Thursday, February 28, 2008
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Happy Chinese New Year!!
I know it's a little late, but I had to post it. Besides, I figured out how to upload pictures and text from my phone, directly to the blog.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Negate Murphy's Law
Ok, so the last post I was working on was happy. It was all puppies and flowers... it was about how this past Valentine's Day was the best Valentine's Day that I've had in YEARS. Well, that all went down the toilet on Friday, the 15th. Yes, that's right, literally 24 after after I had written the aforementioned post.
So, let's get at it, shall we?
Friday I go over to the Galleria's house (the boy who I was seeing) and he and I and his roommate (who I am friends with from OU) are hanging out, drinking wine and then we go over to bar 851 and meet some more people out. Everything is lovely, everyone is having a good time and then we decide to go to another bar which we shall call Shovak's. Same deal, everyone having fun, the Galleria and I are playing pool and winning. Life is good. All of a sudden I get this "Can I talk to you?" from the Galleria and so I say "Of course you can."
So we go outside and we're standing in the freezing cold and he says to me,
"I have to be straight with you. Megan is coming home from GA and I know how you feel about her but that is where my heart lies. I'm sorry. I feel awful."
"You should feel awful" is what I come back with. I was furious at this point because we are still out with his friends and I can't leave because I didn't drive. "It's fine" I say. "I don't feel anyway about Megan Jones because I haven't talked to her in 10 years and she never crosses my mind. You should choose your choice and be done with it."
Well, then he goes into this stupid tangent about how he wants to still be friends and that it's not me, I'm great, it's just that he loves her. I said "We don't need to be friends. We weren't friends before this and I don't need you to be my friend after this. I already have lots of friends." And I turned around and walked inside. We left right after that because someone got sick and on the ride home, I texted John P. Balling.
Once I got home, I was still fuming and decided to make a cranberry and vodka but it tasted more like a vodka and vodka but whatever. It was doing exactly want I wanted it to. It got to be right around 2 and I still hadn't heard from Mr. Balling so I was ready to go pass out when, magically, the phone rang. It was him and I was happy. He was over in a flash and walked through the door and all my bad feelings went away. I was eating brie with my vodka and vodka and so he had some cheese and I made him a drink and the next thing I know, I wake up in my bed with him next to me. I go to survey the damage that had occured in the other room the night before and boy were there some interesting things I found. My glasses were in a wheel of brie, there was brie smashed into the couch, there were crackers all over the floor, there were clothes everywhere... it was quite a sight.
I grabbed the advil and climbed back into bed and asked Balling how he felt and he groaned so I gave him some meds. We slept til noon. We showered and went to lunch and the rest is history.
The moral of the story here is: Moo 2007 has her good points. Sometimes yum-yucks can be the end of you but what a way to go!
So, let's get at it, shall we?
Friday I go over to the Galleria's house (the boy who I was seeing) and he and I and his roommate (who I am friends with from OU) are hanging out, drinking wine and then we go over to bar 851 and meet some more people out. Everything is lovely, everyone is having a good time and then we decide to go to another bar which we shall call Shovak's. Same deal, everyone having fun, the Galleria and I are playing pool and winning. Life is good. All of a sudden I get this "Can I talk to you?" from the Galleria and so I say "Of course you can."
So we go outside and we're standing in the freezing cold and he says to me,
"I have to be straight with you. Megan is coming home from GA and I know how you feel about her but that is where my heart lies. I'm sorry. I feel awful."
"You should feel awful" is what I come back with. I was furious at this point because we are still out with his friends and I can't leave because I didn't drive. "It's fine" I say. "I don't feel anyway about Megan Jones because I haven't talked to her in 10 years and she never crosses my mind. You should choose your choice and be done with it."
Well, then he goes into this stupid tangent about how he wants to still be friends and that it's not me, I'm great, it's just that he loves her. I said "We don't need to be friends. We weren't friends before this and I don't need you to be my friend after this. I already have lots of friends." And I turned around and walked inside. We left right after that because someone got sick and on the ride home, I texted John P. Balling.
