REPORT A PROBLEM
I love. I can't stop it, but I hold it in and assemble it like fossils. I'm -- and without a friend. It's rather sad and depressing, and even if I did have one, my selfishness would scotch. I can't help it. This love consumes and gives pain. It smolders my heart, its ashes rising to my lungs, smoking them like prosciutto, leaving my breathing organ but deadÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€however deliciousÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€meat. "Choke on me,"it commands. I say, Please, man, come to me. Let me pass this disease to you, like adolescent STD, clashingly possessed with anxiety and visceral pride.
Why so platonic yesterday? It churns my head so; I'm turning into butter. Just one hugÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€and the mentor type, your hand cupped around my upper-arm. No kiss? No fleshly contact? I walked out the door alone. If posing boundaries, you relieve me of uneasiness...but how my ambivalence will miss your lechery! Did you count the years between us? And awake to your desperation? How guilty I feel; perhaps I shy away bluntly; but secretly, I relish your sly touch. Perhaps you don't mean anything, wonder now if I pervert your friendly intentions...That I already have. And which is shaming.
My scarf has balls. Don't get me wrongÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€in its innocent nature, it's charming and tasteful. It's the pom-poms' weight that clusters them in twos, so that any perverted mind could recognize them as testicles. With me being on the shorter side, the scarf seems longer than intended; making my pseudo testicles hang lower near the crotch. Still, I continue to wear it, albeit anxiously. I register all looks, especially all laughter, as reactions to my woolen BALLS. I worry people deprave my poor scarf, but the joke is really on me: I'm probably the most perverted of them all.
I'm so tired, and it's not the flu, or the cold, or the fever...you get the point. I'm simply so psychologically worn out that my whole body cringes to the distress. What's ironic is that I can't sleep despite the exhaustion that wrings my brain, making me 1/3 blind and 1/3 unconscious. Thus, I sleep paltry amounts and to keep awake, I try to rely on coffee. Unfortunately, lately coffee has been casting a curious reverse effectÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€it makes me even sleepier. Perhaps it's the warmth of the cup, the only comforting warmth that I physically feel in usual life.
T and I had a good, long conversation over coffee today. Despite her obsessive complex with glamour and materialism, and despite the likelihood of her inclination towards stealing, I can't help but always feel so comforted and close when speaking to her. She's the kind of friend who makes you forget any tufts or ridges that ever existed in the relationship. I can't decide if I want to keep her at a distance, or to let the friendship grow. I feel kinda insensitive in considering such a verdict, thoughÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€Can friendship really be qualified that way? I don't think so.
People think I'm beautiful. Some say I resemble a classical maiden in Chinese art. But aesthetic depictions possess a certain degree of mystery, an expression not quite definable; such has been said of me, and I don't disagree. I've begun noticing my reticence-- which I keep most chastely--in my demeanor from the metallic brown of my eyes, like steely armor guarding the vacuum inside. However I value privacy, I feel doomed of genuinely intimate experiences, whether with spiritual relationships or sex. Sometimes I'm even mysterious to myself. I look like a painting and nothing moreÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€visually pleasing perhaps, but untouchable.
It's Tuesday. Today N. crossed the Atlantic to Europe. A strange man, about N's age, stalked me at the grocery, noting my sweet tooth. Before he could bare his own sweet tooth for college girls, I left in search for granola, craving the crunch that blockades against the wash of milk. Now I fill my stomach with grainsÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€like I did so earlier with quinoaÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€contemplating how to end the day on an accomplished note, how I can possibly sleep earlier and dream of L. There is no one I find as adorable as he, my tall and humanized E.T.
What I know about L: He is a film student. He lives 3 floors down in my building. He loves Star Wars and Lord of the Rings. I think he likes green. His parents bought him "Love at First Bite"for Valentine's. He's single, but not for long, I'm sure. His home is somewhere in New York. He is sweet, funny, insightful. He loves swords and light sabers. He seems to always say the right things. He often wears hoodies. He dresses rather like Woody Allen, and has the same intellectual demeanor. Alas, he's another unfeasible crush at a distance.
I played little-miss-temptress in Economics today. I sensed his gaze and quaint smile; to be sure, I coyly looked past my shoulders to an angle most fitting to my face. I gazed back, my eyes more mysterious with eyeliner's subtle, sfumato effect. Sometimes, I see him outside class. Each time, I catch him noticing me with attraction. The first time, he and his band were en-route to a performance. When he looks at me, his eyes cast a suctioning darkness, like an oil spill under spatial distortion. Maybe if I keep looking back with such deliberation, he'll ask me out.
It feels so good to be homeÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€to gouge on good food that only makes me feel sick from overeating, and not from flavor or monotony; to have family at my disposal; to be cared and loved for tangibly. Coming back and playing with my clothing, I also realized how much weight I've lost. As anxious as I am about my body image, I'm surprised I didn't notice this physical change. Hopefully my access to TV (finally!) and endless supply of wonderful food won't round me up. It's certainly relieving, however, that my father hasn't reminded me to "exercise more.-
In Death in Venice, Auschenbach is possessed with overwhelming, possessing daydreams at the start of the book. I daydream in a similar way before I cross the street, or at least before I jaywalk. I'm not transcended to a particular climax, nor am I moved irrationally, but still I play a mind-pausing scene in my head. I'm skirting the street, and once I decide to cross, I foresee a car drive uncontrollably. It hits me with accelerating power, catapulting me above and over it, bent irregularly like a Jenga tower. My bones are knocked out of context and I die.
