Real Shit

I am so pissed and sad about everything all the time these days that I sometimes forget what real heartache is. The occasional dose of it keeps me alive and aware. It also makes me sick to my stomach. I have tangible and intellectual reminders of many of the things that compose my past, and I just don't know what to feel about them. The confusion paralyzes me for a day at a time, here and there.

That, and I've come up with an idea about what would be a cool book. I don't think I could write it, but I could try to write certain parts of it, flesh it out a bit, feel how it feels, and see if it's something that would interest me. It's totally inconsequential, and really more of a literary exercise for my own personal exploration than what would appear to readers to be a "book." I'd probably post snippets here if I decided to try and start writing it.

That, and 45% of my grade in English 417 is due between Tuesday the 12th and Tuesday the 19th. Two seven page papers, as well as a group presentation/leading a class discussion, all in the next 10 days. 45%. Fuck that. Fuck that shit straight back to whatever brilliant mind envisioned it would be a good idea to stagger everything that's fucking important this semester into one 8-day period. Fuck you.

That, and my parents don't believe in me. I don't care if they think I'm doing it wrong, I just wish they wouldn't bother me about it everyday. I'm doing it with my money, my time, and my sanity. They can do what they like. I just want to bang my head on the table in peace.

Okay, now that that's out of the way...