Once I got home, I was still fuming and decided to make a cranberry and vodka but it tasted more like a vodka and vodka but whatever. It was doing exactly want I wanted it to. It got to be right around 2 and I still hadn't heard from Mr. Balling so I was ready to go pass out when, magically, the phone rang. It was him and I was happy. He was over in a flash and walked through the door and all my bad feelings went away. I was eating brie with my vodka and vodka and so he had some cheese and I made him a drink and the next thing I know, I wake up in my bed with him next to me. I go to survey the damage that had occured in the other room the night before and boy were there some interesting things I found. My glasses were in a wheel of brie, there was brie smashed into the couch, there were crackers all over the floor, there were clothes everywhere... it was quite a sight.
I grabbed the advil and climbed back into bed and asked Balling how he felt and he groaned so I gave him some meds. We slept til noon. We showered and went to lunch and the rest is history.
The moral of the story here is: Moo 2007 has her good points. Sometimes yum-yucks can be the end of you but what a way to go!
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Blank
Feb. 12th
I'm so disillusioned with everything lately... my faith is waning. It's too bad really and unfortunate that I'm unable to pinpoint the cause of this feeling or why I keep feeling this way. I'm so tired of all of it. There's nothing in my life right now that's making me content, let alone happy. I've been toying with the idea of moving back to Spain. That was the last time I remember being happy, enjoying life. I know that memories are what you make them and of course I remember the not so great parts too (i.e. drying my hair with my heater, Jason the wicked minger Brit) but I loved being there, being part of the scenery there.
I'm so tired of the materialism which I too get caught up in when I'm here; it's really impossible not to. I'm so tired of the criticisms and judgments. I'm tired of the one night stands, and the wanting of things that I shouldn't want. I'm tired of the weather, of the melancholy that has become my life. I'm tired of feeling like I'm not living up to my potential. And I'm so tired of being tired of all this.
People are strange creatures and it's so hard to not be influenced by people, for better or worse. My sense of self is nonexistent. And that, my friends, is a scary thing. To not know yourself in ways that you use to isn't a pleasant feeling. The oddest part of this is that my outward attitude isn't all that awful. I find myself looking forward to things and laughing but I feel like I'm sorta just going through the motions, so that others aren't suspicious or accusing. Nothing is worse than having people in your life become suspicious of you and then just sitting back and waiting for you to prove them right. Realize please, that these are just my thoughts and maybe I shouldn't use this particular forum to express them but c'est la vie, no? And so I leave with this poem from the fabulous Pablo Neruda titled "Walking Around"...
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie
houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse
sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the
night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist
houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical
cords.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic
shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.
I'm so disillusioned with everything lately... my faith is waning. It's too bad really and unfortunate that I'm unable to pinpoint the cause of this feeling or why I keep feeling this way. I'm so tired of all of it. There's nothing in my life right now that's making me content, let alone happy. I've been toying with the idea of moving back to Spain. That was the last time I remember being happy, enjoying life. I know that memories are what you make them and of course I remember the not so great parts too (i.e. drying my hair with my heater, Jason the wicked minger Brit) but I loved being there, being part of the scenery there.
I'm so tired of the materialism which I too get caught up in when I'm here; it's really impossible not to. I'm so tired of the criticisms and judgments. I'm tired of the one night stands, and the wanting of things that I shouldn't want. I'm tired of the weather, of the melancholy that has become my life. I'm tired of feeling like I'm not living up to my potential. And I'm so tired of being tired of all this.
People are strange creatures and it's so hard to not be influenced by people, for better or worse. My sense of self is nonexistent. And that, my friends, is a scary thing. To not know yourself in ways that you use to isn't a pleasant feeling. The oddest part of this is that my outward attitude isn't all that awful. I find myself looking forward to things and laughing but I feel like I'm sorta just going through the motions, so that others aren't suspicious or accusing. Nothing is worse than having people in your life become suspicious of you and then just sitting back and waiting for you to prove them right. Realize please, that these are just my thoughts and maybe I shouldn't use this particular forum to express them but c'est la vie, no? And so I leave with this poem from the fabulous Pablo Neruda titled "Walking Around"...
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie
houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse
sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the
night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist
houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical
cords.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic
shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.
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