And I know it wasn't right, but it felt so good
I wonder how much writing it will take to give me carpel tunnel. I've noticed that I actually type faster using only six of my fingers. I supposed this will be useful if some ever get cut off.
It baffles me that in one year I will be finished with my undergraduate education. I find it hard to believe that I've learned enough to find a career and be successful. Either I will fail horribly in the workplace, or I will do fine, and realize that what I've learned by then is enough. Both of those prospects are distressing.
The more than I become a "corporate whore" the less I object to it. Where do we draw the line on self-love and ethics?
I feel like I've been a bad roommate. I wish I had more time to spend with my roommate. I don't even have time to eat dinner with her, and I take my food to my room to do homework while I eat. I feel really bad about it.
I reread The Bell Jar last week. I had forgotten how much that novel affects me. I actually cried during class and was embarrassed by the professor. Before college, suicide was a mere concept, not something that was ever real to me. Now, several people I know have attempted suicide. When I hear that someone is in the hospital, I think mental hospital before a normal hospital. Many of those I love are on anti-depressants. I don't know if I am scared or relieved.
I want to be able to write poetry. No more sestinas or sonnets, just free verse, drizzling onto the paper.
I cannot believe there is a show on MTV that documents people getting plastic surgery to look like celebrities. I cannot believe I watched two episodes over Thanksgiving break.
I want to live in a city, next door to an open market and a place to volunteer with children with Down's Syndrome. I want to be able to hold hands with my future husband in public. I want a future husband.
Imagine how much work I could have done instead of writing a self-pitying journal entry.
Imagine sledding down flagstaff hill on a tray stolen from the UC.
Imagine a two hour makeout session.
Imagine sleeping in until 2 pm.
Imagine strawberry ice cream.
Imagine London, at night.
Imagine that.
It baffles me that in one year I will be finished with my undergraduate education. I find it hard to believe that I've learned enough to find a career and be successful. Either I will fail horribly in the workplace, or I will do fine, and realize that what I've learned by then is enough. Both of those prospects are distressing.
The more than I become a "corporate whore" the less I object to it. Where do we draw the line on self-love and ethics?
I feel like I've been a bad roommate. I wish I had more time to spend with my roommate. I don't even have time to eat dinner with her, and I take my food to my room to do homework while I eat. I feel really bad about it.
I reread The Bell Jar last week. I had forgotten how much that novel affects me. I actually cried during class and was embarrassed by the professor. Before college, suicide was a mere concept, not something that was ever real to me. Now, several people I know have attempted suicide. When I hear that someone is in the hospital, I think mental hospital before a normal hospital. Many of those I love are on anti-depressants. I don't know if I am scared or relieved.
I want to be able to write poetry. No more sestinas or sonnets, just free verse, drizzling onto the paper.
I cannot believe there is a show on MTV that documents people getting plastic surgery to look like celebrities. I cannot believe I watched two episodes over Thanksgiving break.
I want to live in a city, next door to an open market and a place to volunteer with children with Down's Syndrome. I want to be able to hold hands with my future husband in public. I want a future husband.
Imagine how much work I could have done instead of writing a self-pitying journal entry.
Imagine sledding down flagstaff hill on a tray stolen from the UC.
Imagine a two hour makeout session.
Imagine sleeping in until 2 pm.
Imagine strawberry ice cream.
Imagine London, at night.
Imagine that.