i'm back from outer space

i hate having my writing criticized, even constructively. i emailed my Aurora Leigh paper to my british lit prof so he could look over it before i turned it in. he wrote suggestions in SCREAMING CAPS through the entire paper. he bracketed everything he wanted deleted. I spent an hour revising it and i feel sick.

i don't care about my paper on aurora leigh. i spent 4 days on it though and i'd appreciate an A. still, i never cared. i'm good at writing, don't you understand this, Mr. Komisaruk? i just don't love aurora leigh.

i'm a good writer. and you're stressing me out.

and this party on friday was bored. beer and boys and bad rap. i saw bonnie and this was good because seeing bonnie somewhere other than poli sci is a good thing. toured the porn plastered house next door. i didn't drink. we departed and went to drunk breakfast. bacon and salt and soft stares and eggs that taste and look of gray sooty styrofoam. derrick's friend called me tiffany, and i felt like a tiffany there. so i said call me tiff. what a fine university this is. why, look at their eggs.

saturday. a good day. a good party where i knew and didn't know people. nostalgic and new all at once. oh, matt caudill, how these things never change and how still they constantly evolve. how dare you hug me with that smitten look and that hot dog bun in your hand. "but but but you canceled on me!" i struggle out in my fit of dying anger over your lack of departure to florida with us. and soon it doesn't matter. you kiss my cheek and i speak to vince and it doesn't matter. it reminds me of my old friends before i disliked them so much. and i am sipping my beer and not getting hammered until the very bitter end, when i just have to hammer 6 shots of vodka. hold my hand like you mean it. thanks, for taking me home. thanks, for coming to my room. thanks, for laying with me to lay with me. and although you pressed your lips on my lips and on my neck and on my lips i said no and you said cool. thanks.

guess guess guess. guess who doesn't kiss to kiss and doesn't bend over backwards. this bri is a bri you will like. she will serve your country well. believe in me.

i'll equate my one heart with a one love. and although this one love does not exist in my sphere as of today, it's not complex. it's as simple as riding your sit-n-spin, kids. don't fight it.

i deleted your number from my phone.

it's been a beautiful day. class was tedious but walking from building to building was nice. i turned in my SOJ acholarship application. i finished unpacking and ate chinese food. the rose's lime juice from all our alcoholism exploded in one of my suitcases but i didn't care much. i'm seeing 'kill bill' tonight at the mountainlair with some people. i saw it when it came out but i love my tarantino.

i don't think reverting to things and ideas and parts of the past is necessarily a regression. i'm feeling a lot like i did in 11th grade or 6th grade but newer. listening to bad pop punk and skipping the lip gloss feels good. don't ever tell me to grow up.

today is a diamond mine.

you know, it was what i thought. my back is peeling and it's shedding all over my black undergarments, but shedding a skin is a good thing in my mind right now.

hey. you. i do regret it now. i do admit that it hurt, all of it. i hate your hands on me. i do admit that i'm more of a wreck than i thought. i don't think i'll be so focused on these vitamins now, or being studious, or doing sit ups. i'll just be it and do them and shut up.

you'll always rain on my parade and i'll never be the icing on your cake! you are not a focal point. you are not what i wake up and fall asleep to ever again. i sleep easier without you. i breathe deeper. i will be silent. i'm on my own highway, and it goes nowhere near napa, california; it will not attempt to build or burn bridges or recollect and fedex the shards of my sad, sad heart. i know i promised i'd call. but you know what they say about promises. i promise nonetheless that someday i will believe all of these things.

right now, i am eating the best banana nut muffin in the world. it doesn't even project crumbs onto the breast of my shirt. it's a muffin of class. the best goddamn banana nut muffin in the world.

