I want to drive to Chicago, Illinois. It would take twelve hours to get there by car. I think I'm going to drive there in the near future. Just take the road trip, maybe alone.

Just thinking about it now makes me so anxious to just go. Now.

My urge to write is so strong that it overrules my nicotine addiction. It is all that I have been thinking about since noon.

I need to get myself back onto this cite more often. I am never on it anymore, and the fact saddens me.

I saw the Leonids meteor shower last night. A bunch of us bundled up, made tea and headed out to the fields to watch the sky. We stayed out there for a few hours, lying in the damp grass and talking to one another. I laid beside one of the younger girls of my suite, and we spoke of possible life in other solar systems, wondering if perhaps another group of people were doing the same thing somewhere else in the universe.

When most of the group went back in after catching a few meteors flashing through the sky, two friends and I continued to lie there, thinking to ourselves and hypnotized by the amount of stars we could see. A fireball with a green tail streamed across the darkness, and we gasped and shouted at it, as if our voices were simultaneously pulled out of our throats to urge the astral ball on, to be seen by others sitting in the dark like ourselves.


I miss writing like this. I stop myself from writing all of the time. A couple of days ago I finished the novel Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, and as I cried and flipped the last pages to see a man float into the sky, I knew that I should get to the computer or grab my journal or something. Instead, I stopped myself, creeping out of the door for a cigarette.


I fear that I may have forgotten my reason for this online journal. I want to write, and I want to be able to write whatever I want, however I want. I type faster than I write, so when I have something on my mind I just want to type until it all comes out of my head.


I am unhappy with my physical image, though I still know I am beautiful. I just need to continue to work on different aspects of my life.


I fooled around with someone on Halloween. I have not been thinking about it as much as I used to, but once in a while the memory will pop up, and the fear that all of my physical relationships will not include emotion consumes me.

Note to self: Write a short story with these points:

- The setting begins in a laundr-o-mat.

- There are at least two characters speaking.

- One of the characters is cleaning sheets.

- One character has some similarities to the blond outside of humanities, the other like the brunet in the computer lab (think Peter Pan).

- At least one part of their discussion must pertain to an ex-partner and some eccentricity about him/her.

- One must smoke, but actually having the character smoking is not important.

I am going to be just like my mother when I get older.

I pick up drunk teenagers, I bring them home. Water is passed out with a piece of bread. Vomit hits the floor. I tell the children, 'it's alright, honey, don't worry about it. I'll clean it up, go to bed, go to bed, don't forget to brush your teeth'.

I get on my hands and knees to clean up said mess while other children watch. I snap at them for watching, wanting them to do something, but nothing comes to mind. I scrub the floor until it looks like it did before the incident.

I do the laundry.

I smell like vomit, 409, and laundry detergent. I want to grit my teeth and yell at someone about something, but the anger fizzles out like a wet wick.

In the morning, I'll get up and search for the children who think I'm angry and tell them that no, I'm not angry, I was angry at the situation. I'll tell them that it doesn't matter, it's done, it's all cleaned up, and everyone is alright. Then I'll go back to reading.

Yep, just like my mother.






I have a scar on my hand that I remember healing, but I can't recall how I actually obtained it. I'm still trying to figure it out.

A couple of days ago, I went in to the tattoo parlor to get my bird and flowers touched up. They healed nicely, but the touch-ups are free at this place, and certain parts of the tail feathers and petals that didn't quite stick. On Monday, I paid the man back everything I owed him and told him I'd come in on Tuesday to get it done. I left class early that day, went to work for a minute, then walked on over.

I get in there, and it's quiet; there weren't any appointments until five, so by three all the artists were on phones, talking shop or watching obscene videos pertaining to spider bite infections.

The guy sees me, gives me a wave to sit down, and walks into the back to get everything set up. I'm trying to mentally prepare myself for the act, going through my iPod for Minus the Bear (the band I chose to listen to for my outline: they definitely dimmed the painful process). He's just about ready, when the assistant comes out and goes:

"Shit, he's going to color the bird today."

Did not expect that. I follow the guy in and my artist curses him for ruining the surprise. I'm still trying to take it in, because I only prepared myself for the outline, not a whole fucking fill in. I ask why. The artist shrugs and just tells me that he appreciated me paying the rest of the tat, and that he wanted to color the bird in since he finished the outline back in September. So I got on the chair and away we went.

It was more painful than I remembered. I was alone this time, gripping the underside of the chair like it could grab me back, and I did my best not to make much noise. Minus the Bear wasn't cutting it. I put on Mercury Morning, a bit of 'what the hell' feeling, and it curbed a lot of the intense pain. I could watch him work after putting them on.

The entire experience was really amazing. I learned so much about him, about death, divine intervention, children, divorce, the meanings of tattoos versus the perception of them from others. I nearly had him crying, both of us on a smoke break and putting ashes into the head of a skull.

When it was finished, my foot was so sore. He had his assistant take me back to the dorms, and I came into my room nearly gushing about the out-of-mind feelings I was experiencing. I still can't believe it's colored, and that it will still be colored when it finally starts to heal and flake up.

