String Cheese & Paper Cuts

My diet this week has largely consisted of low fat string cheese sticks and caramel iced coffees from Dunkin Donuts. Probably due to the fact that I had to write a ton at the beginning of the week. Wednesday will be my first critique/workshop of the semester. Although it’s nice to feel like I’m actually in a much safer environment this time, I’m still quite nervous. I had intentions of trying to not write about myself this semester; I would focus on my mother or my father or anything outside of myself or my “relationships” with the opposite sex. A writing exercise in class, however, forced me to tap into a little something from my past. Okay, it’s not really that little. It’s actually relatively painful, and I didn’t realize until recently that it had been something I hadn’t yet written about in any kind of serious context. Whether or not that was a conscious decision, I can’t even be sure. I essentially made every attempt possible to channel my 16-year-old self, a self of which I’m not really very proud. A self that made seemingly irrational decisions, although they seemed crucial to my survival at the time. And I wouldn’t even take any of it back. And I’m also sorry that I’m writing this so cryptically. It’s just that I don’t feel it’s appropriate for me to suddenly divulge things here. And maybe that should be the point of the blog. And maybe, if all goes okay in workshop on Wednesday, I’ll post an excerpt from the piece. Because aside from tackling the awfulness of being me at 16, I spend a lot of time reflecting, too, as an adult 6 years later who kind of sort of has her shit together sometimes. I’m at least working on it. 

 

So I ate a lot of string cheese to keep me…occupied? And I drank a lot of iced coffee to keep me awake. And I got a lot of paper cuts from shuffling through lots of papers and notes and some god damn crazy hand-written thoughts. I currently have 5 rather painful paper cuts between both of my hands. It’s actually absurd and it stings to wash the dishes. Life goes on. And I feel pretty okay with what I submitted to my peers. I put a lot into this. A lot of real me into it. And it’s terrifying as all hell to be in a program like this. To be that fucking vulnerable among near strangers. They don’t really know me, I think. My job, though, is to make them. To make them pay attention and give a shit about whatever it is that I feel like I’m supposed to be saying. And I think most of them do or will. I think most of them are going to understand and be affected, because I understand and am affected by what they write. It’s a nice little community we’ve got going on. 

 

Now it’s a matter of the people who aren’t strangers paying attention to what I feel it is that I’m supposed to be saying.

Clockwork

It’s 2:31am, and I cannot sleep. Partially because I fell asleep relatively early last night and slept well into this afternoon. Partially because I got caught up in watching episodes of Parks & Rec on Netflix. And partially because I cannot stop thinking, thinking, thinking–as always happens late at night. Always when I need my mind to just slow the fuck down. Always when I would give anything to not think about him or her or you or them or here or there. 

 

I watched A Clockwork Orange tonight on a recommendation from a friend and because I read the novel months ago. Anthony Burgess’ novel, in my opinion, is certainly better. Not that Stanley Kubrick’s adaptation wasn’t well done, because it was. I just felt that it was a story better read than viewed. I think a reader gains a lot from Burgess’ language in the novel that cannot translate to the screen. Regardless, I needed to counter the film’s intensity with something…less intense…so I put on several episodes of Parks & Rec, my latest obsession. I’m almost done with season four. I don’t know if I should be proud or ashamed that I’ve managed to accomplish that in a matter of days.

 

It’s getting tough to be here again. I don’t want it to be. But I’m starting to get into that slump where I don’t want to leave my bed let alone the apartment. I slept until almost noon today, took a shower, and then crawled right back into bed until almost three o’clock. That is not okay. I’m already two days behind on schoolwork, which will only create more stress for my weekend. And now I’m thinking again. About her and about him and about so-and-so and about there–all five hours away–and about here and me and now. And how I feel sick and headache-y and lonely and tired. And how I don’t want to be this person anymore. But I miss him and her and you and them and those guys and that place. But it’s difficult to miss places and people that you think you maybe are outgrowing. Except you aren’t really growing into the new place either. And so you’re stuck. And it feels awful. And then you long for what you don’t have simply because you don’t have it anymore. But maybe that’s wrong. So you give yourself a slap in the wrist, open a beer, and watch a movie, promising that tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow you’ll get up before noon. Tomorrow you will run an errand. Tomorrow you will get work done. And before you know it, you’re ending another night alone in bed, with another beer, and another movie. Like clockwork.