Hot Seat Failure

There are things in my life that I say and then regret for a very long time. Sometimes it's because of the repercussions on someone else... sometimes it's because of the repercussions on me. Example: during a moment in my new member season of my organization, we were supposed to sit in a chair one by one and everyone else would say something kind about that person. When my friend got up, I didn't know her very well yet, so I said I really appreciated her service to our country and that she was a strong individual (she did a tour in Afghanistan). What a truly stupid thing to say. In a moment of perfect sisterhood, I torched it with patriotism. P.S., I'm not even a patriot. Patriotism bugs the life out of me. And she's not even one of those people who revels in their wartime... she kind of ignores it. I will forever be embarrassed by that moment. I had another moment like that today.



All semester it seems like I've been hearing constant talk about the interconnectivity of women, the strength of women. That's all fine and good, but when your back hurts like it's broken, you're sobbing uncontrollably and you know the only person who will be able to make you feel even a little bit better is 204 miles away, interconnectivity and strength are at the very bottom of my totem pole.
What is the strength of women? Or the interconnectivity? Does strength mean not being able to say "I need you" to our lovers? Because that might be seen by some feminists as a faltering in feminine strength. Maybe the acknowledgment of a kind of love so deep it's a painful need is, actually, strength.
And how about interconnectivity? Is that supposed to be my ability to understand other women, inherently? As silly as that sounds, it may well be true. Nuances go over my head, of course, and women say and do nasty things sometimes, but on the whole, I do understand. I would hope that they understand me, as well.


Hips and Lips

My first thought is that it's about me. Shakespeare reinvented. And then I remember it's a figment of imagination. Fiction.


Reaching 88 in the Delorean

I love the feeling of singing a song you didn't think you knew anymore, but you know every word. Someone could say, "Hey sing that song!" and your response would be, "I can't," until you actually hear it. And it just flows. It's like re-living the days you fucking loved that song. It's a time machine.


The Devil Wears Prada... or Truman Sweatpants

I need to get the hell out of dodge. This stage of my life is not one that is working for me. I don't like everything being so fluid. And this stage of my life is causing me to absolutely hate people. I've developed such an angry animosity to virtually everyone around me. So often I wake up and decide I don't want to be spoken to. That's not normal. God save the Queen, someone get me out of here. And I desperately miss having little Oliver around. I hate knowing he's elsewhere and that he's not really mine at all. It makes me want to cry.
Wedding planning, anyone? Wedding planning? I think I want to go into that.


Oliver Cheshire Twist

I haven't been sleeping too famously this week. A small cat named Oliver has been trying to gnaw off my face every time I'm not looking. He's sweet as pie during the day, but at night...? Cannibal.

It feels like some relationships are just a one-way street, or they demand just too much. Not the cat. I mean other relationships. Like... roommates. Okay, I'm sorry you could hear the TV through the paper-thin walls for ten minutes. I'm not sure what you want me to do about that. I'm sorry everything isn't always perfect. I'm not always perfect. Hell, I'm not perfect at all. If you don't expect too much from me, you might not be let down. Is that the Goo Goo Dolls? Well, whoever it is, thank you for your very opportune words. I need to finish that damn letter, when I'm not angry. It needs to be read. My words and my thoughts need to get out from time to time. The real ones. Not the made-up opinions in class, or the "Oh I'm fine, just kind of tired." No, the real thoughts.