It's been a while since I posted. I had a draft, but it has since disappeared and though I remember how it started, I don't remember exactly what it said or where it was going. I am back in school now and in need of more practical procrastination techniques than simply mail and facebook. Strangely enough, however, all my homework for tonight is already done.
It is the second week of classes and feels like Christmas break should have begun already. This being said, you should also know that I have spent most of this week in bed sick, so really, I have only participated in one full week of classes.
My facebook statuses have ranged in the last week from slightly funny--"once upon a time there was a place called college and no one liked it and it was over priced and they charged you for everything and people were pretentious, but then one day...oh wait...nope...hasn't changed. :-)"
to seemingly funny but with a strong whiff of truth--"finishing college is the art of procrastinating your withdrawn slip a few days longer than your homework."
all the way to nostalgic--"Why are we so quick to forget the bad and romanticize the good? Maybe it's because we need to believe that the time we spent together actually meant something, that we were there for each other in a time in our lives that defined us all, a time in our lives that we will never forget."
I'm not really sure what this says about my last fourteen days except perhaps that a range of events and emotions have snuck into my life without my permission.
I usually love learning new things and gaining new experiences but coming back to College, seeing as where this College is, rips out any willingness to participate. I have signed up for activities that I love to do. I am in classes that I like (Besides Spanish which is another story entirely). And still, I can't help but feel my brain melting like wax is this little dungeon room of mine. No matter how many things I have to cover the pee colored walls, no matter how bright and cheery and homey I try to make it, I feel like I need to be a recluse every time I walk in.
On another note, a story which I believe everyone should read, for one purpose or another, is called Geek Love, by Katherine Dunn. It is a novel that tells the story of the Binewskis a carnival family that bred its own freak show. Quite interesting, sad, dynamic, overall a good read.
I'm a little bit everywhere tonight--my life has changed pretty drastically since the last time I updated, though those of you who read it pretty much know the real time updates.
I still want to be in California.
I still hate Iowa.
A great story about my school--in my school newspaper--everyone should read it!!!
http://www.thesandb.com/features/wtf-where-the-fk-am-i.html
My favorite quote came from a first year--"I don't know why I thought they were kidding about the cornfields."
I never get sick with normal stuff, I always get these weird viruses that last forever. I don't get sick often, but when I do it knocks me out. I hate being sick and am hoping this bout is 'bout over.
Also, my tan from the summer that I worked so hard for is almost gone. It's a sad day.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
I have been in California for about a month and a half now and it has gone by sooo fast! I have a billion pictures and some good memories of events. Some rough memories of events. And some memories that will probably fade soon enough just because they didn't quite make the memorable enough cut off. I have been working at a police station and learned some really interesting things about the place I am staying, some interesting things about law enforcement, and some interesting things about people in general. I am also working at a restaurant where I have learned plenty of things in those same categories. The most interesting things, however, I have probably learned about myself.
1. I do not have to put up with people's bull if I don't want to. I have done it for a long time and will probably continue to do it to some extent, but I know now that I am allowed (by myself mostly) to let people know when something they are doing is upsetting me. And when that person continues to do such a thing, I do not need to continue supporting them. All relationships, whether they be friendship or dating type, are two way streets. When one person feels they are giving more than another, sacrificing more than another, putting up with more than another, it won't work.
2. People don't change on purpose, they change over time and can't make themselves be something they are not. I cannot expect anyone to grow up faster than they want to. I guess the world isn't up to me.
3. Working up courage is the most anxiety inducing feeling there is. Though it is a good thing to do, the pre-courageous act times are very stressful.
4. People like to make up stories. The best thing to do is confront them in a non-confrontational way. Don't be a chicken. (see #3)
5. Just because people are family doesn't mean you will be best friends.
6. Having people be impressed with my work ethic just shows me how lazy most of my generation is.
7. At 19-20, it's not about finding the people who will be with you forever, it's about finding the people who will be with you tomorrow, and maybe or maybe not those tomorrows turn into forever.