well. this has been one shitty day, to be perfectly honest.
i gave an oral presentation in british lit which was a seriously stressful event for me, and it shouldn't have been because i'm supposed to be well-groomed in this area. i pulled it off well, but with little satisfaction. i feel sick with the pressure of my future that isnt nearly at arms length but feels shoved down my throat. i then went to the dining hall to get sustenance and there was nothing i could eat on my trendy lowcarb diet so i ended up in my room alone eating really gross tuna for lunch and spilling an entire salad over the tv. i don't know how this happened. after that i had to pack to come back here after break. i hate packing. in doing so i lost my cell phone and spent a half hour tearing the room apart looking for it and listening for its vibrations and calling myself before i found the fucking thing. it was in the drawer under my bed. came home, went to eat n' park with my mother, had a really gross omelet, ate half of it. came home again, watched bad tv. masturbated and could not orgasm because i'm overly analytical and i'm at the end of something or somehow or nothing or here. whatever.

also, you IMed me last night and it's okay i think. but awful all the same. i remembered why i don't call you anymore within the first 5 minutes of our conversation. your words and people of reference are daunting and i'm sort of or terribly exhausted of all of this which is really a problem because i worry about you and i'm glad i know where you moved now and i'd very much like to offer these kind condolences but i can't because that means you'll step on me and i'll be this pathetic holden caulfield-esque character with less cynicism and more alcohol. and i know you wouldn't understand that if you read it... because you never read shitty trite books like that and you would never make reference to them. when you patronize me, i want to hate you and fuck you against the wall. i promise that i'll call soon or at least soon in my time frame which i'm still unfamiliar with. you don't read this so you won't know. but let me tell you, apple of my fucking eye, that it is not a matter of me feeling like contacting you as you have presumed, but a matter of me not being obliterated by you and your harsh harsh words and wears and stares in the process. tulips need water, and girls need time like grieving things, and matters. but really, i promise i'll call. it's better late than never.

---48 hours and i'll multiply the zip codes and paved roads. i'll count the peach trees in georgia. i won't anaylze a smile or the hair that slips past your face or the things that i say. not a goddamn thing.

the fabulous rich bitch town of ponte vedra beach, oceanfront condo, carloads of fucking crazy, hormonal, blood-thirsty and overworked college students driving 16 hellish hours, alcohol, new people, rebirth, sand in my bathing suit, new friends and the getting to know you of travel, drunken days, nights and sad attempts at surfing, universal and becky's inevitable orgasm brought on by space ships, screaming, and running, all legit. the sun. a change of location, and change of destination; of the head, of the heart. spring break; a cliched catharsis i can't help but embrace.

shiny new flip flops. lip glossed physique. 3am extinguishes the feeling.
cliched or conveyed. escape. will be reached at the beach.

i have a lot of reading to do.
i have a lot of believing to do.
<3

well, bathing suit shopping wasn't depressing. a pleasant surprise.
i fucked up on my british lit test i think. it pisses me off.
i stayed up until 3am last night watching Jurassic Park. i really just want one of those premium chicken ceasar salads from McDonald's right now. i've lost 3 pounds. i hate the food i eat.

beaches and marguaritas and umbrella's and sand and your hand?
i just want to be gone from here.
a change in location always means
a sudden change of heart.

but not a fickle one.

(i cried tonight for the first time since the day you left. it was magnified and remembered by the mirror and it was all i hoped it would be. watching the tears pool at my chin in streaks of mascara, flushed cheeks, the roll of my lips; was glorifying. i let it happen.

I wonder if i was this masochistic before we met. is this a value that you alone instilled in my soft-shelled heart, or has it been running through these veins for a long, long time?

i feel like never eating again. a hunger strike in the name of me is in order. in order of my tears hitting the porcelain sink. amen. and not for you. i don't think i could swallow that kind of rejection, when you steal my crackers and watch me starve.

