meow now brown cow

:: Tuesday, April 04, 2006 ::


...CONTINUED

I got back from the hospital at around noon, with a diagnosis of ‘pancreatitis’ and orders not to eat solid food until I saw another doctor. Of course, soon after I arrived at the hospital the pain subsided, but that’s just an ironic note which didn’t stop them from observing off-the-chart pancreatic enzyme action and giving me a prescription for Vicodin. I slept most of the day, woke up at 6 or 7 not hungry and too scared to eat anyway.

Eric stopped by at around 10, looking glazed. He asked how I was, and he meant it, but something else was on his mind. At first I thought he was stoned. His eyes were red and he had that tired, far-off look. I made morbid jokes about my pancreas, and he replied with vague, pregnant remarks about his night, fishing, it seemed, for me to dig deeper so he could let spill. I was happy to oblige, boy’d saved my life afterall, so I inquired about his eyes. “…look a little beat…been smoking the ganj…wink wink?”

Long drawn out sigh and a noooo. “There was this girl.” Immediately my cynical mind concocted a UC undergrad, a sweet girl, an overly friendly girl, who just can’t like him in that way and I prepared to repress my own doubts in this regard and assure him he’ll find someone who can someday. “We met in the hospital a few years ago.” Something in the way he said that was foreboding and I realized with sudden dread that I had gotten myself into one of those stories that is Too Much, like when your casual friend starts talking about her past, and her daddy, and it clicks that she is going to tell you about her rape and molestation and you are going to have to come up with a cogent response.

Eric had met this girl in the hospital when he was recovering from yet another surgery. Her name was Charlotte. She’d been in a car wreck and lost her right leg. They become friends in post-op, and even closer friends afterwards. They saw each other on hospital trips—organized fishing trips, skiing trips, unimaginable trips, for all the kids. Eric said all those lovey things applied to them, they got along like he never has before or since, it was magic, and on the last trip their mutual feelings for each other came out.

After that trip, though, Eric had to return to northern California. No time for a relationship to develop before he left, and long distance was unreasonable, but there was the lingering sense that someday – someday – the two would have a chance to be together…because how could nature have brought this beautiful one-legged girl to the right paralyzed man if not through destiny? Rhetorical question mine.

They kept in touch over email, and after a few years she faded into being just That Girl—the one he thought of when a sappy song got to him, or an internet questionnaire mentioned the one meant for you. A little over a year ago they’d stopped emailing each other and he’d lost her phone number. Since then he’d been trying to remember her number, but he could never get the last four digits.

This night, though, he’d been at a party and something a friend said made those last four digits flash into his head. He entered it into his phone immediately and called her. He got her mom. “Hi, is Charlotte there?”



“Oh, you hadn’t heard…”

(You know what’s coming, but I have to type it)

“Charlotte died…about a year ago.”



“She was in a car accident and…”

A second car crash had killed his one true love a month or two after email contact ceased.

THE END.


Epilogue

I personally would have been crushed had that happened to me. But I live a small, loveless grad student life. My assumption that Eric’s heart was “destroyed” was predicated on that and a few nasty biases about his paralyzed manly potential. Turns out, though, I’m the one who lives with a cat and Eric is a dog. This tragedy brought his ex girlfriend running back to him. They did the nasty, hooked back up, and THEN he cheated on her because…he just doesn’t know what he wants…right now.
:: posted by Claire, 9:28 PM | 0 sluts ::


Tamar's Frat Story

“There are two answers in my frat to the question, ‘What’s that smell?’ The first happened before I got here, when Twitch still lived in the house. It’s the reason Twitch and his crowd hold on to One-F, despite One-F being a creepy, dirty bastard who should still be in jail.

“In those days, there was this senior, Beefy. Beefy was referred to as such because he was a giant steroid popping beast. He spent most of his time alone in his room, or at the gym. He’d often lock his door for days, and if you ever disturbed his sanctuary, he would explode into a bug-eyed fit of steroid-fueled rage and rampage through the house.

“One day, Beefy got a cut on his arm. The cut got infected, and he was prescribed a regiment of meds. Unfortunately, the medicine started to make him gain weight—unacceptable as Beefy was also thoroughly vain. At the first notice of blubber, he refused to take any more medication.