8. Stars are a very important part of my life.
9. Hoping everything will turn out alright usually helps it to turn out alright.
10. Check water contamination notifications before drinking tap water.
11. Don't give up on people. Just because they didn't fit in to one portion of your life doesn't mean they won't come back later.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Unburied Hatchets
I saw my sixth, seventh and eighth grade science teacher (all the same person) today. He made a comment about me thinking he was mean when I was in his class. The reality is, I didn't think he was mean. I thought his teaching style sucked and our personalities clashed horribly. He taught straight out of the book and rarely came up with anything more exciting. He would have made a good PE teacher in high school, but for a junior high Science teacher, I deemed him inept the first few days of class.
He ended up being my homeroom teacher for all three years I was in the upper unit. It was strange for my fourteen person class to get to high school and not see him. We completely expected a Mr. Feeny style following from year to year.
As an adult looking back at the classes I had with him, I do not regret the way I thought of him, the arrogant jerkface that he was/is. And, as he is now the principal of that same school, I think he is just power hungry and his intelligence level leaves a lot to be desired.
I do not think my 12 year old self could have handled him any better. I did not like him. I did not care if he was "mean," I got over "mean" in elementary. He had no respect for the students and so I had no respect for him. Not much has changed. I am now civil to him when I see him but I secretly laugh at the fact that he can no longer threaten punishment or try to lower my grade out of spite.
This guy did not like me then and he obviously does not like me now.
Well Mr. W. I am still not a big fan of you either.
He ended up being my homeroom teacher for all three years I was in the upper unit. It was strange for my fourteen person class to get to high school and not see him. We completely expected a Mr. Feeny style following from year to year.
As an adult looking back at the classes I had with him, I do not regret the way I thought of him, the arrogant jerkface that he was/is. And, as he is now the principal of that same school, I think he is just power hungry and his intelligence level leaves a lot to be desired.
I do not think my 12 year old self could have handled him any better. I did not like him. I did not care if he was "mean," I got over "mean" in elementary. He had no respect for the students and so I had no respect for him. Not much has changed. I am now civil to him when I see him but I secretly laugh at the fact that he can no longer threaten punishment or try to lower my grade out of spite.
This guy did not like me then and he obviously does not like me now.
Well Mr. W. I am still not a big fan of you either.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Shaded (A Story for my Fiction Class)
It was a quiet dream, not like usual. Usually dreams made her jolt up at night and scream at night and kick whatever else was in the bed. The cerulean paint chips clung to the ceiling high above her head, about ten feet. It was the drip drip dripping of the rain, of the tiny droplets of water, that finally put her to sleep. The window bars were tinging with the rain drops. The dropping of the rain into buckets in the hallways. Her lips hurt, they were dry, chapped, sore from licking them over and over and over.
The cerulean paint chips fell with the rain, some fell into the buckets, some fell onto her lips. They stuck to her lips as she tossed and turned and rolled in her sleep. She may have swallowed one. That may have been what was keeping her dreams quiet. She didn’t fight the chips anymore. She couldn’t speak with her mouth full so she couldn’t scream with her mouth full of paint chips.
She was floating slowly down the river, slowly floating with no raft beneath her. No boat supported her, just her scarlet locks and pasty gauze dress floated around her, encompassing her. She saw a boat to her left, some kind of writing was written on the side, it said something. But she couldn’t read it. The petals in her hands became flowers—beautiful golden, emerald, crimson flora, sprouting from nowhere. She had seen these flowers before. Seen them in her room, next to her mirror, her cracked mirror, and she had once held these same flowers in the cerulean room.
He was coming, he was coming to get her out of the river, no longer a quiet dream, the chips cracked in her throat, her gasp cracked in the air, she choked and spattered the chips all around her springless mattress. The river had been so calm, the river had been so refreshing, the river had let her escape, she regained consciousness on the river. He was shaking her, drying her? Shaking her awake. Shoving something else down her throat, more chips, more river matching chips. Pills he called them, her pills. A perfect color.
They matched his pants, the pills, the paint chips, the river. They were the same color. She knew this man, she knew him every night, but she forgot she knew him every day. He told her to forget him so she did, but she didn’t really. He just wasn’t there during the day. She knew to cry now when he came in, when he woke her up, it all started with the chips with the pills. Then something larger, something a bit softer, it hurt more, made her choke more. It wasn’t blue. She wished it was blue, she wished everything attached to this man was blue, just like she was blue by the time the pallid shade dripped, dropped, shot into her throat, washing down the pills, the chips, whatever else had found itself in there.
