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Trying to read Myra Breckinridge by Gore Vidal. I haven't gotten far enough to tell whether I'll like it or not. I hear it's supposed to be a satire. Also, I learned that Andy Warhol was a Roman Catholic and often worked at soup kitchens. Well I have a lot more respect for the guy now. A surprising number of people are (or used to be) Roman Catholics. I wonder why so many of us try to keep quiet about our faith. It's a thing that's supposed to be shouted about from the rooftops. Let your light shine forth.
There is so much I want to say on certain topics, and one day I will write my 10,000-page treatise on it. Until then, I will let it all stew in my brain until it comes out in a torrent of unedited words and gets posted on some unsuspecting blog site. My nails are getting way too long for me to type. They are getting stuck between the keys, but I like having long nails, so I don't want to cut them. In other news, Cruz won the Iowa caucus. How did that happen? Also, bye-bye Bush Dynasty.
Spent 1.5 hours in the car, and my rear end hurts from all the sitting. I think the next request I'm going to make at work is for a standing desk. Or a treadmill desk, but I don't think I'm so talented that I could run and type at the same time. My feet and my fingers would try to outpace each other, which could result in some epic weirdness.
Remind me to stop using the word "epic."
Trump is a little bitch. It would be cute if it wasn't so pitiful. I still don't care for Cruz, though.
Right now I am loving everything Rod Dreher writes, and I only heard about him two days ago.
Today is one of those days when nothing goes right. Stuff is irking me, it's getting dark and I'm going to turn into a vampire. Speaking of which, I saw this one soap opera star in a different show yesterday after not seeing him for ten years, and he looked exactly the same. Has this man found the fountain of youth? Or simply dyed his hair? I will never know because alas, I don't know soap opera stars in real life.
Some people are so anal about keeping track of time and working with all these fancy planners and bullet journals and crap like that. Me, I have my nice planner that I got from Walmart, write down the stuff I have to do, do it to the best of my ability, put a nice dark line through it when I've done it, and move on to the next thing. I know that some people like to spend certain amounts of time on certain tasks, and that's admirable, but if I set an amount of time, something will happen to mess it up.
Oy vey. The thing I like most about this site is that you can write from your own perspective or from the perspective of anyone (or anything else). If I wanted, I could write from the point of view of my most beloved notebook or the chair I'm sitting in or the cup of coffee on my desk or even one of my blood cells.
I dislike being a chameleon sometimes. I change colors to match my surroundings, change personas so people will like me. I'm so sick of caring. I wish I didn't care so much about this crap.
I wonder if popular music is getting more disgusting than it was ten years ago, or maybe I'm just getting more offended by it. I don't see how you can sink much lower than "Candy Shop" and "Anaconda," but there has to be an even deeper pit than that. The former two songs were played on the radio (heavily edited, yes), so there must be even worse stuff that's not aired.
I have somewhat given up pop culture. It's vapid and meaningless, and it's not going to benefit me in any way. I have less to talk about. So what?
Everyone's got an opinion. You know the saying about opinions, so I'm not going to repeat it here. I didn't sleep well last night, so I feel about to drop right now. I want to eat something hot and go to bed. I'm tired of all the opinions, all the politics, all the garbage that floats around on the Internet. It's so infuriating sometimes. Where do people get their opinions from? Tumblr? CNN? Their own heads? Ancient books? No matter where you get your opinion from, it's wrong according to someone else, and another person may find it right.
(Writing on Feb. 10): I didn't even turn on my personal computer yesterday because I had a long day at work (10 hours, almost nonstop), and my eyes were tired. Hillary felt the Bern in New Hampshire. I'm really hoping that it's Bernie versus Trump, but realistically, it might be more like Cruz versus Hillary. Even so, I just get the feeling that Trump is trolling or they'll dig up some dirt on him that will stop his run. Meanwhile, here's Hillary, made of Teflon. Benghazi does not stick to her, nor does that whole email scandal. It's so crazy.
I'm getting so tired of Tumblr and the "social justice warriors." They get on my nerves. I have learned long ago to shut up because my claims aren't valid because I'm white and "cisgender" and live in America. Today is the age where the minority rules and the inmates are running the asylum. All you can really do is love people and do your best by them and stick with your beliefs in a world that tries to undermine everything you do. God is always in your corner, but you have to remember that he's there and turn to him.