“That was the last they saw of Beefy for a few days. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until a freshman walked past his door and noticed something funky. ‘What’s that smell?’ he asked those within hearing. The frosh, in a sudden burst of inspiration, decided that it was in fact the sweet, pungent odor of bologna, the beloved meat he had forgotten ever since he turned twelve. He was so excited at this remembrance he immediately went out and bought two pounds of it.

“A few days later, however, someone else wandered past Beefy’s door, and this time the funk was not so pleasing. A council was gathered and it was determined that someone, One-F in the end, should break into Beefy’s room and scope things out. My frat has a lot of drug use, and Beefy could have been strung out in there in need of help. The locked door was robust, so One-F climbed through the ventilation shaft over Beefy’s room. Old building, though, and the ceiling collapsed from under him. He fell flat on his face, right next to Beefy’s bloated dead body. Thus, the first answer to ‘What’s that smell?’ is bologna.

“The second came from my friend Peter. Peter had been in love with Vicki ever since she had moved in next door. Vicki, however, was seriously dating a stud named Sam. The only trouble in their relationship was that Sam wanted things to progress to anal, an act Vicki was fairly sure would rip through her delicate insides and shred them irreparably. As this was a tech school and female confidantes were rare, Vicki would debate this all with Peter, who would listen patiently.

“Sam’s birthday neared and Vicki wanted to do something special for him. Unsure what to get him, she went to Peter. Though a pussy, Peter was still a man, so he obligingly suggested she give in…to the anal. He promised her it wouldn’t hurt. After some hesitation, Vicki conceded, and left to find Sam.

“The next night, Sam and Vicki had the most ass-thumpingly loud sex ever heard in Pi Sigma Upsilon. Floors shook dangerously, and many doors were slammed shut in jealous frustration. Masochistic Peter ten feet down the hall couldn’t quite shut his own door at the sound. He sat in his room facing out, transfixed and morose. Suddenly, Vicki came running out of her room, butt naked, and leaped on top of Peter, pinning him to the floor. ‘Thank you!’ she screamed, pounding on his chest. ‘Thank you so much! That was the best sex I’ve ever had!!’

“And just as suddenly she ran back, leaving Peter stunned on the ground. Aaron, Jewboy, walked by a few seconds later and sniffed. ‘What’s that smell?’

“Peter stood up, completely red. ‘THAT’S THE SMELL OF ANAL SEX, AND I’M NOT GETTIN' ANY!’”
:: posted by Claire, 9:17 PM | 0 sluts ::


:: Wednesday, February 08, 2006 ::


My neighbor Eric’s heart was destroyed this Saturday. I found out about it last night. I don’t generally hang with my neighbors. I live in a side alley of my co-op, so unless I go outside and around, I only have two of them. This side alley is a sort of Crippled Row, though possibly every first floor apartment in this co-op is inhabited by somebody in a wheelchair. Eric is my next door neighbor and one door down from him is Hector, the co-op’s president. Both are undergrads and both are much, much more crippled than I am.

When I moved in, Hector said he’d be gone in a semester, but he’s still around. Our interaction consists of him very properly asking me how I am doing, I’m fine, and whether everything with the co-op is working out, which it is. I’ve disliked him ever since I attended my first Council meeting. Everyone living here is required to attend one meeting a semester. The co-op is student governed, run by an elected council. At Caltech, being a House officer usually meant you were popular and maybe responsible; you were at least well known and you couldn’t be too giant a tool. In a massive apartment style co-op, though, it works more like Student Council did back in the day. Anyone eager enough can join it, but the motivation behind doing so is questionable. Participants range from the noble and necessary gardeners and apartment managers to the usual student government rabble of busybodies and resume builders.