The sun came up, it was sunny. A shift change, she could hear it right outside her door at the nurses’ station. “Yeah, she thrashes around pretty good every night when she gets her pills, don’t worry about it, she’s just crazy.”
“Sir, are you going to fix that mirror in the room? It could be dangerous to have it in there. She could really hurt herself.”
“Oh, I’ll get around to it. It’s not like she is ever out of bed. She can’t get to it unless she gets the hell up.”
“Sir, the reports say you don’t allow anyone else in her room at night, is that right?”
“Hell no, she’s crazy. I don’t subject my staff to issues like her, even if she can’t talk who wants to be around a nutcase like the thrasher?”
“Well, they’re all crazy, really.”
I’m Not Crazy! She was screaming in her head. Was it making noise, though? Could anyone hear her? Here comes the man with the white pants, maybe he would listen. The room was getting less blurry, surely she could tell this man what was happening. She wasn’t supposed to be here. This wasn’t right. She hadn’t done anything wrong, had she? She had been hurt! She had tried to tell them about the horrible man before she came here. She couldn’t find the right words. Here he comes. She would stand up and tell him she wanted to go home. Maybe, at least he could fix her ceiling. He had food, though, oh, she just wanted something to eat. She reached out to take the tray from him. What was happening? He wouldn’t give her the food! He was pinching her nose and breaking her jaw open. More blue, that’s all there was now. Lucidity was gone. Reality was slipping away, out of her grasp. Damn those white pants, too! Damn those blue pills. What was ringing? What God awful phone was ringing in this God awful place? It was screaming! It was screaming at her head like she screamed for help inside it.
She was turning now, turning over in her bed, twisting the sheets into long ropes, twisting them with her feet, twisting them with her arms, twisting them together with her nightgown. Her colorless nightgown was so light when she slept it might not always be there. But it was there now, wringing her legs together, tying them in knots as much as the sheets were in knots, as much as her stomach was in knots. It was so bright.
This might be a dream too, this room was so bright, there were glints of multihued light bouncing around her head. Up and down it was bouncing around her and her eyes tracked the glints and she was dizzy. And now the cerulean paint chips and the cerulean pills and pallid liquid were done sloshing around in her stomach and up they came. She felt them stick in her throat a bit, one more time, as they exited her body.
She lay in her wet bedclothes, now a pale, acidic yellow. She lay on the mattress spitteling digested tablets, gargling absorbed and mushy paint chips in the back of her throat. Choking, she was choking again, footsteps, usually it was the other way around, footsteps, tiptoes, then choking and the fear. The fear of the dripping liquid that came every night from the man in cerulean pants. Oh God, there, here it is, the phallic hardness slipping down her throat soon it would wash everything back down her throat. But she could breathe this time. She could see things this time. It wasn’t blue. It didn’t shove anything besides itself down her throat, and she could breathe!
She should have thrown it all up a long time ago. The tube came out. S l o w l y the tube came out of her throat. She could see this was not the same kind of tube she had been subjected to before. This tube came in the daytime, and this tube saved her, didn’t choke her. Who was on the other side of this? Someone who would help her. Someone who wasn’t here to hurt her. Someone she could trust.
“Help.” It was a quiet gesture but the woman in green heard her. Just the one word, but it got her changed and got her bread.
The sapphire trimmed stars peeked out behind the willows outside her room. She hadn’t had pills since the bright time. And there was a voice. It was down the hall, she could hear the man. The shifts changing again. She was awake this time. Reality was so much different than her dreams. They must be. But then, why did this man sound so familiar to her? The green nurse was talking to the blue man.
“She said a word today, you know”
“Oh?” The man spoke softly and carefully.
“Yeah, won’t be long before she starts telling us what really went wrong with her. Well on her way to recovery she is. That guy ought to be hung for raping her and putting her in this state!”
“Isn’t that delightful,” there was a strain in the man’s voice. Was he her doctor?
She settled down into her clean bedclothes on her old mattress, ready to face whatever dreams may come.
“Well goodnight sir.” The green woman was leaving? She couldn’t just leave now.
“Yes, goodnight Margene.”