"oh well," they say.
oh well.
it won't matter ten years from now when i'm driving my kids around in the latest, safest minivan. it won't matter that i cried these tears, and it will be justified; this whole train wreck.

i feel sickeningly unattainable. it's fitting. my newfound resolutions have become harsh reality. a hand on me is a queer thought, a beating heart. sleeping makes me sweat. i can't take these car alarms, screams and slams, and constantly closing borders of this room.

weezer. bottled water. calcium aspartate! red eyes.)

and i'm jello, baby.

remember those stupid motivational posters they put up around high school hallways and guidance offices?
they were always laced with stupid phrases, like follow your dreams.

i remember the one that said - today is the first day of the rest of your life.
i like this one. it's comforting.

because, today really is the first day of the rest of my life.
really.

Gosh. I think I'm stuck like this forever, or at least until this dorm stops feeling like a summer camp. And thanks, thanks for everything and nothing. You're the proverbial stake through my heart! It smells like the camp I used to go to; pine and mothballs. I think I'm overdramatic, but I don't think that's a reason to discredit my every move and the after taste I leave. I think summer camp puts us all in this loophole.

I think you're detached and I don't think that's any better. I think I'm naive and strong and I'm repeating the cycle. Remember, it's like last time. I'm so hallucinated and utterly without aim that all I can do is get better. So here I go, watch me wax and wane. I've been jogging and reading books, I've been writing and analyzing, I've been taking vitamins and forging random acts of kindness. I've been busy with not communicating with you. I've been branching out and making new friends and forgetting about old ones who questioned my credentials. I'm crawling into bed by 2. I'm falling asleep to silence. It gets better. It's true, I have also been drinking and kissing and repenting and analyzing. Don't worry, these things fade and die. They're killed, exterminated, not to be reincarnated. I'll remember that and all of it when I'm being the poster child for some political cause, or marching or fighting, when I'm making out, running, when I'm sidekicking, speaking, lying, cheating on tests, voting, breaking hearts. When I embody everything you never want to see or hear or breathe. And when I'm all you ever wanted. I can't believe it all becomes mechanical. I can't wait until the psychosis sets in. I can't believe it.


I'm not a drama queen. I just feel things differently than you do.

I like calculators. I like calculators because they can do things I can't do; multiply, subtract, reduce, clear. I wish more things were like calculators.

Today I got into a confrontation with a run-of-the-mill, obnoxious Jersey frat boy in my English class. He equated civil liberties during wartime with 'fucking a five year old in the ass' and I felt the need to put him in his place. It didn't feel as good as it should have. I think I'm losing this side of me. Or at least my own personal enjoyment of my spontaneous conflicts. I felt bad after... directly after. I felt bad as in dissatisfied. I'm dissatisfied with the class, the argument, the shoes I'm wearing and the way frat boy nonchalantly spews out obscenities for the sake of spewing out obscenities.

He's in my group for presentations. When we had to go into these groups, he acted as if nothing had happened.

"I'm writing a paper about the sexual revolution. It's going on right now you know, the sexual revolution. It's a wicked sweet paper," he said.

I congratulate him on this. I feel worse about reprimanding him. But I still have contempt, because I don't want someone like this to write about any kind of sexual revolution.

Thanks frat boy, for telling me about this sexual revolution, that's going on right now! Holy fuck! Thanks for telling me you fuck your girlfriend without a condom, and how great it is that she's on the pill. Thanks for making English class an even more unpleasant experience than usual. And most of all, thanks for bringing out this inner feeling of dissatisfaction I've been so cleverly hiding. I don't want to deal with it.

It never shuts up.
It's not easily calculated or solved.
It's you without that awful trashy accent.

I hate math.

1. no drinking until the first day of april.
2. go to the fucking gym.
3. no more random making out. snogging will commence only when in the direction of a healthy, normal relationship.
4. go to the fucking gym.
5. go to class. every day. no excuses.
6. read for history.
7. read for political science.
8. go to sleep before 2am every week night.
9. take the calcium pills.

10. this list will reside in my pocket every day. progress will be monitored.