As a leader, Hector seems to style himself as The Fat Man in Charge. He’s got one of those fancy electric wheelchairs that moves up and down and reclines. He fiddled with it throughout the meeting, but not in a fidgety way. He’d adjust it stiffly, relevantly, in the same manner in which The Fat Man in Charge would re-cross his legs or finger his gold ring. At one point he invoked “parliamentary rules” to settle a dispute in his favor. It is since that moment that I have disliked him. This distaste is purely passive, since I rarely run into him. When I do see him, he’s invariably in the company of a hot Hispanic girl—the specific girl varies. My theory, based solely on what I would do were I The Fat Man in Charge, is that these are his nurse aids.

Eric, on the other hand, does not have oily skin and employs a seven foot tall sweet old man from Oakland named Frank. Whenever I see Eric, he’s with his dog Mellow. Mellow is the most amazing animal because she is one hundred percent defined by three words: ‘mellow,’ ‘yellow,’ and ‘dog.’ The first time I heard her bark was when I woke Eric up to call me an ambulance. That was also Saturday.

Recently this image has been popping into my head when I’m pushing down the sidewalk: I’m on my way somewhere, it’s a sunny day, and I’m occupying my mind with some silly fantasy til I get there, when suddenly the manhole cover on the sidewalk gives way and I die, when suddenly a car blindsides me and I die, when suddenly a tree falls on me and I die, when suddenly my brain explodes and I die. The death is always instantaneous and absurd. My new thought on this image is that I’m not as scared of dying a quick, silly death as I am of living through and slow, horrible, lonely one. The image pops up to get my heart beating faster and to distract me from the way I’m creeping towards the other death.

Saturday Martin died, and Eric’s heart may have, but I didn’t come anywhere near to keeling over. Oh but there was much drama and physical degradation. At around midnight Friday my abdomen started clenching up. This had happened last Saturday and I had labeled it “food poisoning,” since it only lasted a few hours. In November it also happened, “food poisoning.” Once in New Orleans I actually had food poisoning, or an intestinal virus, depends who you ask—the pain then was similar, except it was half the intensity, two inches lower, and involved intense gurgling. In New Orleans, I was still able to eat ice cream with that adorable urchin, gurgling or no. Unfortunately, instead of remembering forever that no stomach virus should be more powerful than a hot street kid, what I took from the New Orleans incident was that clenching equals virus equals temporary.

Thus in November, on Saturday, and on Friday, I was stubborn about outlasting this pain. Friday I already had a cold and a moderate fever. When the pain started, I put on the commentary to Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and tried to distract myself. There was no distraction and I didn’t care about a fucking word they said. I didn’t want to foster any enmity toward an innocent album, and I didn’t want to move, so when the commentary ended I just stayed in bed. Everything between then and 7am is a blur. The pain kept getting worse, and finally I broke my usual code of being silent. Once you start moaning out loud, it only escalates, and you get more upset. Soon I was cursing and crying. Nothing made the pain go away, though I was always sure that if I switched to laying on the other side, stretched out more, or curled into a tight enough fetal position, it would cease. My favorite solution, vomiting, didn’t buy me more than ten seconds relief. After I vomited the second time, I started to get dizzy, and my thumb started to cramp up.

My thumb has a long history of traumatic cramping. According to medical sites, muscle cramping can result from dehydration and an imbalance of electrolytes. For some reason, whenever my electrolytes are off, the symptoms manifest first in my left thumb. With too much drunkenness, anxiety, or—once—euphoria, the damn thumb freezes up. The thumb cramp never helps the anxiety or the drunkenness, and it can take hours for whatever vicious loop the physical and mental stress launch into to settle down.

The thumb cramp turned into a hand cramp, spread to my arm, then to my right hand. Sweat started pouring out of me, but I didn’t notice it until my shirt was drenched. Even the thumb cramp didn’t make me certain I should go to the hospital. It wasn’t until I realized I was shivering, sweat was pouring into my eyes, and I hadn’t noticed any of it. At that point I concocted an elaborate plan to put on my pants, call someone and wake them up, find a car, find the hospital, and go. I may have tried to enact the first step, pants, for as much as an hour. I couldn’t think straight, all I could think was, “Pants!” It didn’t matter that neither hand worked or that my stomach would clench up too much to move every few seconds, or that the pants, half on, were glued to my legs with sweat. None of the later steps mattered either, because, dammit, to leave the room one needs pants.