Footsteps now. Tiptoeing footsteps. And she was afraid. This is just as she remembered and this was no dream. There were no chips in her mouth, she could keep it closed on her own. There was no dripping to distract her. There were no pills to keep her quiet. Tip tip tip toeing outside. It was the man in blue.
“So Perdita, I hear you speak now. How unfortunate for you and your family.”
“Help!” She screamed this time. She screamed at the top of her lungs. “HELP! Help…” Her request died off as her air supply was suddenly gone. Her hands were being wrapped. Her feet were being twisted together. The cotton of the bedclothes and the cotton of the man’s pants were chaffing against her skin. Her mouth was full again. No pills, no paint chips, but a long, narrow tube. Warmer than the one earlier today. This one cut off her breathing. This tube turned her blue, a cold blue.
She turned her eyes one last time to the broken mirror. Confused, lost, unbreathing, she lay still.
The morning nurse came in to do her rounds and as she walked past the typically silent room there was a drip, drip, dripping. The green woman walked in. The drip, drip, dripping of the ruby liqueur splattered onto the linoleum. The bed sheets tangled from the bars on the window to around her neck. A piece of broken mirror in her wrist. The nervous nurse hurried to tell the off-duty doctor.
“Oh, how unfortunate for her and her family.”
“Yes, sir. But there is mirror in her wrist!”
“Must not have been quick enough for her.”
“But sir, you said just yesterday she didn’t move out of her bed.”
“From one extreme to the other I suppose.”
“I very much doubt that, Sir.”
But now she was floating. Down the river she was floating, arms folded across her chest, under the balconies and under the willows, she floated in her fair, linen gown, previously unnoticed. Previously lost. Her dream was the only reality she needed. The cause of her broken screams no longer weaved its crippling pattern into her eternal tapestry.
The cerulean paint chips fell with the rain, some fell into the buckets, some fell onto her lips. They stuck to her lips as she tossed and turned and rolled in her sleep. She may have swallowed one. That may have been what was keeping her dreams quiet. She didn’t fight the chips anymore. She couldn’t speak with her mouth full so she couldn’t scream with her mouth full of paint chips.
She was floating slowly down the river, slowly floating with no raft beneath her. No boat supported her, just her scarlet locks and pasty gauze dress floated around her, encompassing her. She saw a boat to her left, some kind of writing was written on the side, it said something. But she couldn’t read it. The petals in her hands became flowers—beautiful golden, emerald, crimson flora, sprouting from nowhere. She had seen these flowers before. Seen them in her room, next to her mirror, her cracked mirror, and she had once held these same flowers in the cerulean room.
He was coming, he was coming to get her out of the river, no longer a quiet dream, the chips cracked in her throat, her gasp cracked in the air, she choked and spattered the chips all around her springless mattress. The river had been so calm, the river had been so refreshing, the river had let her escape, she regained consciousness on the river. He was shaking her, drying her? Shaking her awake. Shoving something else down her throat, more chips, more river matching chips. Pills he called them, her pills. A perfect color.
They matched his pants, the pills, the paint chips, the river. They were the same color. She knew this man, she knew him every night, but she forgot she knew him every day. He told her to forget him so she did, but she didn’t really. He just wasn’t there during the day. She knew to cry now when he came in, when he woke her up, it all started with the chips with the pills. Then something larger, something a bit softer, it hurt more, made her choke more. It wasn’t blue. She wished it was blue, she wished everything attached to this man was blue, just like she was blue by the time the pallid shade dripped, dropped, shot into her throat, washing down the pills, the chips, whatever else had found itself in there.
The sun came up, it was sunny. A shift change, she could hear it right outside her door at the nurses’ station. “Yeah, she thrashes around pretty good every night when she gets her pills, don’t worry about it, she’s just crazy.”
“Sir, are you going to fix that mirror in the room? It could be dangerous to have it in there. She could really hurt herself.”
“Oh, I’ll get around to it. It’s not like she is ever out of bed. She can’t get to it unless she gets the hell up.”
“Sir, the reports say you don’t allow anyone else in her room at night, is that right?”
“Hell no, she’s crazy. I don’t subject my staff to issues like her, even if she can’t talk who wants to be around a nutcase like the thrasher?”
