Hearts and Booze
Journally thing is exciting-- new ways to waste time make me feel like my college experience is very full. Good time to start another journal because I've gotten behind in my written one. I got a hearty dose of heart bashing this past weekend. That was fun. I tried to ease it with dancing and booze because no matter how many times it happens, I don't want to be one of those whiny adolescents that cries, "Nobody loves me, I'm used to getting effed over". That's not manly enough; I'd lose my dyke badge. Anyway, the alchy seemed to be the way to solve such things-- I don't know if it worked; that part is kind of fuzzy. I just remember having a great time with friends and that's really all my life needs to be about. I still cringe when I see her and I don't know whether we're allowed to touch or not. I thought we'd been writing each other... For now I'm going to focus on my special people back home and just get through this semester. Being the jerk I am, I took on 22 credits this semester. No, I don't need a personal life and you can't tell me otherwise. So there.
On the up side, I love poetic form. Yes, it's tedious and pansy, but it makes me feel like I'm actually working for my words and I love that feeling! That's been my thumbtack in the cozy chair of the written word: I feel like I only write crap. The only way to make that better is to work and work and work at it. I want to build myself an isolated shack out of shortened, tooth-marked pencils, hole up there with a lifetime supply of peanut butter and pictures of beautiful people and never stop writing. Sadly my fantasy mimics how Sylvia Plath used to obsess over her work... does this mean an untimely end for the Jess? Will she ever escape the jaws of Writer's Crampy Iron Maiden? Tune in next week...
On the up side, I love poetic form. Yes, it's tedious and pansy, but it makes me feel like I'm actually working for my words and I love that feeling! That's been my thumbtack in the cozy chair of the written word: I feel like I only write crap. The only way to make that better is to work and work and work at it. I want to build myself an isolated shack out of shortened, tooth-marked pencils, hole up there with a lifetime supply of peanut butter and pictures of beautiful people and never stop writing. Sadly my fantasy mimics how Sylvia Plath used to obsess over her work... does this mean an untimely end for the Jess? Will she ever escape the jaws of Writer's Crampy Iron Maiden? Tune in next week...