The sun began to rise and it occurred to me that perhaps my struggle with the pants, for God knows how long, was yet another sign that seeking medical attention would be wise. The pants were knocked out of the plan, as was calling random people. All I wanted to do was call 911 before I passed out in my room and died pant-less. I took my phone, which was conveniently near, and set it caaaaarefully on my table. With my hands both contorted and frozen up, I knew that if I dropped my phone, there would be no way I could pick it up again. Caaaaarefully, I tried to nudge it open, but—Whhoooosh! Like a fish, it slipped right off the table, bounced off the ground, and tumbled under my table.

Of course, I tried to pick it up. And I tried staring at it, and cursing at it. But it was hopeless. I covered myself up with a blanket and started pawing at my door. I had this grim vision of me grappling with my door as futilely as I had with my pants, and no idea how long I’d try at it before I conceived another plan or fainted, but miraculously the door opened almost immediately. I woke Eric up, Mellow barked, the paramedic had sexy Indie rock glasses.


TO BE CONTINUED…
:: posted by Claire, 4:15 AM | 2 sluts ::


:: Wednesday, January 25, 2006 ::


zaz4prez: it's amusing to me that you have this crazy people karma that lets you engage in unspeakably dubious activity without any pitfalls
:: posted by Claire, 9:59 PM | 0 sluts ::


I have officially ended my hermitage (I say typing in my room with the blinds down in the afternoon). Sunday marked the change, but why the random events of one day coalesced into a forceful statement on the evils of isolation, I do not know. Glory be God for he works with monkeys and street urchins.

Sunday Terry and I went to Haight Ashbury to look at all the pretty things. I, as becomes imminently important in this story, was wearing a new pair of earrings -- long, pale green, jangly, and quite possibly imbued with magical powers. Otherwise, I was dressed normally, and in my grey pants which now accentuate my beer belly. We took the bus to the Haight, and halfway there, this punk got on with swirling arm tattoos and a giant backpack. He set the backpack down in front of me and we exchanged a few words. He had this funny expression on his face, which I took to be distaste for me and my fru fru earrings.

Terry and I were hungry, so we went straight to a cafe and plopped ourselves down for chicken soup and pastries. After a good half hour, we started our search for pretty things. It took less than 60 seconds for this wishy washy quest to get detoured. Of course, the culprit was my bum karma which, still raging strong, is as much a mystery as ever. I glanced at the bum, and I was probably smiling, happy sunny shopping day in the Haight afterall, but those are the only two karma signals I can think of, plus the earrings.

"Hey, what's your name?" or possibly it was "Hey, want some Gummy Bears?" was directed at me from this young clean shaven bum. I say 'me' unself-centeredly -- Terry does not possess the inexplicable je ne sais quoi that bums are looking for and thus does not get stopped by them or even acknowledged. Over and over again, she is instead blatantly ignored; it was a source of some tension.

The bum, Tim, "Tiny Tim," said I was cute (THE MAGIC EARRINGS DO THEIR...MAGIC), asked if we could hang out for awhile and started feeding me Gummy Bears. I saw no reason why he couldn't follow us around (and feed me Gummy Bears), so he gathered up his whittling and went around with us to the girly clothing stores. He was whittling a staff from this giant stick and leaving wood shavings everywhere, but no store employees spoke up. They merely eyed him silently. I didn't have much to say to Tim, so I just smiled and listened to him talk about Portland, his ex, and how he likes Honesty. After a few stores, two bags of gummy bears, and persistant shyness on the part of myself, Tim hugged me, told me to return to the Haight and be his friend, and returned to his corner.

Immediately afterward, possibly less than 30 seconds after Tim's departure, I was stopped again (and Terry was ignored). Not a bum this time, but clearly a comfortable member of the street scene, which is close enough. An incredibly tall, thin Goth man with wispy Goth hair and an adorable grin the size of his face, with his his girlfriend stopped me and asked if he could take my picture with his "monkey, Clyde." For one brief moment I thought my day would be spectacular enough to include a bona fide live monkey and make me believe in Jesus, but no...that never happens in real life. Instead it was this cute spider figure with a painted bulb head he had perched on his shoulder. I said yes? Sure? And he put it on my shoulder and snapped my picture (but not Terry's picture, oh no, heaven forbid somebody attend to Terry).

