I have a stuffy nose. Ouch. It rather hurts to breathe. Maybe I should write about the most disgusting things I can think to write about. I have a ridiculous fruit fly problem in my apartment. I could just effing scream. Today is the third set of traps that I have made, and I seriously don’t know what the hell I will do if these don’t work. Jamie told me to try grenadine; no work. My mom told me to try apple cider vinegar. They are swarming, but none are going inside the actual trap and drowning. WTF. Yes, it’s violent, but damnit they are ruining my life. I have been avoiding cooking in my kitchen because I don’t want one of those buggers landing in anything. Tonight, however, I had such a craving for pasta so I caved and “cooked” up a bag of Bertoli. I even splurged on the expensive grated romano cheese. MMM MMM MMMMMMMM it was good!
I put an add on craigslist to find a roommate. I have had a few replies and now that I have them I’m all like …. ughhh I don’t want a roommate. I love the conveniences of not having someone in your space. But I do miss the shared expenses.
Oh what to do?
Then of course the calibur of people up here…leaves much to be desired. But why should it matter? My three main criteria for a roommate are: 1. Don’t steal my stuff 2. Pay your half of everything on time 3. Mind your own business. And did I say don’t steal my stuff??
I guess they at least deserve a call back! I think.
When I visit Xanga I feel as though I am walking through a cemetary. I made some of my very first MSU friends on here, and for that reason, I remember it. We were all so dilligent -writing daily about our lives. But what happened? I often tell myself that I should write every day. If not for anything than for posterity. No matter what you did with your life, to chronicle it each day is pretty awesome. But with all of this social media, which I love, it so seems that the day of the weblog is over. Writing never felt like a chore to me, but it does now. I sometimes feel like my brain is rotting. When I go back and read things that I wrote as a teenager, I feel I was a much stronger writer. Somewhere down the line I lost my sense of Ijustdon’tgiveafawk and I started caring too much about what other people think.
Have you ever looked at yourself and thought ‘ who the fuck are you?’ There are so many things that I want to do that the possibility of doing anything is paralyzing. I’ve developed a true sense of perfectionism that keeps me from being active. And where did this come from? I’m used to receiveing excellent feedback. For the past 8 years of my life (wow, I just sighed heavily at being able to type the number 8), I have received exclusively positive feedback. I’ve known nothing other than excellence. So during my recent performance view at work, when I got all “meeting expectations or 2.0/4.0,” I wanted to melt. What the fuck do you mean 2.0? I have to remind myself that this isn’t school anymore… .and that, working really really really hard and doing your best doesn’t always equate to a 4.0. I guess I got a little taste of what some people experience throughout their whole life. Working very hard only to achieve a grade of satisfactory. And what a horrible word. It doesn’t even SOUND like something I’d want to touch, let alone be.
SAT.IS.FACTORY. I think it’s the base of ‘factory,’ that is such a turn off. A factory is an entity that produces something en masse. It’s unoriginal. Not special. What’s made there is the same as the one before it and the one after it. I don’t want to be a factory. I don’t want to even be on the same page, let alone part of the same WORD as factory. So what do I do? Well, in my case, I do nothing. I sit and I wonder. And it’s like I’m waiting for something to happen. I need to snap out of it. A year of my life has gone by and I don’t feel as though I’ve done anything extraordinary. I have learned some new skills (I guess?) but none that I truly feel proud of. I will just have to take it one day at a time and stack the building blocks of my life back together.
Is there such a thing as alumnitis? Or the condition in which your alumni status makes you ill and yearn to be back in College?
I posted an ad on craigslist looking for a date. That’s right, a date….not a serial killer or rapist with murderous intentions. I haven’t been on a date in a very long time. I don’t even think I recall how it is supposed to go. I was talking with my friend Justin (more affectionately known as Daddy Justin) about how fun it is when you first start dating someone. I miss having the butterflies about someone. It’s been about 7 months since Jackie and I broke up. Who would have thought? The feeling of wanting to move on is finally here, and I am thankful for it. It’s true that every person is different, and every person handles break-ups differently, but I do feel there’s a general pattern or course of healing. First, you’re sad. Then mad. Then really mad. Then extraordinarily happy. Then perhaps a little contemplative. For a while you don’t want to date anyone, and ponder the what-if-we-get-back together scenarios. Then, you don’t want to date anyone. At all. Nan-nobody. And finally, your curiosity returns and you’re interested in seeing someone new. And so that is where I am, 7 months later. It’s weird, though, because I am so nervous about it. I got a reply to my ad today. I read it and the individual seems nice enough; I was excited to receive a reply, yet repulsed at the same time. It’s Friday. I hope I don’t chicken out. I should try to write him back, although, still, I feel unmotivated to do so. We’ll see what happens.