but never to this degree because there were always familiar people around on whose shoulders I occasionally was able to cry. I'm worried that I will allow myself to be crippled by my alternating anxiety and disaffection. I want to meet people, but I don't. They aren't my people. They belong to the alternate dimension of 'college'. I just want my boys, and The Boy, and my girls, and my family, and my old job. and my cat. I really miss my cat. It's hard not having a fluffy, tolerant creature look vaguely annoyed when I nuzzle her furry tummy, or purr when I scratch behind her ears.
You know what, Damien Rice? Fuck you, too. Your depressing music is too apt at the moment. And, Jesus, Sam Beam and Antony Hegarty. You might as well just hand me the... I mean, nevermind. I'm too bored to kill myself.
The webcomic Questionable Content is the story of my life. I started reading it on Friday night, and I'm on strip 844 now. (WHAT? I need to do HOMEWORK... This is NOT COOL.)