That last paragraph was irrelevent to the anti-hermit arch, except in novelty.

We went in many stores, we spent zero money. Another bum or two asked my name and ignored Terry. My earrings jangled, and the sun began to set.

As we were looking for a place to eat that would serve beer but not be a bar, we ran into this undergrad I know from Telegraph, Greg. I'd only seen him once out there, but had run into him three or four times this week on my way home. This was perhaps the 5th run-in, surreally coincidental. This time, however, he was strung out on speed. He said he had been up three days on it, and he looked it. He asked me straighfowardly if I'd buy him dinner, because he needed it. He definitely did need it, so I said yes. We found a cafe with beer and grilled tofu, and I tried to talk to him. He wasn't incoherent or stupid, he was just too wired and overwhelmed by the lucidity that comes with sleep deprivation. He was hard to talk to because he had too many ideas and was spitting them out rapidfire in their most primitive form. I, on the other hand, was tired and had a beer. I wanted to pause his babble, grab a single idea, and elaborate on it. Or, as he saw it, pervert it. Whatever you want to call it. Terry mostly sat there.

There was a lot of friction in our conversation, but no animosity. He said I talked too loud, I said that was the speed talking. He said I don't ennunciate, it was closer to home but Terry backed me up. Then he made several correct assertions, chastising me for choosing hermitage over the avenue, and blasting my tendency to talk for myself and pontificate. His only problem was that he was too right and kind of a jackass. I couldn't rile up any anger at his honesty, but there was some sputtering. We bummed cigarettes outside, then he went on his way.

60 seconds later...

As I mentioned, a punk got on the bus and looked at me funny. I forgot to say he was tall and kinda cute. I was not thinking about this after dinner - I was mulling over what the speed freak had said and wishing I was holed up in my room. Terry and I decided to find the bus for home, but before we could head for it, the punk came over (poof, out of nowhere) and told us we were essentially at the bus stop. Hang tight and step into the street when it drives by. Oh wait, I mean he told me that. Terry stood there. He set his backpack down and started talking to me. He was an ex street kid. 26 years old. He'd been living on his own since he was 13. Used to squat in the Haight and in Berkeley. Had recently returned after much drama including a divorce and a coma. Once he beat up the lead singer of Green Day, and in his day the singer in Op Ivy and Rancid squatted with him in People's Park. He may not have said this all right there before the bus came, but I can't remember what he did say to cause my upcoming crazy decision.

The bus came and he got on to continue talking to me. He'd lived in Mexico, Humbolt, Canada, everywhere on the West Coast. He worked as a technician in the hospital. Irish Catholic, he'd married his true love at 16, but divorced her at 23 because she couldn't take care of herself. One day he'd been in a bar fight, winning, when two guys came up behind him with pipes and put him in a coma for three weeks. His best friend died. He went to bed drunk and fell asleep at a weird angle. Over the course of the night, oxygen deprivation slowly killed him, while his fiance slept beside him. He believed in doing things, and lived by the ethic that when he died there was nothing he wanted to be able to point at and say "I wish I had done that." This ethic resulted in many things to point at and say "I sure wish I hadn't done that," but that was acceptable. Apparently, the odd look and the terse words on the bus earlier that day had been because he thought I was cute. (THE WORLD MAKES NO SENSE THE MAGIC EARRINGS STRIKE AGAIN!) I learned most of this on the bus in less than ten minutes, with him squatting down right at my eye level. Then I abandoned Terry and went home with him.

Alright! I know! Big step! Terry's eyes were as huge as saucers and her mouth was stuck open. But screw my hermitage and her silence and the whole grind of my ways that gets me sitting in my room thinking about far away people. Screw also my Monday afternoon meeting with my labmates. Screw my urge to curl up in my warm bed with my cat. Screw logic and everybody being so afraid of people. Screw that I have nothing to say to someone who's been going to punk shows since he was 9. Screw Greg on speed. Screw pontification. Screw all those wasted days inside.