“Well, they’re all crazy, really.”
I’m Not Crazy! She was screaming in her head. Was it making noise, though? Could anyone hear her? Here comes the man with the white pants, maybe he would listen. The room was getting less blurry, surely she could tell this man what was happening. She wasn’t supposed to be here. This wasn’t right. She hadn’t done anything wrong, had she? She had been hurt! She had tried to tell them about the horrible man before she came here. She couldn’t find the right words. Here he comes. She would stand up and tell him she wanted to go home. Maybe, at least he could fix her ceiling. He had food, though, oh, she just wanted something to eat. She reached out to take the tray from him. What was happening? He wouldn’t give her the food! He was pinching her nose and breaking her jaw open. More blue, that’s all there was now. Lucidity was gone. Reality was slipping away, out of her grasp. Damn those white pants, too! Damn those blue pills. What was ringing? What God awful phone was ringing in this God awful place? It was screaming! It was screaming at her head like she screamed for help inside it.
She was turning now, turning over in her bed, twisting the sheets into long ropes, twisting them with her feet, twisting them with her arms, twisting them together with her nightgown. Her colorless nightgown was so light when she slept it might not always be there. But it was there now, wringing her legs together, tying them in knots as much as the sheets were in knots, as much as her stomach was in knots. It was so bright.
This might be a dream too, this room was so bright, there were glints of multihued light bouncing around her head. Up and down it was bouncing around her and her eyes tracked the glints and she was dizzy. And now the cerulean paint chips and the cerulean pills and pallid liquid were done sloshing around in her stomach and up they came. She felt them stick in her throat a bit, one more time, as they exited her body.
She lay in her wet bedclothes, now a pale, acidic yellow. She lay on the mattress spitteling digested tablets, gargling absorbed and mushy paint chips in the back of her throat. Choking, she was choking again, footsteps, usually it was the other way around, footsteps, tiptoes, then choking and the fear. The fear of the dripping liquid that came every night from the man in cerulean pants. Oh God, there, here it is, the phallic hardness slipping down her throat soon it would wash everything back down her throat. But she could breathe this time. She could see things this time. It wasn’t blue. It didn’t shove anything besides itself down her throat, and she could breathe!
She should have thrown it all up a long time ago. The tube came out. S l o w l y the tube came out of her throat. She could see this was not the same kind of tube she had been subjected to before. This tube came in the daytime, and this tube saved her, didn’t choke her. Who was on the other side of this? Someone who would help her. Someone who wasn’t here to hurt her. Someone she could trust.
“Help.” It was a quiet gesture but the woman in green heard her. Just the one word, but it got her changed and got her bread.
The sapphire trimmed stars peeked out behind the willows outside her room. She hadn’t had pills since the bright time. And there was a voice. It was down the hall, she could hear the man. The shifts changing again. She was awake this time. Reality was so much different than her dreams. They must be. But then, why did this man sound so familiar to her? The green nurse was talking to the blue man.
“She said a word today, you know”
“Oh?” The man spoke softly and carefully.
“Yeah, won’t be long before she starts telling us what really went wrong with her. Well on her way to recovery she is. That guy ought to be hung for raping her and putting her in this state!”
“Isn’t that delightful,” there was a strain in the man’s voice. Was he her doctor?
She settled down into her clean bedclothes on her old mattress, ready to face whatever dreams may come.
“Well goodnight sir.” The green woman was leaving? She couldn’t just leave now.
“Yes, goodnight Margene.”
Footsteps now. Tiptoeing footsteps. And she was afraid. This is just as she remembered and this was no dream. There were no chips in her mouth, she could keep it closed on her own. There was no dripping to distract her. There were no pills to keep her quiet. Tip tip tip toeing outside. It was the man in blue.
“So Perdita, I hear you speak now. How unfortunate for you and your family.”
“Help!” She screamed this time. She screamed at the top of her lungs. “HELP! Help…” Her request died off as her air supply was suddenly gone. Her hands were being wrapped. Her feet were being twisted together. The cotton of the bedclothes and the cotton of the man’s pants were chaffing against her skin. Her mouth was full again. No pills, no paint chips, but a long, narrow tube. Warmer than the one earlier today. This one cut off her breathing. This tube turned her blue, a cold blue.