"Put diverse characters in your stories. Nobody wants to hear about white people doing white people things."
Or so they say in a magazine I subscribe to. Are you freakin' kidding me? I'm gonna write about whatever characters I want to. Most of my characters are white because I am a white American and I can't accurately represent the experience of someone from another race or culture. I know the publishing houses are getting bored of seeing the same stuff over and over, but it's all about what readers want to read (at least that's what it should be about).
(Writing on Feb. 13) I didn't write yesterday because I got home from work and just didn't feel like turning the computer on. It happens sometimes. Also I was reading a book where I couldn't wait to find out what happened. The horrible part of this is that it's a romance novel, so the ending should be pretty obvious: guy ends up with girl forever, happily ever after, la-di-da. This one is a little different from ordinary romance novels in that something horrible happens near the end, but still, it will resolve itself into that neat little genre ending.
Tomorrow: Valentine's Day. I don't make that big a deal over it. It's not that big a deal. People forget that it's SAINT Valentine's Day. Speaking of saints, my brother thinks I'm a religious fanatic. I guess that's better than what people thought back when I was in college and high school: I had no idea you were religious. My brother and I were brought up in the same religion, but he hates it now (probably due to what he "learned" from his buddies on the Internet), and I feel like it is the only thing keeping me somewhat sane.
Lots of interesting stuff to read today. Antonin Scalia passed away yesterday, and I can only hope that his successor to the Supreme Court is someone worthy of being on there. Someone who takes the Constitution seriously and doesn't do things just because they happen to be popular.
And there was something else about the danger of smartphones and how kids today are always on them all the time. I know firsthand how dangerous it is to let kids spend so much time on computers and other electronic devices. It gets so compelling that you can't bear to spend time away from it.
Sometimes I think there is an odd kind of primordial, hormonal wisdom in the words of Nicki Minaj songs. She is 100% screaming id, demanding satisfaction.
But that's more philosophical than I want to get today. The election and politics are the main things on my mind, and they have been for several weeks. I don't know why I find this kind of stuff so insanely interesting, but I just do. It all started in the seventh grade when my dad used to rant to me about Al Gore. Good times. And a witch lady named Brunhilde, but that's another story.
After all that rain, now it feels like spring, and of course I had to get a totally inappropriate song stuck in my head because I am neurotic as all get out and I have to have a song stuck in my head at any given moment even though I haven't listened to music in ages. So it's that song about going to the chapel and getting married by the Dixie Cups. Sorry if it's stuck in your head now, but dang, it's annoying me, so I might as well share my misery with whoever reads this.
And I just lost the game.
So Obama's not going to Scalia's funeral, but I haven't seen a reason why anywhere. Hmm... maybe it's because it's a golf day? This dude plays golf more than anyone. Speaking of sports, I dreamed I was playing basketball and I have never wanted to play more in my life. I have to find a court somewhere. I wonder if the fitness place has one and if it's worthwhile to get a membership. I feel like I'm so busy, but driving everywhere takes up most of my time. It's so crazy. I am just hoping to shoot some hoops sometime.
Everybody's sick. The dog's sick, the cat's sick, my dad's sick. That's life in the South, when it's freezing one day and 70 degrees the next day, although I don't really think that weather changes can make you sick. It seems like an old wives' tale, like going out in the cold with wet hair can make you sick. I've done that before, and I didn't die or get sick or even catch a cold. Like that one time when the fire alarm went off in my college dorm when I was in the shower. Awkward times were had.
I might make it my tradition to not go online on Fridays. I put too much honey in my chamomile tea; too much honey and no half-n-half. I start every sentence with I. Yesterday I told myself (in a very childish manner) that I hate my brother, he is a cold-hearted bastard, and I can't stand him. Agh. I can't stand 20-something men who take advantage of their parents, grandparents, and other relatives. What a freaking waste. It irritates me how some grandparents are so indulgent. I never really had grandparents, so I do not know.