I got off the bus to return to the Haight with Andrew, the punk, so he could pick up some tabs of...EE...the legal herbal equivalent of E. Yes...EE...also called ecstaticstasy, available at your local Walgreens.

Alright! I know! I got off the bus not only to go back to some random man's place, but also to try a legal herbal supplement I had not yet tried. Screw the standard story of what gets a girl raped! People sense, people.

I can't keep drawing out this story...I need to get groceries.

In short: I was not molested, though his room consisted almost solely of an air mattress. I was not even kinky. When it comes down to it, I don't think I can be kinky with a stranger. EE made him frisky but made me into a warm gelatinous blob that wanted nothing more than to lay down and slowly ooze into his floor. He became resigned to this, and there was much Johnny Cash. At one point, he accidently locked himself out of the apartment and me in. That would have been a hilarious death. This sweet melancholy guy who worked at the needle exchange in the Haight let him back in. In the morning, he almost dropped me down the stairs. Second possible hilarious death. I don't think he's going to call me, which is a relief because I don't think it was the EE that killed my frisk. But it was fun.

In conclusion:
-My frisk doesn't attach easily to people these days
-My hermitage is over
:: posted by Claire, 12:56 PM | 0 sluts ::


:: Friday, December 23, 2005 ::


I have a midnight confession to make, blog: I am miserable.

Completely, constantly, soooo annoyingly, have been for two or three months.

I don't know why, or how it started. I'm depressed like an insomniac who knows the only thing stopping her from sleeping is her despair over not being asleep yet. My first month of school, I was ecstatic. Tripped a lot, which certainly contributed to the ecstatic, went everywhere, couldn't stop grinning. Explored every street in my neighborhood, found holy spots, hiding spots, exciting spots, and at least ten new plants, developed the ability to manifest beaming dreadlocked men at will, and went out every night. By the third month, I'd stopped almost everything, couldn't read anymore, found myself unmotivated to leave my room, started dreaming about people from my past. By the fourth, I was smoking or drinking myself to sleep every night. I think I've been doing that for at least a month now. Cause and effect are muddled on that point. Depressed because I started filling my nights with downers instead of people? Turning off my brain because I'm quite depressed and would rather not think about it?

My first month I slept like a log on top of my cushy duvet, a beautiful 9 or 10 hours a night, and woke up ages before noon. Now I can barely sleep at all. I go to bed anxious, lay half awake for hours flashing through memories and dream-hallucinating barren little dream-fantasies; I get maybe 6 hours of sleep, but spend half the day in bed. It reminds me of Yuliya.

The point of this confession is to figure out why I'm so sad about living in the best place in the world with my posh fellowship, my cat, and my sweet apartment. Surely I'm not inherently melancholy and self-centered. SURELY. I know why I'm sad this second, 1:28 AM December 23: In my miserly bubble, with a telescoped view that saw only missing friends and no attachments, I slipped up on reality, allowed longings and anticipations to fester which had no basis in fact. I should have seen it coming. At the beginning of the descent, I'd noticed a certain disproportionality growing in my responses towards people, but I ignored it because it was fun, gave things spice. I was lonely in my new place, only natural. Of course, along with all my other fun indulgences, it then morphed to EVIL. Aaahhh vices...so attractive in times of partying, so repellent in times of self-pity.

When did I start thinking too much about poor innocent Snow? (Poor Bill. Never did nutin but mind his own binness, and tend his own fields. But by damn, the ole lady done take a hatchet to him one day, stuck 'is head up on da scarecrow!) My timeframe has not been helped by the smoking. In August (or September), I was infatuated with Hippieman and reading Leary's pop psychology. In October, I pondered often over the dead-eyed anarchist guitar player bum and wondered whether or not I'd make out with Raj again. There was much Johnny Cash. Something about, yes, making out with Raj again dampened things, and early November just had the guy in the drum store who I only met once, and my precious new drum. November, though, was when I started to go screwball. By Thanksgiving, I was confused, degenerate, and tired, sometimes miserable. I came back home, had a blast with my sisters, and saw Snow. It was all small things, but both Snow and my sisters made me happy (the opposite of miserable, dammit). I went back to school and immediately Nora came to visit, which also made me happy. Yay happy,

Then everything returned to normal - sadness and inaction. I just wanted to go back, back, back, and the only back I could think of was El Paso (poor enough, eh?). Kind of wanting the Snow guy was so mixed in with the drag of finals, missing my family, and general loneliness, and blurred by "partying" that I didn't realize how set I had become on seeing him again.