She turned her eyes one last time to the broken mirror. Confused, lost, unbreathing, she lay still.
The morning nurse came in to do her rounds and as she walked past the typically silent room there was a drip, drip, dripping. The green woman walked in. The drip, drip, dripping of the ruby liqueur splattered onto the linoleum. The bed sheets tangled from the bars on the window to around her neck. A piece of broken mirror in her wrist. The nervous nurse hurried to tell the off-duty doctor.
“Oh, how unfortunate for her and her family.”
“Yes, sir. But there is mirror in her wrist!”
“Must not have been quick enough for her.”
“But sir, you said just yesterday she didn’t move out of her bed.”
“From one extreme to the other I suppose.”
“I very much doubt that, Sir.”
But now she was floating. Down the river she was floating, arms folded across her chest, under the balconies and under the willows, she floated in her fair, linen gown, previously unnoticed. Previously lost. Her dream was the only reality she needed. The cause of her broken screams no longer weaved its crippling pattern into her eternal tapestry.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
How Long?
Another night I can't sleep. Water overflows the floodbanks and streaks my face. At least I washed it and there aren't black mascara marks. What is this? Is it stress? fear? anger? sadness? How did I get here? How long does it take to get back?
Everyone is asking me if I am going abroad next year. No, I'm not. I couldn't get the application in on time. Why not? Oh my dad died. I hate saying that. I am not looking for sympathy when I say it and that's what it sounds like to me. But what's worse? Family issues sounds like something that requires therapists and medicine. Saying I was gone for three weeks out of the semester doesn't make any sense either and it leads right back to the truth. My dad died.
I hate talking about it. I hate not talking about it. I can't watch movies where people die without bawling for the next three hours. When I hear about people dying, I want to bawl for three hours. I don't want to be around anyone that drinks. I don't want to spend my time with people who have addictions. I don't know if it is because it makes me angry that they waste their time, money, efforts, love on things that will never give anything back, or if it reminds me of my dad too much to accept at this point.
I think about him every day. I wonder if he's happy. I wonder if he misses me as much as I miss him or if he can see me. I don't konw if I feel guilty for not talking to him before he died or if I am angry that he put me in the position to have to choose college or talking to him.
I want to know so much about him. There are so many questions I never got to ask him. I miss his laugh. I can hardly remmember it. I want to hear his laugh. I remember his smile--his sober smile. I can hear his voice on recordings, but I want to hear his laugh! He was the funniest guy I have ever met...granted I was partial to my dad's sense of humor, but He could make me laugh at the dumbest things. We had dreams of opening a restaurant one day. Maybe it was just one of those things we talked about, but it meant something to me.
He saved every card I ever gave him. He saved every note I ever wrote him.
I want him back. How long does this last? How long does it take before it quits hurting so much to think about him. How long do I have to wish that I could talk to him before I finally understand that I can't? How many typical twenty-somethings do I have to alienate before I get over my fear of people drinking? How long will it be before I can have fun again? How long will it take me to find out who I am without my dad? It doesn't matter how big or little a role he played in my life, he was still out there, and in many ways still a part of my life. Now he's gone. Now what do I do, and how long will it take me to figure it out?!
People try to tell me there is no heaven. I hope with all my heart mind and soul that there is a heaven. I want my daddy to be there right now. If you don't think there is a heaven, don't tell me. For God's sake I will not debate religion with you. I need to believe what I believe to keep me from breaking down. Don't tell me there's no heaven. I don't care what you believe.
Maybe I need my own twelve step program to figure out just how long it takes to be normal.
Everyone is asking me if I am going abroad next year. No, I'm not. I couldn't get the application in on time. Why not? Oh my dad died. I hate saying that. I am not looking for sympathy when I say it and that's what it sounds like to me. But what's worse? Family issues sounds like something that requires therapists and medicine. Saying I was gone for three weeks out of the semester doesn't make any sense either and it leads right back to the truth. My dad died.
I hate talking about it. I hate not talking about it. I can't watch movies where people die without bawling for the next three hours. When I hear about people dying, I want to bawl for three hours. I don't want to be around anyone that drinks. I don't want to spend my time with people who have addictions. I don't know if it is because it makes me angry that they waste their time, money, efforts, love on things that will never give anything back, or if it reminds me of my dad too much to accept at this point.