Hear no evil. See no evil. Speak no evil. Three ivory monkeys mime each on my piano. Their bodies look like Brazil nuts, lean yet supple. They have punctuated dabs of black paint as eyes. Each has perked ears and rests its elbows on its narrow knees. I never understood their mantra; how can you ignore evil when it's as unavoidable as the sky? Afterall, if it is consciously and knowingly blocked from the senses, that would just defeatingly render acknowledgment. What do I think is most evil on earth? I wouldn't know; I only hear, see, and speak it.
I set a threshold for myself for everything. Sometimes I wonder if that threshold escalates by itself. There are things I do relatively well, but not anything I feel I could ever master. Except one thingÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€eating with a pitless gut. I know I can't fill the void with food, but when within my reach, I cannot stop taking and consuming. Food is my drug, my cigarette. Shame and disapproval ushers every superfluous bite, but my mouth and hand correspond with a mechanism above any control of my brain. If only I were courageous enough to spit it all out.
There are too many disappointments in my life to take shots at wanted opportunities, too much time wasted on eventual rejection and dejection. If I'm really the great person that people say I am, then I wish I could extract and materialize that for these strangers and judgers to see. I'm so discouraged by the greatness of my potential competition that I can't even extract my whole self to simply try. It's difficult to write with satiable creativity, profundity, wit, and character when I'm not overwhelmed with emotion or particular "inspiration."If only I were an Ovidian weaver/spinner of words.
I'm a little bit tipsy right now. Mother popped open a bottle of long-awaited ice wine and I poured myself a generous serving, which I've sipped casually and unhesitatingly. Now I feel my head cloud up, like it can bob at any moment. I'm also eating a trail mix cookie; it's vegan and it's delicious. I guess I'm feeling rather hedonistic right now, though I did work out earlier. This alcohol is getting a bit too sharp for me. I really must be having too much. Earlier I found it creamy and honey-like sweet, but now it's making me wince.
I'm dreading the continuation of my internship after this short hiatus. Unlike before, I wish I worked in a more realistic workplace; not somewhere so private, so dangerously personal. N. scares me sometimes. I think bitterness and cynicism stew inside him. Sometimes he'll suddenly burst out, "FUCK"or "SHIT"and that scares me too. He's only been nice towards me, though. I just don't want him to think it's okay to be so nice, or so touchy; yet, it'd be so weird for things to get so abruptly impersonal. Such would throw the atmosphere off balance and (ironically) seem inappropriate.
I'm cheating, but I'd like to continue #16. B asked rhetorically and affirmatively if I'll date N. Then, my father asked about my internship in a way suggestively concerned over if I'm sleeping with my boss. He probably wonders if I'm sleeping with anyone at all. It's not like I discreetly figure his sleeping with his dirty, ugly girlfriend. They better not jinx me. Mom mentioned today, if only I had a boyfriendÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€then someone could give me a birthday celebration. I hope N doesn't remember. Not to objectify, but L'd make my dream presentÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€yes, it's only a dream.
I'm back in New York. I feel truly bi-coastal, shifting effortlessly and frankly from east to west, and vice versa. This time there were neither tears nor dread of coming back to self-subsistence and self-dependence. I only felt the dread of all the work I have yet to do, and under what little time. It really made my evening, though, to receive a letter from Rachel. I miss her dearly, and I'm so happy she'll be moving to California. No matter how many men tell me I'm beautiful, she is the truly beautiful one, with her affective warmth and love.
When I visited Angkor Wat, I saw the same goddess-like figures carved along the walls like a patterned snake. They wore nothing but crown-like hairdressings and long, swaying saris. They had perfect breasts, so round, and so delicate. They were so approachable, and so tempting, like holy water, which even the unreligious can't help but dab their fingertips in. Tourists clearly didn't resist (probably those sick Japanese men), as the breasts were glossy from over-touch, making them more licentiously alluring. I myself wanted to take a stroke, because those breasts were what I didn't have, and what I longed for.
Today was a good day, despite the continuing riff-raff of inefficiency and laziness. I got back a midterm paper and received a surprising A. That paper had me at the end of my witsÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€I really did not know where I was going, and it didn't help that I wrote it the morning of deadline. Another plus was another letter from Rachel. Her stay in Costa Rica seems so fascinating, so romantic, so bohemian. It's like where one would awaken to sensuality and latent--however risky and unconventional--desires. I wish I could awaken...and let the world be my bed.