Judging by my reactions the last couple days, I was very set on it. This second's sadness is thus caused by the unfortunate truth that not everybody froze their life for the last month or two, not everybody has been holed up getting lost and needy, and only in movies do hot men save pouty women from themselves. I'm not even sure what was supposed to happen in the ideal. Some sort of cry for attention funneled through my romantic urge? I dunno. Probably. I officially disown it and all its constituents.

I would call tonight's sadness "crushing disappointment," (lol, or "kiwi passion fruit delight") but not the "overwhelming, long-term depression" (OWL-TED) which is the topic of this post. OWL-TED has to do with...um. Good question. I'll just start brainstorming:
-I miss my friends too much, so much that I don't want to befriend these new people. New people are not as awesome as my friends.
-I'm really stubborn on that point.
-I don't know who I am
-don't know what I'm doing
-Most of the people in grad school consider it their life plan; I have no life plan
-don't know what I want
-don't know why I'm doing anything
-Because I don't know why I'm doing it, what it is, or what I want it to be, I'm mostly incapable of doing anything. (Hilarious)
-I'm lonely
-I don't know what I believe in
-Instead of working on these problems, I run away from them with drugs or TV, or deny them by burying myself in grad school work
-I'm afraid I'll run away from them forever
-I'm afraid of myself
:: posted by Claire, 12:13 AM | 0 sluts ::


:: Friday, October 07, 2005 ::


http://www.livejournal.com/users/irkedkiwi/

it's locked to friends only. ask me and i'll add you. probably.
:: posted by Claire, 3:19 PM | 0 sluts ::


:: Wednesday, July 20, 2005 ::


Torpor: A Timeline

Day 1: slept forever
Day 2: sense of impending doom--decided on salvation through a concentrated regiment of gardening, swimming, reading, writing, and playing the didgeridoo.
Day 3: planted garden.
Day 4: Torpor begins. Write a letter to Sam. Torpor abated
Day 5: find the house didges. blow and blow.
Day 6: blowin.
Day 7: blowin.
Day 8: blowin--always the same tool. Torpor resumes.

etc.

Day: decide salvation comes not through didgin but through painting of crappy furniture items.
Day next: ditto
next: ditto
next: boredom

etc

Day: music!
next: hard drive crash

Day: buffy!
Day: the eternal death of a couch zombie, sans couch.

Day: rile libido. appear to kill torpor good n dead in final battle of the wills. kissing could save any soul.
Next Day: rejection. tenfold torpor rules the land.

that story need only make sense to me. the hard drive crash deleted my ex-blog archives. i demand a permanent account of my angst flux! the best years of my angstin may be over, but perhaps if i destroy myself with substances and emotional degeneracy, this account will be just as compelling. i like the idea, more bourbon now.

fuck that, almost out. someday my modus operandi will be sex or gardening or altruism or creation. til then, it seems more important to have the m.o. than to worry that it's alcohol or pot. still.
:: posted by Claire, 1:10 AM | 1 sluts ::


Fine! I need a blog! If only so that late at night, when I've had my second glass of bourbon and I've listened to every plush album I can think of, I have an obligation other than sleep. If only so that I can rememeber the word I can't quite think of, because I've tried to put my finger on it for the last two hours of each and every night. Also, cuz boredom; incipient shallowness; degradation of spelling skills; increasing number of unverbalizeable rants; geographical separation from all close friends; alcoholism; ummm, loneliness; hyperactive fingers; poor handwriting; brilliant typewriting; out of drugs, zest; waaaaah; and always, the driving force behind le blog, so much horniness.
:: posted by Claire, 12:43 AM | 0 sluts ::


:: Wednesday, March 16, 2005 ::


stupid habits
:: posted by Claire, 7:34 PM | 0 sluts ::