Right now it's raining/snowing outside, and I am forced to wear socks I just bought in a pharmacy, on my way to get cigarettes for the trip home. The blue jay does not like socks, I will tell you, but I don't like blue toes, so we had to compromise.

I'm going to try to write something up over the weekend. There is a new club for writing that's popped up; I will definitely be there on Monday, and I'll let all of you know about it then.

I still have a good forty-five minutes until class. I hate waiting.


And... I might post pictures here. Most likely on facebook.

I should be studying for a midterm at this time. I think I know enough to dazzle my teacher for a minute or so.


Yesterday the sky tried to fill my body through my eyes. Before I knew what happened, all of the light of the day was within me, leaving the outside dark and cold.


Today I unintentionally brought with me an orange juice bottle to class that had rum in it. I didn't remember actually putting the rum in it the other night, but I guess I did.

Epic Tradition was definitely better today than it has ever been.

Last night was entertaining and somewhat significant. It has now nestled itself into the corner of my mind, coming out and flexing its claws into me every once in a while.

I finally decided to write out that brief sonnet "analogy". I wrote out enough that it has finally leaked out of my head. Now there is this dripping in my head (is it your heart?).


( Here it is guys. It's an analogy of sonnet LXI by William Shakespeare. )

---

It has little to no argument, but I did it. I even edited a bit from the original version. I can't say I'm not marginally proud of it. I'm sure if I took it on like an actual essay, it would have blown skirts up and hair off, but alas.

I thought I wanted to write out something else, but I suppose I was mistaken. I feel like I did back in tenth grade; I wrote a poem about it, something about having a kitten in my chest, a rubber stopper in my throat, and cellophane wrapped around my head.

It's quite fitting.And to be completely honest, the answer is no, I don't think I would.

Straight hair. Apples. Huguenot Street.


Toe rings. Movies. Memory loss.


Malibu. Ugly Betty. The revealing of my monster.


I would cry, but tears are beneath me at this moment.

I wasn't going to update yet, but my mind is reeling.

What a night.

God, what a night. On a whim, I decided to go to the Marcy Playground concert at The Chance with a friend. After listening to their new album on a computer for an hour, briefly freaking out at a gas station and driving twenty minutes to Poughkeepsie, we were there, standing between a furniture factory and an auto service station.

The Chance itself has this charm about it; the venue must have been somewhat classy once, with it's glass windows showing a beautiful, woodland lady, but now it has a bar and stage. It's bathroom stalls don't lock or close, there isn't any soap, and when I leaned against a painted counter, I had to pull my shirt away from it. By the time people started showing up, it smelt of beer, sweat, cologne, and men. Cigarette smoke came through the open doors. I loved it.

Before we went to the concert, we skimmed the local bands that were going to play before Marcy Playground. Nothing looked all that exciting, but unfortunately we were wrong. All three were great bands to start with (though I'm not particularly sure you should take my opinion [or anyone's opinion, for that matter; post-modernism, get the fuck out of my head]) but there was this one band that nearly killed me.

I'm going to make it as concise as possible: Mercury Morning, singer Ivo and his awesome, kick-ass boots.

There. No more, or I will disintegrate before this computer. Can you imagine? Finding my ashes all over a desktop in the computer lab, my hands still holding shape while the rest of me is scattered into the cheap office rug. What a way to die.

I tend to get like this. It's quite annoying. I have half a thought to look up ways to remove certain parts of the brain without becoming comatose.

The point of this entry was to say that I had an amazing time. Stayed after, bought a Marcy Playground shirt, met the band, have my first signed ticket stub, and now I'm listening to Mercury Morning, debating whether or not I should download their music.

Hm. I really need a cigarette,which should be odd, after smoking half a pack, four of them smoked in my car, window open, rain coming in, eating cheese doodles and waiting for my friend to start dancing in the rain.

It's not odd in this situation.

The charger on my computer just might be busted, so I need to send it to my father in hopes that he can fix it. Until that happens, I have to discontinue my use on my personal computer in favor of using the ones on the basement floor of my dorm.

Lucky me.

I've been reading up on a lot of Transcendentalists in my American Literature class. Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Margaret Fuller... to say the least. I find their works incredible, albeit a little difficult to read. Transcendentalism is a fantastic belief system, one that keeps a person considerably safe from the harm society tries to inflict. Be self-reliant, Emerson tells us; the people in our lives are important but not essential to the amelioration of the self. By thinking this way -that the people we keep in our lives are not the concepts needed to lead a fulfilling life -we can escape the dangers of connection with the wrong people (even if those wrong people are the ones we "love").

Thinking in this way could be potentially harmful to my health, but I cannot get a piece of Thoreau's Walden out of my head: he writes of morning being the best time of the day, and that "to be awake is to be alive". I love it and support it unconditionally. He's right: we should always be fully awake, fully alert intellectually, and by doing this, we can exist to the best of our potential.


I also use their belief system selfishly. I think to myself, if I am awake and aware of everything within myself and not worry about other people (and their opinions or lack thereof of me), then I will be complete and safe from harm.

I'm sure Ralph and Henry would just slap me for that one.