I think about him every day. I wonder if he's happy. I wonder if he misses me as much as I miss him or if he can see me. I don't konw if I feel guilty for not talking to him before he died or if I am angry that he put me in the position to have to choose college or talking to him.
I want to know so much about him. There are so many questions I never got to ask him. I miss his laugh. I can hardly remmember it. I want to hear his laugh. I remember his smile--his sober smile. I can hear his voice on recordings, but I want to hear his laugh! He was the funniest guy I have ever met...granted I was partial to my dad's sense of humor, but He could make me laugh at the dumbest things. We had dreams of opening a restaurant one day. Maybe it was just one of those things we talked about, but it meant something to me.
He saved every card I ever gave him. He saved every note I ever wrote him.
I want him back. How long does this last? How long does it take before it quits hurting so much to think about him. How long do I have to wish that I could talk to him before I finally understand that I can't? How many typical twenty-somethings do I have to alienate before I get over my fear of people drinking? How long will it be before I can have fun again? How long will it take me to find out who I am without my dad? It doesn't matter how big or little a role he played in my life, he was still out there, and in many ways still a part of my life. Now he's gone. Now what do I do, and how long will it take me to figure it out?!
People try to tell me there is no heaven. I hope with all my heart mind and soul that there is a heaven. I want my daddy to be there right now. If you don't think there is a heaven, don't tell me. For God's sake I will not debate religion with you. I need to believe what I believe to keep me from breaking down. Don't tell me there's no heaven. I don't care what you believe.
Maybe I need my own twelve step program to figure out just how long it takes to be normal.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
What a day
Okay so my intention this weekend was to get my Philosophy paper done on Saturday so I would not stay up all night Sunday doing it for its Monday due date.
You know what they say about good intentions...
So I had room draw today which is extremely stressful if you have never been through such a thing. As I had not until today (lived off campus last year and they don't make you do room draw in such situations). So, you get your "randomly assigned" room draw number like five months in advance so you have plenty of time to freak out about how many people in your year have better room draw numbers than you and what the odds are of getting a single. Then a week in advance they post the floor plans in a scary, psych ward-like hallway and every one's names on a list that is very difficult to read. There are the actual room draw numbers, then there are the numbers of how many people there are, then there are the numbers of what year someone is and it takes the whole week to figure out exactly what this frigin thing means.
So finally it is room draw day and you show up on time in a packed room with the floor plans on the walls and all your planning goes out the windows because all the good rooms are taken. Duh, why should you expect anything else? And on top of this, there are student helpers coming in and checking off rooms that are taken by previous students and this supposedly happens in "real time..." But you still have a decent shot at getting a decent single, so now you just sweat it out for another forty five min until they call your number. Then you go into another room full of sweaty college students still hung over from Saturday night's Underwear Ball, get your sticker, then try to find somewhere to put it on the floor plans in that room. Walk out of the room through the exit door, end up outside, and wonder what the hell just happened and where am I living next year?
So after that stress, I got home and had an email that my professor wanted a paper that was supposed to be due Tuesday...TONIGHT. So I quick write that paper. It's a rough draft so no harm done if it is terrible but still, it was seven pages of stream of consciousness about a murder in a psych ward. (reoccurring theme in my life right now...psych wards???)
Watched Amazing Race and was very critical of everyone.
Couldn't get people to stop talking to me online and on the phone. "Are you watching the Amazing Race?" I WAS DAMN IT BEFORE YOU CALLED AND INTERRUPTED --WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT?!?! ...aka.. "Yeah, what's up?"
So then I realize that I have not received my Rosetta Stone which I was supposed to have received about three weeks ago. Call the company. They can't find my order. Call my mom. Her card had not been charged. Call the company. Reorder Rosetta Stone. Thank Rahim and get my order number so I can track it this time.
It is now 9:10 pm and I still need to finish my Philosophy paper. Only Six Pages to go....too bad this one can't be stream of consciousness.
Damnitdamnitdamnit.
You know what they say about good intentions...
