|Add Memory | Add To Friends|
|mystery (profile) wrote, |
on 4-10-2003 at 11:16am
|Subject: "everything's so stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid stupid...
|...and i hate it, hate it, hate it, hate it, hate it, hate it
maybe if i say it, say it, say it, say it, say it to myself
i won't have to yell at you!"
i have to write 3 pages in the next hour.
the half-page of actual writing plus page-and-a-half of citations and bullshit i've squeezed out so far may well be all i've got in me right now. and how am i going to explain this to michelle bigheno whom i am slightly terrified of? "sorry, i couldn't write because my brain wasn't functioning, i couldn't do the interview i was counting on for the center of my research because my mother spent spring break in the psych ward and it didn't seem terribly important right then to do research for an academic paper and now i'm back here and terrified of phones and when i finally called sharon rives this morning she gave me the names of some people in Ecuador who i met two years ago next week for about two hours and their email address so i can email my questions to them because they'll have more informed perspectives but i don't really have any questions yet and anyway that won't help me right now and you know what i'm on the edge of a nervous breakdown and there's been all kinds of shit going on with people i care about and let's not even talk about the number of dead people floating around my mind these days and a month ago yesterday a close friend of mine was found dead on her living room floor and i haven't had any time to fucking grieve yet"? and then maybe i could talk about tara stratton who was murdered in january and i live in terror -- when i think of it -- that someone's going to tell me details of what happened to her and i'll go catatonic for years maybe (wendito, when they come and take me away please remember you promised to tell them i'm not delusional) and then maybe i might mention that two years and one week ago a twelve year old boy who i last saw when he was seven killed himself and i haven't cried for him yet he used to come to daycare at my house he had dirty hair and a lot of anger when i came into school the next day after i found out i told my best friend at the time why i was upset and she asked "how'd he do it?" all the shitty things she's said to me sense (her misspelling not mine funny how my fingers remember what my eyes have laughed at) don't hurt like that one did. but no one ever knows what to say.
i don't think i'm going to class today.
no. i have to. is it worse to go to class with two pages of bullshit than not to go at all? and there's going to be food.
rotten day to miss.
i wish i wasn't so good at holding myself together in front of people i don't trust. it's hard to say "i'm sorry i didn't do my homework, i'm on the edge of a nervous breakdown" when my voice is perfectly calm and i'm standing up straight. no one would believe me.
|Post A Comment