I heard Adele's "Someone Like You" (not even sure if that's the actual title) in the store when I was shopping last week. It has been stuck in my head ever since. I do not particularly care for her music; it is too sad and drippy for my taste. It's good breakup music for when you want to sit in your room and cry your eyes out over some stuff, but I'm the bitter person who doesn't want the best for ex lovers. I wanna see their hearts trampled on, muahaha! (Not really; I don't think even I'm that mean.)
Welp, the SC results are back, and Jeb's dropping out. I'll be kind of sad to see him go. The man put an incredible amount of money into his campaign, but the fact that he was an establishment politician didn't help him. I get the funny feeling that Trump will win the entire race. I don't see anyone else coming close to him unless (as I've said before), Trump does something to screw himself up or someone digs up some really bad dirt on him. He just keeps building momentum. Like an avalanche. Or a car rolling down a hill.
Super Tuesday is almost here. I can't wait to see the results of that. Had an odd dream last night, and of course, it brought me some nostalgia for a thing I should not be nostalgic about. It's like falling down a slippery slope into a pit of daydreams, and there you meander blissfully until reality pulls you back out again, and by that time, you're filthy from swimming in all that muck.
I'm not making much sense today, but I'm tired. It's Monday. It's been gray outside all day, and I wish people in America wouldn't spell gray like "grey."
I woke up screaming that I didn't want to die, but as in dreams, you believe you're screaming so loud that you'd wake up everyone in a three-mile radius, but in reality, you're just yelling in your own head, and the only person you woke up is yourself.
They call an orgasm "a little death" and to some extent, that's true. What's even worse is if you don't have sex... then you really are dying. You're not passing on your genes, so your bloodline will run out and there are no descendants to remember your name when you've passed.
Dang it, I wrote my 100 words, but they got erased. Does it count as writing if you wrote it, but it got deleted? Kinda of the same principle behind if the tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, did it make a sound? I guess it still counts as writing, but you have no record of it besides what's in your head. So you could write it down again, but it would never turn out the same as it did the first time. I used to print out copies of all my stuff, but not anymore.
Sometimes I wish I was one of those people who just didn't care. Who could zone out on pot all day without having a single guilty thought. But no. I have to be a type A personality, and everything has to be exactly right, it has to be my way or the highway, everything's gotta be controlled. Wide awake at 5 a.m., ready to kick a deadline's ass. It's almost twelve hours later, and I'm hardly even tired at all. Constantly worried about doing the right thing or not. Sometimes I wish I could turn off my dang brain.
Writing on 2/27: I have errands to run today. And stories to write. I just hope everyone leaves me alone so I can do stuff. Being alone is funny because sometimes you're so lonely that it almost physically hurts, but you get so used to being alone that if anyone actually wants to spend time with you, you take it as an insult or some kind of Trojan horse strategy. What? Spend time with me? What tricks do you have up your sleeve? What do you want from me? What could I possibly give you? How could I make you happy?
Glittery, shiny people annoy me. You see them on Instagram with their perfect outfits and perfect boyfriends and perfect groups of friends and perfect teeth, everything shiny and glittery. But that's only what they choose to let you see. Not everyone is shiny and glittery. We're all as gruesome and toothless as people in the Middle Ages, but instead of keeping it on the outside, we've buried it on the inside where the light of a cell phone camera cannot reach and no Internet forum can find. I don't know what my own soul looks like. It's probably utterly filthy.
Yesterday, I completed my goal of writing 2,000 words in 40 minutes. That means I type roughly 50 words a minute. Technically, my speed is 90 words per minute, but with all the errors and the thinking it takes to actually write fiction, I could see where I'd only average about 50.
Had a dream last night where I was taking this stupid math test. I got the answer key and I still managed to get a 60 on the test. I guess that means that I believe I am stupid, but I shouldn't care about all that.
I got that springtime sadness. Yeah, I know it's not spring yet, but I'm feeling melancholy, and I'm in that time of the month where I get that certain sehnsucht, you know? It's such an odd feeling that I need a German word to describe it. It makes me sad to think that eventually, I won't feel that way. I'll be old and the hormones will all go dry. Seems like I'm just waiting for that day, and I wonder what I will regret once I have reached it. As Nicki Minaj says, don't let me die young.
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