So I had room draw today which is extremely stressful if you have never been through such a thing. As I had not until today (lived off campus last year and they don't make you do room draw in such situations). So, you get your "randomly assigned" room draw number like five months in advance so you have plenty of time to freak out about how many people in your year have better room draw numbers than you and what the odds are of getting a single. Then a week in advance they post the floor plans in a scary, psych ward-like hallway and every one's names on a list that is very difficult to read. There are the actual room draw numbers, then there are the numbers of how many people there are, then there are the numbers of what year someone is and it takes the whole week to figure out exactly what this frigin thing means.
So finally it is room draw day and you show up on time in a packed room with the floor plans on the walls and all your planning goes out the windows because all the good rooms are taken. Duh, why should you expect anything else? And on top of this, there are student helpers coming in and checking off rooms that are taken by previous students and this supposedly happens in "real time..." But you still have a decent shot at getting a decent single, so now you just sweat it out for another forty five min until they call your number. Then you go into another room full of sweaty college students still hung over from Saturday night's Underwear Ball, get your sticker, then try to find somewhere to put it on the floor plans in that room. Walk out of the room through the exit door, end up outside, and wonder what the hell just happened and where am I living next year?
So after that stress, I got home and had an email that my professor wanted a paper that was supposed to be due Tuesday...TONIGHT. So I quick write that paper. It's a rough draft so no harm done if it is terrible but still, it was seven pages of stream of consciousness about a murder in a psych ward. (reoccurring theme in my life right now...psych wards???)
Watched Amazing Race and was very critical of everyone.
Couldn't get people to stop talking to me online and on the phone. "Are you watching the Amazing Race?" I WAS DAMN IT BEFORE YOU CALLED AND INTERRUPTED --WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT?!?! ...aka.. "Yeah, what's up?"
So then I realize that I have not received my Rosetta Stone which I was supposed to have received about three weeks ago. Call the company. They can't find my order. Call my mom. Her card had not been charged. Call the company. Reorder Rosetta Stone. Thank Rahim and get my order number so I can track it this time.
It is now 9:10 pm and I still need to finish my Philosophy paper. Only Six Pages to go....too bad this one can't be stream of consciousness.
Damnitdamnitdamnit.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Summer Top Ten
Top ten things I am looking forward to this summer!!
1. Spending a couple of months in California with my family. Relaxing, working, and reconnecting!
2. No classes!! I am in desperate need of a break that does not leave the threat of imminent return hanging over my head. I am tired of classes, homework, and papers. Check please?
3. Related to number one...getting out of the Midwest... I need a fresh outlook...hopefully two months will be enough :-)
4. Warm weather. No matter where I am I will definitely be enjoying the sunshine. I have missed it dearly.
5. Learning Spanish. Got Rosetta Stone coming in the mail...excited to try this baby out!
6. Getting a tan. I'm tired of fake baking, give me some REAL vitamin D
7. Big Brother. It is just not summer without my favorite television show ever!!!!!
8. My Birthday!!! Okay, so it's not really a big one but I will officially be able to say, "that happened like 20 years ago" and I will have been alive.
9. Learning something new. It never fails, summer is a way better time to learn things about yourself than during the school year.
10. Roadtrip with whoever is brave enough to drive with me to California! Sure it's a long and boring drive, but it's still a roadtrip!!!!!
1. Spending a couple of months in California with my family. Relaxing, working, and reconnecting!
2. No classes!! I am in desperate need of a break that does not leave the threat of imminent return hanging over my head. I am tired of classes, homework, and papers. Check please?
3. Related to number one...getting out of the Midwest... I need a fresh outlook...hopefully two months will be enough :-)
4. Warm weather. No matter where I am I will definitely be enjoying the sunshine. I have missed it dearly.
5. Learning Spanish. Got Rosetta Stone coming in the mail...excited to try this baby out!
6. Getting a tan. I'm tired of fake baking, give me some REAL vitamin D
7. Big Brother. It is just not summer without my favorite television show ever!!!!!
8. My Birthday!!! Okay, so it's not really a big one but I will officially be able to say, "that happened like 20 years ago" and I will have been alive.
9. Learning something new. It never fails, summer is a way better time to learn things about yourself than during the school year.
10. Roadtrip with whoever is brave enough to drive with me to California! Sure it's a long and boring drive, but it's still a roadtrip!!!!!
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