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x_losI am honnestly angry at a teacher because she fails to accept my 'brilliant but tragically useless, pity meeeeeee' image and cut me breaks with a smile and an offer of hugs because of it. I mean, I'm being held to reasonable standards here. When did I become such a self-obsessed cunt?
I measure my progress through finals week by the increasingly ludicrous symptoms of depression. If I am contemplating what goes on a good suicide mix, Tuesday. If I've given in to Eleanor Rigby, decided the hell with the kitsch factor, Last Dance With Mary Jane is on, but that a title for the mix as a whole is too corny, it's probably Thursday. Scouting suitably long, tough ropes in the room with which to bind the door handle to my dresser in leiu of a lock (I have none, oddly)? Thursday afternoon.
I'm not doing it or anything, god that'd be emo, just wallowing in self-loathing with the thought that if it's not cithartic, it's maudlin enough to embarass me out of thinking about it. I really wish I didn't have any expectations for myself, or maybe that I wasn't alone in that? All the people who have ever looked at me and said things, you'll be an author, you'll be president, good morning starshine, the world smiles with you!, at times when I didn't look so dilapidated and honnestly expected something out of me? I kind of want to shank with the rusty blade of their own viccariousness. Or something, I don't know, I'm all bitchy this week.
This review of a Eugine O'Neil play on the Village Voice, A Touch of the Poet, looks interesting. Anyone read it?
This emoticon kinda scares me.
I measure my progress through finals week by the increasingly ludicrous symptoms of depression. If I am contemplating what goes on a good suicide mix, Tuesday. If I've given in to Eleanor Rigby, decided the hell with the kitsch factor, Last Dance With Mary Jane is on, but that a title for the mix as a whole is too corny, it's probably Thursday. Scouting suitably long, tough ropes in the room with which to bind the door handle to my dresser in leiu of a lock (I have none, oddly)? Thursday afternoon.
I'm not doing it or anything, god that'd be emo, just wallowing in self-loathing with the thought that if it's not cithartic, it's maudlin enough to embarass me out of thinking about it. I really wish I didn't have any expectations for myself, or maybe that I wasn't alone in that? All the people who have ever looked at me and said things, you'll be an author, you'll be president, good morning starshine, the world smiles with you!, at times when I didn't look so dilapidated and honnestly expected something out of me? I kind of want to shank with the rusty blade of their own viccariousness. Or something, I don't know, I'm all bitchy this week.
This review of a Eugine O'Neil play on the Village Voice, A Touch of the Poet, looks interesting. Anyone read it?
This emoticon kinda scares me.