I don't know what I'm doing. I'm sitting before my laptop, trying to be efficient and create something beautiful. Yet, here I sit, like a gnome, with a simple expression and no doing. I'm distracted by a yearning for his presence, or at least for the near presence of someone equally enjoyable. I don't really like him, really. I only do so I can feel adoration and he's a fine person to like. Maybe I should adopt something instead, and sublimate my feelings maternally. Still, I can't help but regret the depleting time I have left to share with him.
I feel psychologically pregnant when I'm bloated. Today my placebo-baby feels signaling: [I dread life ahead, thinking I won't pursue what's personally fulfilling, credible, affective, and meaningful. However, I've recently developed an insomniac desire to writeÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€I do it nonstop, mentally and physically, as involuntarily habitual as breathing. Despite doubting and mistrusting my writing abilities, I sense the desire dawning, like a ready fetus, forcing itself out the womb. Finally, I may have a sense of true, acceptable passion, but it settles inside me like dead mass; how to revive it? Its only life is coquettishÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€pretty but coreless, formless.]
Met E. today for lunch. We went to Alice's Tea Cup, where I ate an overcharged sandwich, made with dry bread I had for breakfast (Baker's seminola with seeds). As always, I regrettably talked and revealed too much. Hopefully she won't report to her father. We had met up outside Carnegie Hall. While I waited for her, a familiar young woman passed by. I noticed she looked scornfully at with me while observing my attire. I realized she was L.'s very good friend who I suspect likes him. She's much friendlier in pictures. It was a vying and coincidental moment.
She didn't know what to do. She didn't know what to think. Basically, she didn't know what was good for her. Everything was out of reach or injurious. She couldn't crash and send that plate of glass crumbling; it stood before her like a fortress, restricting her affirmation, and she was too weak a force, weaker than even glass. She thought of knocking and calling out to anyone willing to listen and help, to free her from this delirious pit. Yet, it being so fogged, she couldn't see herself, sense herself. Not her hands, nor her movements. It was too late.
The problem with knowing people better is the inevitable ability to pick what you don't like about them. You realize certain behaviors that annoy you and make you wild with frustration. "How can you think that?"or "Do you not realize how inconsiderate you are? I would certainly act differently towards you."Call me condescending, but I don't like most people...and most probably dislike me back. Not that I mind. They drive me nuts. There is nothing to like. Even those I'm supposed to love, I don't like very much. Those I'm supposed to hate however, I still helplessly like.
I don't have anything to say today. I feel vacant. I mean, usually this vacancy comes with its own set of emotions...but today, simply nothing. I have no thoughts but that of summer, housing, my resume, my presentation. I have no sense of artistry, not that I ever manifested any, or can dig it out, except the lingering desire for painting lessons. However, because I'll be leaving temporarily, that's out of the question. Everything presently in my head is so ambivalent that it leaves a neutrality to my being. At least that creates a harmony, even if exclusive to itself.
It's never safe to buy chipsÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€especially when you know they're healthier than the generic, commercial ones. Say, tonight, for example. Walking towards the beverage area, I was halted by a rack of Terra chips. Somehow, their power was so great, they overcame my usual practical conscience thrusting its hand out in immediate, resolute disapproval, reminding me that eating them was equivalent to dumping fat cells into my body; and really, for their ridiculous price of $4 (which could buy a nice, organic chicken breast instead), that's unreasonable. Well, damn my vulnerable will- I've now nearly finished the whole bag!
I stood there like a totem. I could only react dumbly; my head thought over and over, to hug or not to hug, to pat or not to pat? He planted his hand on my concave waist and tested the topography of my midsection. Once at the lower back, he pushed me in, in stagnant-gyration and kissed my right cheekbone. I felt the cool film of saliva from his inner lip imprint my face like a stamp, and then he removed his hand and looked at me, remarking how "great"and "nice"I (and my "shirtÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€or rather, sweater-) look.
I'm glad he hurt his back that day. He bought these cherry blossom trees that I think will die very soon. He hurt himself carrying them back from Home Depot. I don't know why he bothersÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€he seems to have a pathetic social life, and that's pretty much what his backyard is suited forÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€parties and such. Well, I'm sure it'd be nice to have those blossoms in the backyard, but they're all going to rain down in a week. Wait until the rainÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€he'll be left with a "garden"equally deserted-looked as beforeÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€equally fruitless and barren as he.
I felt rather mean. He took a long time getting out of a chair and I stood there watching him with a stupid, scarecrow kind of blank smile. I could have lent my hand, but I didn't want to touch him, even if it was just a platonic hand, apt from even a stranger. He must've thought me unfriendly and strange. Maybe I should be nicer to him and not so distant and vague and mysterious. He must be wondering when the old me went, the one he hired who chirped sentences (plural) and not spare words and random chuckles.
I talk an awful lot about him, don't I? Shows what a lousy life I have. I'm just as pathetic as he! I met his brother. He looks like someone who works at an old video store because he's such a film buff, or someone who works at a not-so-profitable record shop because he's such a music buff. He has the same voice and fire-y blue eyes as N., but he has dirty hair. When we met, I wondered if N. told him about me, from the inquisitive unblinking way of his eyes. But maybe it was that sapphire fire.
The Tip Jar